From hence in vain shall Belzebub rebel.

Anubis howls, and Moloch sinks to Hell.




No more in beauty's praise my numbers move, Here lows a bull; a golden gleam adorns
Nor melt away in dying falls of love:

The circling honours of his beamy horns.
A child on Earth, yet Heav'n's eternal king, He safely lows, nor fears the holy knife,
The manger'd God, the Virgin's Son I sing. [flow, No sacrifice from hence 'shall drink his life.
Thou Fountain-Good, with light my soul o'er-,
With hallow'd ardoar bid my bosom glow!

MAG, II. Fir'd at the promise of thy dawning ray,

Ye gardens, blush with never-fading flow'rs, The eastern sages found celestial day.

For ever smile, ye meads, and blow, ye bow'rs: Drawn by a leading flame, with sweet surprise, o Earth, rejoice! th’ Eternal Shepherd reigns.

Bleat, all ye hills, be whiten'd, all ye plains; The Infant Deity salutes their eyes. The Heir-elect of Love his mother prest, Smil'd in her arms, and wanton'd on her breast.

Ye lilies, dip your leaves in falling snow, No jewels sparkle here, nor India's stores

Ye roses, with the eastern-scarlet glow, The portals brighten or emblaze the doors.

To crown the God: ye angels, haste to pour But young-ey'd seraphims around him glow,

Your rain of nectar, and your starry show'r.
And Mercy spreads her many-colour'd bow!
Her bow, compos'd of new-created light,

MAG. I. Offers gold.
How sweetly lambent and how softly bright!
The sacred circle of embodied rays

The ore of India ripens into gold,
The cradle crowns, and round his temples plays.

To gild thy courts, thy temple to infold.

Accept thy emblematic gift; again
So shines the rainbow round th' eternal throne

Saturnian years revolve a golden reign!
To shade the Holy, Holy, Holy One.
By turns the ruby bleeds a beam, by turns,

MAG. II. Offers frankincense.
Smiles the green em'rald, and the topaz burns :
The various opal mingles every ray,

For thee Arabia's happy forests rise,
Fades into faintness, deepens into day:

And clouds of odours sweetly stain the skies. Promiscuous lustre kindles half the skies,

While fragrant wreaths of smoking incense roll, Too slippery bright for keen seraphic eyes.

Receive our pray’rs, the incense of the soul ! The venerable three, low-bending down,

Offers myrrh. Extend their offerings and the Godhead own.

The weeping myrrh with balmy sorrow flows, MAG, I.

Thy cup to sweeten and to sooth thy woes: From eastern realms, where first the infant The man was born to grieve, the God to shine.

So prophets sing; for (human and divine) sight Springs into day and streaks the fading night,

MAG. I. To thee we bend, before the morning rise;

Smile, sacred Infant, smile: thy rosy breast A purer morning trembles from thy eyes.

Excels the odours of the spicy East;

The burnish'd gold is dross before thy eye,

Thou God of Sweetness, God of Purity!
In vain the Sun with light his orb arrays,
Our sense to dazzle, and as God to blaze;
Through his transparent fallacy we see,

Ye planets, unregarded walk the skies,
And own the Sun is but a star to thee.

Your glories lessen as his glories rise:

His radiant word with gold the Sun attires,

The Moon illumes, and lights the starry fires. Thou spotless Essence of primeval Light, Thy vassals own, and wash thy Ethiops white.

MAG. III. Thy cloud of sable witnesses adorn

Hail, Lord of Nature, hail! To thee belong With the first roses of thy smiling morn.

My song, my life,-give my life, my song: MAG. I.

Walk in thy light, adore thy day alone,

Confess thy love, and pour out all my own, By bards foretold the ripend years are come, Gods fall to dust and oracles are dumb. Old Ocean murmurs from his ouzy bed, “A maid has born a son, and Pan is dead,

ON MR. POPE'S WORKS. The Nymphs, their flow'r-inwoven tresses torn,

O'er fountains weep, in twilight thickets mourn.
Long, hollow groans, deep sobs, thick screeches Man not alone hath end : in measur'd time,
Each dreary valley and each shaded hill. [fill (So Heav'u has wiilld) together with their snows

The everlasting hills shall melt away:

This solid globe dissolve as ductile wax
No more shall Memphian timbrels wake the morn, Before the breath of Vulcan; like a scroll
Nu more shall Hammon lift bis gilded horn. Shrivel th’ unfolded curtains of the sky;



Thy planets, Newton, tumble from their spheres, Just, as the Stagyrite; as Horace, free;

That lead harmonious on their mystic rounds: As Fabian, clear; and as Petronius' gay.
The Moon be perish'd from her bloody orb;
The Sun himself, in liquid ruin, rush

But whence those peals of laughter shake the And deluge with destroying flames the globe Of decent mirths? Am I in Fairy-land? (sides Peace then, my soul, nor grieve that Pope is dead. Young, evanescent forms, before my eyes,

Or skim, or seem to skim; thin essences If ere the tuneful spirit, sweetly strong,

Of fluid light; Zilphs, Zilphids, Elves, and Gnomes; Spontaneous numbers, teeming in my breast, Genii of Rosicruce, and ladies' godsEnkindle; 0, at that exalting name,

And, lo, in shining trails, Belinda's hair, Be favourable, be propitious now,

Bespangling with dishevell'd beams the skies, While, in the gratitude of praise, I sing

Flames o'er the night. Behind, a Satyr grins The works and wonders of this man divine. And, jocund holds a glass, reflecting, fair,

Hoops, crosses, mattadores; beaux, shocks, and I tremble while I write.-His lisping muse Promiscuously whimsical and gay. [belles, Surmounts the loftiest efforts of my age.

Tassoni, hiding his diminish'd head, [skulks, What wonder? when an infant, he apply'd Droops o'er the laughing page; while Boileau The loud Papinian' trumpet to his lips,

With blushes cover'd, low beneath the desk. Fir'd by a sacred fury, and inspir'd With all the god, in sounding numbers sung More mournful scenes invite. The milky vein “ Fraternal rage, and guilty Thebes' alarms.” Of amorous grief devolves its placid wave

Soft-streaming o'er the soul, in weeping woe Sure at his birth (things not unknown of old) And tenderness of anguish. While we read The Graces round his cradle wove the dance, Th’infectious page, we sicken into love, And led the maze of harmony: the Nine,

And languish with involuntary fires. Prophetic of his future honours, pour'd

The Zephyr, panting on the silken buds Plenteous, upon his lips Castalian dews;

Of breathing violets; the virgin's sigh, And attic bees their golden store distill’d.

Rosy with youth, are turbulent and rude,
The soul of Homer, sliding from its star,

To Sappho's plaint, and Eloisa's moan.
Where, radiant, over the poetic world
It rules and sheds its influence, for joy

Heav'ns what a flood of empyréal day Shouted, and bless'd the birth : the sacred choir My aching eyes involves! A Temple? soars, Of poets, born in elder, better times,

Rising like exhalations, on a mount, Enrapturd, catch'd the elevating sound,

And, wide, its adamantine valves expands. And roll'd the glad'ning news from sphere to sphere. Three monumental columns, bright in air,

Of figur'd gold, the centre of the quire O listen to Alexis'? tender plaint!

With lustre fill. Pope on the midmost shines How gently rural! without coarseness, plain; Betwixt his Homer and his Horace plac'd, How simple in his elegance of grief!

Superior by the hand of Justice. Fame, A shepherd, but no clown. His every lay With all her mouths th' eternal trumpet swells, Sweet as the early pipe along the dale,

Exulting at his name; and, grateful, pours When hawthorns bud, or on the thymy brow The lofty notes of never-dying praise, When all the mountains bleat, and valleys sing. Triumphant, floating on the wings of wind, Soft as the nightingale's harmonious woe,

Sweet o'er the world: th' ambrosial spirit flies In dewy even-tide, when cowslips drop

Diffusive, in its progress wid'ning still, Their sleepy heads, and languish in the breeze. “Dear to the Earth, and grateful to the sky."

Fame owes him more than e'er she can repay: Imperial Windsor3! on thy brow august, She owes her very temple to his hands; Superbly gay, exalt thy tow'ry head;

Like llium built; by hands no less divine! (Much prouder of his verse than of thy stars) And bid thy forests dance, and, nodding, wave Attention, rouse thyself! the master's hand, A verdant testimony of thy joy:

(The master of our souls!) has chang'd the key, A native Orpheus warbling in thy shades. And bids the thunder of the battle roar

Tumultuous 8. Homer, Homer is our own! Next, in the critic-chair 4 survey him thron'd, And Grecian heroes flame in British lines, Imperial in his art, prescribing laws

What pomp of words! what nameless energy Clear from the knitted brow, and squinted sneer: Kindles the verse; invigours every line; Learn'd, without pedantry; correctly bold, Astonishes, and overwhelms the soul And regularly easy. Gentle, now,

In transport tost! when fierce Achilles raves, As rising incense, or descending dews,

And flashes, like a comet, o'er the field, The variegated echo of his theme:

To wither armies with his martial frown; Now, animated name commands the soul

I see the battle rage; I hear the wheels To glow with sacred wonder. Pointed wit Careering with their brazen orbs! The shout And keen discernment form the certain page. Of nations rolls (the labour of the winds)

Full on my ear, and shakes my inmost soul. 1 Translation of the first book of Statius's Thebais.

5 Rape of the Lock. 9 Pastorals.

6 Ovid's Sappho to Phaon. And Eloise to 3 Windsor Forest. Mr. Pope born there, Abelan. Essay on Criticism.

Temple of Fame, 8 Translation of Homer.

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29 Description never could so well deceive:

Like Eden?, his old age (a sabbath rest!) Tis real! Troy is here, or I at Troy

Flowd without noise, yet all around him blest! Enjoy the war. My spirits, all on fire,

His patron, Jesus! with no titles grac'd, With unextinguish'd violence are borne

But that best title, a good parish priest. Above the world, and mingle with the gods.

Peace with his ashes dwell. And, mortals, know, Olympus rings with arms! the firmament, The saint's above; the dust alone below. Beneath the lightning of Minerva's shield, The wise and good shall pay their tribute here, Eurns to the centre: rock the tow'rs of Heav'n. The modest tribute of one thought and tear; All Nature trembles! save the throne of Jove! Then pensive sigh, and say, “ To me be given Have mercy, Pope, and kill me not with joy: By living thus on Earth, to reign in Heaven." 'Tis tenfold rage, an agony of bliss ! Be less a god, nor force me to adore.

To root excesses from the human-breast,

EPITAPH ON MY MOTHER'. Behold a beauteous pile of Ethics rise9;

Sense, the foundation; harmony, the walls;
(The Doric grave, and gay Corinthian join'd) PARISH CHURCH OF BROUGH, WESTMORELAND.
Where Socrates and Horace jointly reign.

Here rests a pattern of the female life,
Best of philosophers; of poets too
The best! He teaches thee thyself to know:

The woman, friend, the mother, and the wife. That virtue is the noblest gift of Heav'n:

A woman formd by Nature, more than art,

With smiling ease to gain upon the heart. “ And vindicates the ways of God to man."

A friend as true as guardian-angels are, O hearken to the moralist polite!

Kindness her law, humanity her care. Enter his school of truth; where Plato's self

A mother sweetly tender, justly dear, Might preach; and Tully deign to lend an ear.

Oh! never to be nam'd without a tear.

A wife of every social charm possest, Last see him waging with the fools of rhyme

Blessing her husbands in her husbands blest. A wanton, barmless war 10. Dunce after dunce, Beaux, doctors, templars, courtiers, sophs and cits, Her thoughts as humble, as her virtues high.

Love in her heart, compassion in ber eye, Condemn'd to suffer life. The motley crew,

Her knowledge useful, nor too high, nor low, Emerging from Oblivion's muddy pool,

To serve her Maker, and herself to know. Give the round face to view, and shameless front

Born to relieve the poor, the rich to please, Proudly expose; till Laughter have her fill.

To live with honour, and to die in peace.

So full her hope, her wishes so resign'd, Born to improve the age, and cheat mankind

Her life so blameless, so unstain'd her mind, Into the road of Honour!— Vice again

Heav'n smild to see, and gave the gracious nod, The gilded chariut drives:—for he is dead!

Nor longer wou'd detain her from her God.
I saw the sable barge, along his Thames,
In slow solemnity beating the tide,
Convey his sacred dust!-Its swans expir'd,

Wither'd in Twit'nam bow'rs the laurel-bough;
Silent the Muses broke their idle lyres:

Ye sacred tomes, be my unerring guide,
Th’attendant Graces check'd the sprightly dance, Dove-hearted saints, and prophets eagle-ey'd!
Their arms unlock’d, and catch'd the starting tear, I scorn the moral-fop, and ethic-sage,
And Virtue for her lost defender mourn'd! But drink in truth from your illumin'd page:

Like Moses-bush each leaf divinely bright,
Where God invests himself in milder light!

Taught by your doctrines we devoutly rise,

Faith points the way, and Hope unbars the skies.
You tune our passions, teach them how to roll,
And sink the body but to raise the soul;

To raise it, bear it to mysterious day,

Nor want an angel to direct the way!
DEAR to the wise and good by all approved,
The joy of Virtue, and Heaven's well-belov'd!
His life inspir'd with every better art,
A learned head, clear soul, and honest heart.

Each science chose his breast her favourite scat,

Each language, but the language of deceit.
Severe his virtues, yet his manners kind,

THREE roses to her humble slave
A mauly form, and a seraphic mind.

The mistress of the Graces gave: So long he walk'd in Virtue's even road,

2 The river Eden ruus near Brough. In him at length, 'twas natural to do good.

She departed this life October 35, 1737, 9 Ethic Epistles. 10 Dunciad.

aged 65. Prancis Thompson, B. D. senior fellow of 2 Her former husband was Jos. Fisher, M. A. Queen's College, Oxford, and vicar of Brough fellow of Queen's College, Oxford, vicar of Brough thirty-two years. He departed this life Aug. 31, and arch-deacon of Carlisle; by whoin she had 1735, aged 70.

no children,



Three roses of an eastern hue,

In revenge he dealt the blow Sweet-swelling with ambrosial dew.

On her favourite below; How each, with glowing pride, displays

In revenge of smiling eyes, The riches of its circling rays!

Sweetest emblems of the skies! How all, in sweet abundance, shed

“O my finger!" Stella cry'd: Perfumes, that might revive the dead!

Would for Stella I had dy'd! “ Now tell me, fair one, if you know,

O my finger!" thrice she cry'd, Whence these balmy spirits flow?

Thrice for Stella I'd have dy'd! Whence springs this modest blush of light

Stella! fairest of the fair, Which charms at once and pains the sight?”

Stella, Venus' dearest care! The fair one knew, but wou'd not say,

Venus, red'ning dropp'd a tear: So blush'd and smiling went her way.

-"Here, you sirrah, Cupid, here! Impatient, next the Muse I call;

Dare you torture like a foc, She comes, and thus would answer all.

Stella, my belov'd below? “ Fool,” (and I sure deserv'd the name)

Curst revenge on smiling eyes, “ Mark well the beauties of the dame,

Sweetest emblems of the skies !" And can you wonder why so fair,

Cupid, smit with Stella's eye, And why so sweet the roses are?

Answer'd Venus with a sigh, Her cheek with living purple glows

“ Rather, mamma, pity me; Which blush'd its rays on every rose;

I am wounded more than she."
Her breath exhal'd a sweeter sinell
Than fragrant fields of asphodel;
The sparkling spirit in her eyes
A kindlier influence supplies
Than genial suns and summer skies.
Now can you wonder why so fair,

WRITING LAURA'S NAME IN THE SNOW. And why so sweet the roses are?"

THIRSIS AND DAMON. “ Hold, tuneful trifler,” I reply'd,

THIRSIS. “ The beauteous cause I now descry'd, Hold, talk no more of summer skies,

Why, Damon, write you Laura's name Of genial suns and-splendid lies;

In snowy letters? prithee, say: Of fragrant fields of asphodel,

Was it her coldness to express, And brightest rays and sweetest smell;

Or show thy love would melt away?" Whatever poetry can paint,

Or, rather, was it this? Because Or Muse can utter--all is faint:

When she is nam'd you burn and glow, Two words had better all exprest; —

Therefore in hopes to cool your breast 'She took the roses from her breast.""

You writ the charmer's name in snow?

Thirsis, since ink would blot her charms,

In snow I chose her name to write ;

Since only snow like her is pure,
VENUS whipt Cupid t’ other day,

Is soft alone, alone is white.

Perhaps the air her name may freeze, For having lost his bow and quiver :

And every letter grow a gem; For he had giv'n them both away

Fit characters to blaze her charms, To Stella, queen of Isis river.

And owe their rays to Stella's name.

A monarch for the precious name “ Mamma! you wrong me while you strike,"

Might then with half his kingdom part, Cry'd weeping Cupid, “ for I vow,

Despise the jewels on his crown, Stella and you are so alike,

To wear my Laura near his heart.
I thought that I had lent them you."

In vain. Behold the noontide Sun
Dissolves it with his amorous flame:-

The liquid syllables are lost:

Now, Damon, where is Laura's name?


Too true: yet tho' her name dissolves,

The shining drops shall not be lost:
Cupin by a bee was stung,

I'll drink them as they weep away,
Lately; since Anacreon sung:

And still her name shall be my toast,
Venus, with a smiling eye,
Laugh'd to hear bim sob and sigh.
Angry Cupid in revenge,

(Gods their shapes at pleasure change)
in the form of wasp or bee,

Spoken by a young Gentleman in the Character of Stella! fix'd his sting in thee:

Marcia, before a private Audience, Stella! fairest of the fair:

Critics affirm, a bookish, clownish race, Stella, Venus' dearest care!

(I wish they durst affism it to my face)


That love in tragedies has nought to do:

Let sacred Venus with her heir,
Ladies, if so, what would they make of you? And dear lanthe too be there.
Why, make you useless, nameless, harmless things: Music and wine in concert move
How false their doctrine, I appeal to-kings; With beauty, and refining love.
Appeal to Afric, Asia, Greece, and Rome:
And, faith, we need not go so far from home. There Peace shall spread her dove-like wing,
For us the lover burns and bleeds and dies, And bid her olives round us spring.
I fancy we have comets in our eyes;

There Truth shall reig a sacred guest !
And they, you know, are-signs of tragedies. And Innocence, to crown the rest.
Thanks to my stars, or, rather, to my face,
Sempronius perish'd for that very case. [der', Begone, ambition, riches, toys,
The boist'rous wretch bawl'd out for peals of thun- | And splendid cares, and guilty joys.
Because he could not force me—to come under. Give me a book, a friend, a glass,
Lard! how I tremble at the narrow scape; And a chaste, laughter-loving lass.
Which of you would not-tremble—at a rape?
Howe'er that be, this play will plainly prove,
That liberty is not so sweet as love.
Think, ladies, think what fancies fill'd my head,

To find the living Juba for the dead!
Tho' much he suffer'd on my father's side,
I'll make him cry, ere long, “ I'm satisfied!”
For I shall prove a mighty-loving bride.

'Twas morn: but Theron still his pillow prest: But now, to make an end of female speeches, (His Annabella's charms improv'd his rest.) I'll quit my petticoats to-wear the breeches. An angel form, the daughter of the skies,

[Runs out and comes in in his night gown. Descending blest, or seem'd to bless his eyes; We have chang’d the scene: for gravity becomes White from her breast a dazzling vestment rollid, A tragedy, as hearses sable plumes.

With stars bespangled and celestial gold. His country's father you have seen, to-night, She mov'd, and odours, wide, the circuit fillid; Unfortunately great, and sternly right.

She spake, and boney from her lips distill’d. Fair Liberty, by impious power opprest,

“ Behold, illustrious comes, to bless thy arms, Found no asylum but her Cato's breast:

Thy Annabella, breathing love and charms! Thither, as to a temple, she retir'd,

O melting mildness, undissembled truth! And when he plung'd the dagger she expir'd. Fair flow'r of age, yet blushing bloom of youth ! Liberty revive at Cato's name,

Fair without art, without design admir'd, And British bosoms catch the Roman flame: Prais'd by the good, and by the wise desird. li hoary villains rouse your honest ire,

By Art and Nature taught and form'd to please,
And patriot-youths with love of freedom fire, With all the sweet simplicity of ease.
If Lucia's grief your graceful pity move,

In public courteous-for no private end;
And Marcia teach the virgins virtuous love, At home a servant; and abroad—a friend.
You'll own, ev'n in this methodizing age, Her gentle manners, unaffected grace,
The mildest school of morals--is the stage.

And animated sweetness of her face,
To you, the polish'd judges of our cause,

Her faultless form, by decency refin'd, Whose smiles are honour, and whose nods applause, And bright, unsullied sanctity of mind, Humble we bend: encourage arts like these;

The christian Graces breathing in her breast, For tho the actors fail'd--they strove to please. Her-whole shall teach thee to be more than blest. Perhaps, in time, your favours of this night

"«"Tis Virtue's ray that points her sparkling eyes, dlay warm us like young Marcus self to fight, Her face is beauteous, for her soul is wise. Like Cato to defend, like Addison to write. As from the Sun refulgent glories roll,

Which feed the starry host and fire the pole,
So stream upon her face the beauties of her soul.
Tho' the dove's languish melts upon her eye,

And her cheeks mantle with the eastern sky,

When seventy on her temples sheds its snow,

Dim grow her eyes and cheeks forget to glow, A BOOK, a friend, a song, a glass,

Good-nature shall the purple loss supply, A chaste, yet laughter-loving lass,

Good-sense shine brighter than the sparkling eye: To mortals various joys impart,

In beauteous order round and round shall move, Inform the sense, and warın the heart,

Love cool'd by reason, reason warm'd by love.

“Receive Heaven's kindest blessing! And regard Thrice happy they, who, careless, laid,

This blessing as thy virtue's best reward. Beneath a kind-embow'ring shade,

When Beauty wakes her fairest forms to charm, With rosy wreaths their temples crown,

When Music all her pow'rs of sound to warm, in rosy wine their sorrows drown.

Her golden floods when wanton Freedom roils,

And Plenty pours herself into our bowls; Mean while the Muses wake the lyre,

When with tumultuous throbs our pulses beat, The Graces modest mirth inspire,

And dubious Reason totters on her seat, Good-natur'd humour, harmless wit;

The youth how steady, how resolv'd the guide Well-temper'd joys, nor grave, nor light, Which stems the full luxuriant, pleasing tide!

For these, and virtues such as these is given
Act 4, Scene 2.

Thy Annabella! O belov'd of Hear'u're

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