1

Then (for the Muse that distant day can see)
On Thames's bank the stranger shall arrive,
With curious wish thy sacred grot to see,

Thy sacred grot shall with thy name survive.

Grateful posterity, from age to age,

With pious hand the ruin shall repair: Some good old man, to each inquiring sage [there, Pointing the place, shall cry, "The bard liv'd "Whose song was music to the listening ear, Yet taught audacious vice and folly, shame; Easy his manners, but his life severe;

His word alone gave infamy or fame. "Sequester'd from the fool, and coxcomb-wit, Beneath this silent roof the Muse he found; 'Twas here he slept inspir'd, or sat and writ, Here with his friends the social glass went round."

With awful veneration shall they trace

The steps which thou so long before hast trod; With reverend wonder view the solemn place, From whence thy genius soar'd to Nature's God.

Then, some small gem, or moss, or shining ore,
Departing, each shall pilfer, in fond hope
To please their friends, on every distant shore,
Boasting a relic from the Cave of Pope.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. POPE.

COME, ye whose souls harmonious sounds inspire,
Friends to the Muse, and judges of her song;
Who, catebing from the bard his heavenly fire,
Soar as he soars, sublimely rapt along;
Mourn, mourn your loss: he's gone who had the
art,
[the' heart.
With sounds to soothe the ear, with sense to warm
Who now shall dare to lift the sacred rod, [law?
Truth's faithful guard, where vice escapes the
Who now, high-soaring to the throne of God,

In Nature's moral cause his pen shall draw?
Let none pretend! he's gone, who had the art,
With sounds to soothe the ear, with sense to warm
the heart.

Vice now, secure, her blushless front shall raise, And all her triumph be thro' Britain borne; Whose worthless sons from guilt shall purchase praise,

Nor dread the hand that pointed them to scorn; No check remains; he's gone, who had the art, With sounds to soothe the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

Ye tuneless bards, now tire each venal quill,
And from the public gather idle pence;
Ye tasteless peers, now build and plant your fill,
Tho' splendor borrows not one ray from sense:
Fear no rebuke; he's gone, who had the art,
With sounds to soothe the ear, with sense to warm
the heart.

But, come, ye chosen, ye selected few,

Ye next in genius, as in friendship, join'd, The social virtues of his heart who knew, And tasted all the beauties of his mind;

VOL. XV.

337

Drop, drop a tear; he's gone, who had the art, With sounds to charm the ear, with sense to warm the heart.

And, O great shade! permit thy humblest friend
His sigh to waft, his grateful tear to pay
Thy honour'd memory; and condescend [lay,
To hear, well-pleas'd, the weak yet well-meant
Lamenting thus; he's gone, who had the art,
With sounds to soothe the ear, with sense to warm
the heart.

MODERN REASONING.
AN EPISTLE.

WHENCE Comes it, L-, that ev'ry fool,
In reason's spite, in spite of ridicule,
Fondly his own wild whims for truth maintains,
And all the blind deluded world disdains;
Himself the only person blest with sight,
And his opinion the great rule of right?

[wise:

'Tis strange from folly this conceit should rise, That want of sense should make us think we're Yet so it is. The most egregious elf Thinks none so wise or witty as himself. Who nothing knows, will all things comprehend; And who can least confute, will most contend.

I love the man, I love him from my soul, [trol; Whom neither weakness blinds, nor whims conWith learning blest, with solid reason fraught, Who slowly thinks, and ponders every thought: Yet conscious to himself how apt to err, Suggests his notions with a modest fear; Hears every reason, every passion hides, Debates with calmness, and with care decides; More pleas'd to learn, than eager to confute, Not victory, but truth his sole pursuit,

But these are very rare. How happy he
Who tastes such converse, L-, with thee!
Each social hour is spent in joys sublime, [climb;
Whilst hand in hand o'er learning's Alps you
Thro' reason's paths in search of Truth proceed,
And clear the flow'ry way from every weed;
Till from her ancient cavern rais'd to light,
The beauteous stranger stands reveal'd to sight.
How far from this the furious noisy crew,
Who, what they once assert, with zeal pursue?
Their greater right infer from louder tongues;
And strength of argument from strength of lungs,
Instead of sense, who stun your ears with sound,
And think they conquer, when they but confound.
Taurus, a bellowing champion, storms and swears,
And drives his argument thro' both your ears;
And whether truth or falshood, right or wrong,
'Tis still maintain'd, and prov'd by dint of-tongue.
In all disputes he bravely wins the day,

No wonder-for he hears not what you say.
But tho' to tire the ear's sufficient curse,
To tire one's patience is a plague still worse.
Prato, a formal sage, debates with care,
A strong opponent, take him up who dare.
His words are grave, deliberate, and cool,
He looks so wise-'tis pity he's a fool.
If he asserts, tho' what no man can doubt,
He'll bring ten thousand proofs to make it out.
This, this, and this-is so, and so, and so; [know,
And therefore, therefore,-that, and that, you
Circles no angles have; a square has four:
A square's no circle therefore-to be sure.

The sum of Prato's wond'rous wisdom is,
This is not that, and therefore, that not this.
Oppos'd to him, but much the greater dunce,
Is he who throws all knowledge off at once.
The first, for every trifle will contend;
But this has no opinions to defend.
In fire no heat, no sweetness in the rose;
The man's impos'd on by his very nose;
Nor light nor colour charms his doubting eye,
The world's a dream, and all his senses lie.
He thinks, yet doubts if he's possess'd of thought;
Nay, even doubts his very pow'r to doubt.
Ask him if he's a man, or beast, or bird?
He cannot tell upon his honest word.

"Tis strange, so plain a point's so hard to prove; I'll tell you what you are-a fool, by Jove.

Another class of disputants there are,
More num'rous than the doubting tribe by far.
These are your wanderers, who from the point
Run wild in loose harangues, all out of joint.
Vagarious, and confute him if you can,
Will hold debate with any mortal man,
He roves from Genesis to Revelations,
And quite confounds you with divine quotations.
Should you affirm that Adam knew his wife,
And by that knowledge lost the tree of life;
He contradicts you, and in half an hour

Most plainly proves--pope Joan the scarlet whore,
Nor head nor tail his argument affords,
A jumbling, incoherent mass of words;
Most of them true, but so together tost
Without connection, that their sense is lost.

But leaving these to rove, and those to doubt,
Another clan alaims us; face about:
See, arm'd with grave authority they come,
And with great names and numbers, strike us
With these an errour ven'rable appears, [dumb.
For having been believ'd three thousand years.
Reason, nay common sense, to names must fall,
And strength of argument's no strength at all.
But on, my Muse, tho' multitudes oppose us,
Alas! truth is not prov'd by counting noses:
Nor fear, tho' ancient sages are subjoin'd;
A lie's a lie, tho' told by all mankind.
'Tis true, I love the ancients-but what then?
Plato and Aristotle were but men.

I grant 'em wise--the wisest disagree,
And therefore no sufficient guides for me.
An errour, tho' by half the world espous'd,
Is still an errour, and may be oppos'd;
Aud truth, tho' much from mortal eyes conceal'd,
Is still the truth, and may be more reveal'd.
How foolish then will look your mighty wise,
Should half their ipse dixits prove plain lies!

But on, my Muse, another tribe demands
Thy censure yet: nor should they 'scape thy
These are the passionate; who in dispute, [hands.
Demand submission, monarchs absolute.
Sole judges, in their owu conceit, of wit,
They damn all those for fools that won't submit.
Sir Testy (thwart sir Testy if you dare)
Swears there's inhabitants in every star.
If you presume to say this mayn't be true,
"You lie, sir, you're a fool and blockhead too."
What he asserts, if any disbelieve,

How folks can be so dull he can't conceive.
He knows he's right; he knows his judgment's
But men are so perverse they will not hear. [clear;
With him, Swift treads a dull trite beaten way;
In Young no wit, no humour smiles in Gay;

Nor truth, nor virtue, Pope, adorns thy page;
And Thompson's Liberty corrupts the age.
This to deny, if any dare presume,

"Fool, coxcomb, sot, and puppy," fill the room. Hillario, who full well this humour knows, Resolv'd one day his folly to expose,

Kindly invites him with some friends to dine, And entertains 'em with a roast sir-loin: Of this he knew sir Testy could not eat, And purposely prepar'd it for his treat. The rest begin,-" Sir Testy, pray fall toYou love roast beef, sir, come-I know you do." "Excuse me, sir, 't is what I never eat." "How, sir! not love roast beef! the king of meat!" "'Tis true indeed." "Indeed it is not true;

I love it, sir, and you must love it too."

I'm often drawn to make a stop,
And gaze upon a picture shop.
There have I seen (as who that tarries
Has not the same?) a head that varies;
And as in diff'rent views expos'd,
A diff'rent figure is disclos'd.
This way a fool's head is express'd,
Whose very count'nance is a jest;
Such as were formerly at court,
Kept to make wiser people sport.
Turn it another way, you'll have
A face ridiculously grave,
Something betwixt the fool and knave.
Again, but alter the position,
You're frighted with the apparition:
A hideous threatening Gorgon head
Appears, enough to fright the dead,
But place it in its proper light,
A lovely face accosts the sight;
Our eyes are charm'd with every feature,
We own the whole a beauteous creature.
Thus true religion fares. For when
By silly or designing men,
In false or foolish lights 't is plac'd,
'Tis made a bugbear, or a jest.
Here by a set of men 'tis thought
A scheme, by politicians wrought,
To strengthen and enforce the law,
And keep the vulgar more in awe:
And these, to show sublimer parts,
Cast all religion from their hearts;
Braud all its vot'ries as the tools
Of priests, and politicians' fools.

Some view it in another light,
Less wicked, but as foolish quite:
And these are such as blindly place it
In superstitions that disgrace it;
And think the essence of it lies
In ceremonious fooleries:

In points of faith and speculation,
Which tend to nothing but vexation.
With these it is a heinous crime
To cough or spit in sermon-time:

'Tis worse to whistle on a Sunday,
Than cheat their neighbours on a Monday:
To dine without first saying grace, is
Enough to lose in Heaven their places;
But goodness, honesty and virtue,
Are what they've not the least regard to.
Others there are, and not a few,
Who place it in the bugbear view!
Think it consists in strange severities:
In fastings, weepings, and austerities.
False notions their weak minds possess,
Of faith, and grace, and holiness:
And as the Lord's of purer eyes
Than to behold iniquities:

They think, unless they're pure and spotless,
All their endeavours will be bootless;
And dreadful Furies in aternum,
In unconsuming fires will burn 'em.
But, oh how happy are the few,
Who place it in its proper view!
To these it shines divinely bright,
No clouds obscure its native light;
Truth stamps conviction in the mind,
All doubts and fears are left behind,

And peace and joy at once an entrance find.

PAIN AND PATIENCE.
AN ODE.

To scourge the riot and intemperate lust,

Or check the self-sufficient pride of man, Offended Heaven sent forth, in vengeance just, The dire inexorable fury, Pain;

Beneath whose griping hand, when she assails, The firmest spirits sink, the strongest reasoning fails.

Near to the confines of th' infernal den,

Deep in a hollow cave's profound recess, Her courts she holds; and to the sons of men Sends out the ministers of dire distress: Repentance, Shame, Despair, each acts her part; Whets the vindictive steel, and aggravates the

smart.

He whose luxurious palate daily rang'd

Earth, air, and ocean to supply his board; And to high-relish'd poisons madly chang'd The wholesome gifts of Nature's bounteous Lord;

Shall find sick nauseous surfeit taint his blood; And his abus'd pall'd stomach loathe the daintiest food.

The midnight reveller's intemperate bowl,

To rage and riot fires his furious brain; Remorse ensues, and agony of soul,

His future life condemn'd to ceaseless pain: Gout, fever, stone, to madness heighten grief; And temperauce, call'd too late, affords him no relief.

He whose hot blood excites to dangerous joy,
And headlong drives to seek the lewd em-
brace,

Startled at length, shall in his face descry
The mark indelible of foul disgrace:

Ulcers obscene corrode his aching bones;

The wild extravagant, whose thoughtless hand, With lavish tasteless pride, commits expense; Ruin'd, perceives his waning age demand

Sad reparation for his youth's offence: Upbraiding riot points to follies past, Presenting hollow want, fit successor to waste.

He too, whose high presuming health defies

Th' almighty hand of Heaven to pull him down;

Who slights the care and caution of the wise, Nor fears hot Summer's rage, nor Winter's frown:

Some trifling ail shall seize this mighty man; Blast all his boasted strength, rack every nerve with pain.

Thus Nature's God inflicts, by Nature's law,
On every crime its proper punishment;
Creating pain to keep mankind in awe,

And moral ills by physical prevent:

In wrath still gracious; claiming still our praise, Ev'n in those very groans our chastisements shall raise.

But lest the feeble heart of suffering man

Too low should sink beneath the keen distress; Lest fell Despair, in league with cruel Pain, Should drive him desperate in their wild ex

cess;

Kind Hope her daughter Patience sent from high, To ease the labouring breast, and wipe the trickling eye.

Hail, mild divinity! calm Patience, hail!

Soft-handed, meek-ey'd maid, yet whose firm breath,

And strong persuasive eloquence prevail

Against the rage of Pain, the fear of Death: Come, lenient Beauty, spread thy healing wing, And smooth my restless couch, whilst I thy praises sing.

In all this toilsome round of weary life,

Where dullness teases, or pert noise assails; Where trifling follies end in serious strife,

And money purchases where merit fails; What honest spirit would not rise in rage, If Patience lent not aid his passion to assuage? No state of life but must to Patience bow: [bill, The tradesman must have patience for his He must have patience who to law will go,

And should he lose his right, more patience Yea, to prevent or heal full many a strife, [still. How oft, how long must man have patience with his wife?

But Heav'n grant patience to the wretched
wight,
[sail!
Whom pills, and draughts, and bolusses as-
Which he must swallow down with all his might;
Ev'n then when health, and strength, and
spirits fail.

Dear doctors, find some gentler ways to kill; [bill.
Lighten this load of drugs, contract yon length of

When the dull, prating, loud, long-winded dame,

Her tedious, vague, unmeaning tale repeats; Perplex'd and wand'ring round and round her theme,

Till lost and puzzled, she all theme forgets;

and groans.

Good gods! who hears her out, must patience have

O Patience! guardian of the temper'd breast, Against the insolence of pride and power; Against the wit's keen sneer, the fool's dull jest; Against the boaster's lie, told o'er and o'er;

To thee this tributary lay I bring,

"See there, on the top of that oak, how the doves

Sit brooding each other, and cooing their loves: Our loves are thus tender, thus mutual our joy, When folded on each other's bosom we lie.

"It glads me to see how the pretty young lambs Are fondled and cherish'd, and lov'd by their dams:

The lambs are less pretty, my dearest, than thee;
Their dams are less fond, nor so tender as me.
Thus even and sweet is her temper, I cry;
"As I gaze on the river that smoothly glides by,
Thus clear is her mind, thus calm and serene,
And virtues, like gems, at the bottom are seen.
"Here various flowers still paint the gay scene,
And as some fade and die, others bud and look

green;

KITT Ý.

A PASTORAL.

BENEATH a cool shade, by the side of a stream, Thus breath'd a fond shepherd, his Kitty his theme:

"Thy beauties comparing, my dearest," said he, "There's nothing in Nature so lovely as thee.

"Tho' distance divides us, I view thy dear face,
And wander in transport o'er every grace;
Now, now I behold thee, sweet-smiling and pretty,
O gods! you've made nothing so fair as my Kitty!

"Come, lovely idea, come fill my fond arms,
And whilst in soft rapture I gaze on thy charms,
The beautiful objects which round me arise,
Shall yield to those beauties that live in thine eyes.
"Now Flora the meads and the groves does adorn,
With flowers and blossoms on every thorn;
But look on my Kitty!-there sweetly does blow,
A spring of more beauties than Flora can show.

"See, see how that rose there adorns the gay bush,
And proud of its colour, would vie with her blush.
Vain boaster! thy beauties shall quickly decay,
She blushes and see how it withers away.

"Observe that fair lily, the pride of the vale,
In whiteness unrivall'd, now droop and look pale;
It sickens, and changes its beautiful hue,
And bows down its head in submission to you.

"The Zephyrs that fan me beneath the cool shade,
When panting with heat on the ground I am laid,
Are less grateful and sweet than the heavenly air
That breathes from her lips when she whispers-

'My dear.'

COLIN'S KISSES

SONG I. THE TUTOR.

COME, my fairest, learn of me,

Learn to give and take the bliss; Come, my love, here's none but we, I'll instruct thee how to kiss. Why turn from me that dear face?

Why that blush, and down-cast eye? Come, come, meet my fond embrace, And the mutual rapture try. Throw thy lovely twining arms

Round my neck, or round my waist; And whilst I devour thy charms, Let me closely be embrac'd: Then when soft ideas rise,

And the gay desires grow strong;
Let them sparkle in thy eyes,
Let them murmur from thy tongue.

To my breast with rapture cling,
Look with transport on my face,
Kiss me, press me, every thing

To endear the fond embrace.
Every tender name of love,

In soft whispers let me hear; And let speaking nature prove Every extasy sincere.

SONG II. THE IMAGINARY KISS.

WHEN Fanny I saw as she tript o'er the green,
Fair, blooming, soft, artless and kind;
Fond love in her eyes, wit and sense in her mica,
And warmness with modesty join'd:
Transported with sudden amazement I stood,
Fast rivetted down to the place;
Her delicate shape, easy motion, I view'd,
And wander'd o'er every grace.

SONG IV. THE STOLEN KISS,

ON a mossy bank reclin'd,

Beauteous Chloe lay reposing, O'er her breast each am'rous wind

Wanton play'd, its sweets disclosing: Tempted with the swelling charms,

Colin, happy swain, drew nigh her, Softly stole into her arms,

Laid his scrip and sheep-hook by her,

O'er her downy panting breast

His delighted fingers roving;
To her lips his lips he prest,
In the extasy of loving:
Chloe, waken'd with his kiss,

Pleas'd, yet frowning to conceal it,
Cry'd, " true lovers share the bliss;
Why then, Colin, would you steal it?"

SONG V. THE MEETING KISS.

LET me fly into thy arms;
Let me taste again thy charms;
Kiss me, press me to thy breast
In raptures not to be exprest.

Let me clasp thy lovely waist;
Throw thy arms around my neck:
Thus embracing and embrac'd,
Nothing shall our raptures check.

Hearts with mutual pleasure glowing;
Lips with lips together growing;
Eyes with tears of gladness flowing;
Eyes, and lips, and hearts shall show,
Th' excess of joy that meeting lovers know.

SONG VI. THE PARTING KISS.

ONE kind kiss before we part,
Drop a tear, and bid adieu;
Tho' we sever, my fond heart

Till we meet shall pant for you.
Yet, yet weep not so, my love,
Let me kiss that falling tear,
Tho' my body must remove,
All my soul will still be here,

All my soul and all my heart,

And every wish shall pant for you; One kind kiss then e'er we part, Drop a tear, and bid adieu.

SONG VII. THE BORROWED KISS. SEE, I languish, see, I faint,

I must borrow, beg, or steal;
Can you see a soul in want,
And no kind compassion feel?
Give, or lend, or let me take

One sweet kiss, I ask no more;
One sweet kiss, for pity's sake,
I'll repay it o'er and o'er.

Chloe heard, and with a smile,

Kind, compassionate and sweet, "Colin, it's a sin to steal,

And for me to give's not meet: But I'll lend a kiss, or twain,

To poor Colin in distress; Not that I'd be paid again, Colin, I mean nothing less."

SONG VIII. THE KISS REPAID. CHLOE, by that borrow'd kiss,

I, alas! am quite undone; 'Twas so sweet, so fraught with bliss, Thousands will not pay that one. "Lest the debt should break your heart," Roguish Chloe smiling cries, "Come, a hundred then in part, For the present shall suffice."

SONG IX. THE SECRET KISS.

AT the silent evening hour,
Two fond lovers in a bower

Sought their mutual bliss;
Tho' her heart was just relenting,
Tho' her eyes seem'd just consenting,
Yet she fear'd to kiss.

"Since this secret shade," he cry'd,
"Will those rosy blushes hide,
Why will you resist?

When no tell-tale spy is near us,
Eye not sees, nor ear can hear us,
Who would not be kiss'd?"
Molly hearing what he said,
Blushing lifted up her head,

Her breast soft wishes fill; "Since," she cry'd, no spy is near us, Eye not sees, nor ear can hear us, Kiss or what you will."

SONG X. THE RAPTURE.
WHILST on thy dear bosom lying,
Cælia, who can speak my bliss?
Who the raptures I'm enjoying,
When thy balmy lips I kiss?
Every look with love inspires me,
Every touch my bosom warms,
Every melting murmur fires me,
Every joy is in thy arms.

Those dear eyes, how soft they languish !
Feel my heart with rapture beat!
Pleasure turns almost to anguish,
When the transport is so sweet,