Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When snug in power, sly recusants
Make laws for British Protestants;
And d-g William's revolution,
As justices claim execution;

Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When soldiers, paid for our defence,
In wanton pride slay innocence;

Blood from the ground for vengeance reeks,
Till Heaven the inquisition makes;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When at Bute's feet poor freedom lies,
Mark'd by the priest for sacrifice,
And doom'd a victim for the sins
Of half the outs, and all the ins;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When Stewards pass a boot account,
And credit for the gross amount;
Then, to replace exhausted store,
Mortgage the land to borrow more;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When scrutineers, for private ends,
Against the vote declare their friends;
Or judge, as you stand there alive,
That five is more than forty-five;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When George shall condescend to hear
The modest suit, the humble prayer;
A prince, to purpled pride unknown!
No favourites disgrace the throne!
Look up, ye Britons! sigh no more,
For your redemption's at the door.
When time shall bring your wish about,
Or seven-years lease, you sold, is out;
No future contract to fulfil;
Your tenants holding at your will;
Raise up your heads! your right demand!
For your redemption's in your hand.
Then is your time to strike the blow,
And let the slaves of Mammon know,
Briton's true sons a bribe can scorn,
And die as free as they were born.
Virtue again shall take her seat,
And your redemption stand complete.

A SON G. ADDRESSED

TO MISS C-AM OF BRISTOL.

As Spring now approaches with all his gay train, And scatters his beauties around the green plain, Come then, my dear charmer, all scruples remove, Accept of my passion, allow me to love.

Without the soft transports which love must inspire,

Without the sweet torment of fear and desire,
Our thoughts and ideas are never refin'd,
And nothing but winter can reign in the mind.

But love is the blossom, the spring of the soul, The frosts of our judgments may check, not control,

In spite of each hind'rance, the spring will return, And nature with transports refining will burn. This passion celestial by Heav'n was design'd, The only fix'd means of improving the mind, When it beams on the senses, they quickly dis play,

How great and prolific, how pleasing the ray.

Then come, my dear charmer, since love is a flame
Which polishes nature, and angels your frame,
Permit the soft passion to rise in your breast,
I leave your good nature to grant me the rest.
Shall the beautiful flow'rets all blossom around,
Shall Flora's gay mantle enamel the ground,
Shall the red blushing blossom be seen on the tree,
Without the least pleasure or rapture for me?

And yet, if my charmer should frown when I sing,
Ah! what are the beauties, the glories of spring!
The flowers will be faded, all happiness fly,
And clouds veil the azure of every bright sky.
London, May 4, 1770.

TO A FRIEND.

C

I HAVE received both your favours-The Muse alone must tell my joy.

O'ERWHELM'D with pleasure at the joyful news,
I strung the chorded shell, and woke the Muse.
Begin, O servant of the sacred Nine!
And echo joy through ev'ry nervous line:
Bring down th' etherial choir to aid the song;
Let boundless raptures smoothly glide along.
My Baker's well! oh words of sweet delight!
Now! now! my Muse, soar up th' Olympic height.
What wond'rous numbers can the goddess find
To paint th' extatic raptures of my mind?

I leave it to a goddess more divine,
The beauteous Hoyland shall employ my line.

TO THE BEAUTEOUS MISS HOYLAND. FAR distant from Britannia's lofty isle, What shall I find to make the genius smile? The bubbling fountains lose the power to please, The rocky cataracts, the shady trees, The juicy fruitage of enchanting hue, Whose luscious virtues England never knew: The variegated daughters of the land, Whose numbers Flora strews with bounteous hand; The verdant vesture of the smiling fields, All the rich pleasures Nature's store-house yields, Have all their powers to wake the chorded string: But still they're subjects that the Muse can sing. Hoyland, more beauteous than the god of day, Her name can quicken and awake the lay; Rouse the soft Muse from indolence and ease; To live, to love, and rouse her powers to please.

In vain would Phoebus, did not Hoyland rise; 'Tis her bright eyes that gilds the eastern skies; 'Tis she alone de rives us of the light; And when she slumbers then indeed 'tis night. To tell the sep'rate beauties of her face Would stretch eternity's remotest space, And want a more than man to pen the line;

I rest; let this suffice, dear Hoyland's all divine!

ODE TO MISS HOYLAND. 1768. AMIDST the wild and dreary dells, The distant echo-giving bells,

The bending mountain's head; Whilst evening, moving thro' the sky, Over the object and the eye,

Her pitchy robes doth spread.

There gently moving thro' the vale,
Bending before the blust'ring gale,

Fell apparitions glide;
Whilst roaring rivers echo round,
The drear reverberating sound

Runs through the mountain side:

Then steal I softly to the grove,
And singing of the nymph I love,

Sigh out my sad complaint;
To paint the tortures of my mind,
Where can the Muses numbers find?
Ah! numbers are too faint!

Ah! Hoyland, empress of my heart!
When will thy breast admit the dart,
And own a mutual flame?
When, wand'ring in the myrtle groves,
Shall mutual pleasures seal our loves,
Pleasures without a name?

Thou greatest beauty of the sex,
When will the little god perplex

The mansions of thy breast!
When wilt thou own a flame as pure,
As that seraphic souls endure,

And make thy Baker blest?

O! haste to give my passion ease,
And bid the perturbation cease,
That harrows up my soul!
The joy such happiness to find,
Would make the functions of my mind
In peace and love to roll.

ACROSTIC ON MISS HOYLAND. 1768.
ENCHANTING is the mighty power of love;
Life stript of amourous joys would irksome prove:
Ev'n Heaven's great thund'rer wore th' easy chain;
And over all the world Love keeps his reign.
No human heart can bear the piercing blade,
Or I than others am more tender made.

Right through my heart a burning arrow drove,
Hoyland's bright eyes were made the bows of Love.
Oh! torture, inexpressibly severe!
You are the pleasing author of my care;
Look down, fair angel, on a swain distrest,
A gracious smile from you would make me blest.

Nothing but that blest favour stills my grief, Death, that denied, will quickly give relief.

ACROSTIC ON MISS CLARKE. 1768.

SERAPHIC virgins of the tuneful choir,
Assist me to prepare the sounding lyre'
Like her I sing, soft, sensible, and fair,
Let the smooth numbers warble in the air;
Yet prudes, coquets, and all the misled throng,
Can beauty, virtue, sense, demand the song;
Look then on Clarke, and see them all unite;
A beauteous pattern to the always-right.
Rest here, my Muse, not soar above thy sphere,
Kings might pay adoration to the fair,
Enchanting, full of joy, peerless in face and air,

TO MISS HOYLAND. 1763.

ONCE more the Muse to beauteous Hoyland sings;
Her grateful tribute of harsh numbers brings
To Hoyland! Nature's richest, sweetest store,
She made an Hoyland, and can make no more.
Nor all the beauties of the world's vast round
United, will as sweet as her be found.
Description sickens to rehearse her praise.
Her worth alone will deify my days.
Enchanting creature! Charms so great as thine
May all the beauties of the day outshine.
Thy eyes to every gazer send a dart,
Thy taking graces captivate the heart.
O for a Muse that shall ascend the skies,
And like the subject of the Epode rise;
To sing the sparkling eye, the portly grace,
The thousand beauties that adorn the face
Of my seraphic maid; whose beauteous charms
Might court the world to rush at once to arms.
Whilst the fair goddess, native of the skies,
Shall sit above and be the victor's prize:
O now, whilst yet I sound the tuneful lyre,
I feel the thrilling joy her hands inspire;
When the soft tender touch awakes my blood,
And rolls my passions with the purple flood.
My pulse beats high: my throbbing breast's on fire
In sad variety of wild desire.

O Hoyland! heavenly goddess! angel, saint,
Words are too weak thy mighty worth to paint;
Thou best, completest work that nature made,
Thou art my substance, and I am thy shade.
Possess'd of thee, I joyfully would go

Thro' the loud tempest, and the depth of woe.
From thee alone my being I derive,
One beauteous smile from thee makes all my
hopes alive.

TO MISS HOYLAND. 1768.

SINCE short the busy scene of life will prove, Let us, my Hayland, learn to live and love; To love, with passions pure as morning light, Whose saffron beams, unsullied by the night. With rosy mantles do the Heavens streak, Faint imitators of my Hoyland's cheek.

The joys of Nature in her ruin'd state Have little pleasure, tho' the pains are great. Virtue and love, when sacred bands unite, 'Tis then that Nature leads to true delight. Oft as I wander thro' the myrtle grove, Bearing the beauteous burden of my love, A secret terrour, lest I should offend The charming maid on whom my joys depend, Informs my soul, that virtuous minds alone Can give a pleasure to the vile unknown. But when the body charming, and the mind, To ev'ry virtuous christian act inclin'd, Meet in one person, maid and angel join; Who must it be, but Hoyland the divine? What worth intrinsic will that man possess, Whom the dear charmer condescends to bless? Swift will the minutes roll, the flying hours, And blessings overtake the pair by showers. Each moment will improve upon the past, And every day be better than the last. Love, means an unadulterated. flame, Tho' lust too oft usurps the sacred name; Such passion as in Hoyland's breast can move, 'Tis that alone deserves the name of love. Ob, was my merit great enough to find

A favour'd station in my Hoyland's mind; Then would my happiness be quite complete, And all revolving joys as in a centre meet.

TELL

TO MISS HOYLAND. 1768.

me, god of soft desires,
Little Cupid, wanton boy,
How thou kindlest up thy fires!
Giving pleasing pain and joy.
Hoyland's beauty is thy bow,
Striking glances are thy darts;
Making conquests never slow,
Ever gaining conquer'd hearts.
Heaven is seated in her smile,
Juno's in her portly air;
Not Britannia's fav'rite isle

Can produce a nymph so fair.

In a desert vast and drear,

Where disorder springs around,

If the lovely fair is there,
"Tis a pleasure-giving ground.
O my Hoyland! blest with thee,
I'd the raging storm defy,
In thy smiles I live, am free;
When thou frownest, I must die.

TO MISS HOYLAND. 1768.
WITH A PRESENT.

ACCEPT, fair nymph, this token of my love,
Nor look disdainful on the prostrate swain;
Ey ev'ry sacred oath, I'll constant prove,

And act as worthy for to wear your chain, Not with more constant ardour shall the Sun Chase the faint shadows of the night away; Nor shall he on his course more constant run, And cheer the universe with coming day,

Than I in pleasing chains of conquest bound, Adore the charming author of my smart;For ever will I thy sweet charms resound, And paint the fair possessor of my heart.

TO MISS HOYLAND. 1768. COUNT all the flow'rs that deck the meadow's side,

When Flora flourishes in new-born pride;
Count all the sparkling orbits in the sky;
Count all the birds that thro' the ether fly;
Count all the foliage of the lofty trees,
That fly before the bleak autumnal breeze;
Count all the dewy blades of verdant grass;
Count all the drops of rain that softly pass
Thro' the blue ether, or tempestuous roar;
Count all the sands upon the breaking shore;
Count all the minutes since the world began;
Count all the troubles of the life of man;
Count all the torments of the d-n'd in Hell,
More are the beauteous charms that make my
nymph excel.

To sing of Clarke my Muse aspires,
A theme by charms made quite divine;
Ye tuneful virgins, sound your lyres,
Apollo, aid the feeble line;

If truth and virtue, wit, and charms,
May for a fix'd attention call:
The darts of love and wounding arms
The beauteous Clarke shall hold o'er all.
'Tis not the tincture of a skin,
The rosy lip, the charming eye;
No, 'tis a greater power within,
That bids the passion never die:

These Clarke possesses, and much more,
All beauty in her glances sport,
She is the goddess all adore,

In country, city, and at court.

EPISTLE TO THE REVEREND MR. CATCOTT.

December 6th, 1769

WHAT strange infatuations rule mankind!
How narrow are our prospects, how confin'd!
With universal vanity possest,
We fondly think our own ideas best;
Our tott'ring arguments are ever strong;
We're always self-sufficient in the wrong.
What philosophic sage of pride austere
Can lend conviction an attentive ear;
What pattern of humility and truth
Can bear the jeering ridicule of youth;
What blushing author ever rank'd his Muse
With Fowler's poet-laureat of the Stews?
Dull Penny, nodding o'er his wooden lyre,
Conceits the vapours of Geneva fire.
All in the language of apostles cry,
If angels contradict me, angels lie;

As all have intervals of ease and pain,
Bo all have intervals of being vain;
But some of folly never shift the scene,
Or let one lucid moment intervene;
Dull single acts of many-footed prose
Their tragi-comedies of life compose;
Incessant madding for a system toy,
The greatest of creation's blessings cloy;
Their senses dosing a continual dream,
They hang enraptur'd o'er the hideous scheme:
So virgins tott'ring into ripe three-score,
Their greatest likeness in baboons adore.

When you advance new systems, first unfold
The various imperfections of the old;
Prove Nature hitherto a gloomy night,
You the first focus of primeval light,
'Tis not enough you think your system true,
The busy world wou'd have you prove it too:
Then, rising on the ruins of the rest,
Plainly demonstrate your ideas best.
Many are best; one only can be right,
Tho' all had inspiration to indite.

Some this unwelcome truth perhaps would tell, Where Clogher stumbled, Catcott fairly fell. Writers on rolls of science long renown'd In one fell page are tumbled to the ground. We see their systems unconfuted still; But Catcott can confute them--if he will. Would you the honour of a priest mistrust An excommunication proves him just.

Could Catcott from his better sense be drawn To bow the knee to Baal's sacred lawn? A mitred rascal to his long-ear'd flocks Gives ill example, to his wh-s, the p-x. Yet we must reverence sacerdotal black, And saddle all his faults on Nature's back: But hold, there's solid reason to revere; His lordship has six thousand pounds a year; In gaming solitude he spends the nights, He fasts at Arthur's and he prays at White's; Rolls o'er the pavement with his Swiss-tail'd six, At White's the Athanasian creed for tricks. Whilst the poor curate in his rusty gown Trudges unnotic'd thro' the dirty town.

If God made order, order never made
These nice distinctions in the preaching trade.
The servants of the Devil are rever'd,
And bishops pull the fathers by the beard.
Yet in these horrid forms salvation lives,
These are religion's representatives;
Yet to these idols must we bow the knee-
Excuse me, Broughton, when I bow to thee.
But sure religion can produce at least,
One minister of God-one honest priest.

Search Nature o'er, procure me, if you can,
The fancy'd character, an honest man
(A man of sense, not honest by constraint,
For fools are canvass, living but in paint):
To Mammon or to Superstition slaves,
All orders of mankind are fools, or knaves:
In the first attribute by none surpast,
Taylor endeavours to obtain the last.

Imagination may be too confin'd;
Few see too far; how many are half blind!
How are your feeble arguments perplext
To find out meaning in a senseless text!
You rack each metaphor upon the wheel,
And words can philosophic truths conceal.
What Paracelsus humour'd as a jest,
You realize to prove your system best.

Might we not, Catcott, then infer from hence,
Your zeal for scripture hath devour'd your sense;
Apply the glass of reason to your sight,
See Nature marshal oozy atoms right;
Think for yourself, for all mankind are free;
We need not inspiration how to see.
If scripture contradictory you find,
Be orthodox, and own your senses.blind.
How blinded are their optics, who aver,
What inspiration dictates cannot err.
Whence is this boasted inspiration sent,
Which makes us utter truths, we never meant?
Which couches systems in a single word,
At once deprav'd, abstruse, sublime, absurd.
What Moses tells us might perhaps be true,
As he was learn'd in all the Egyptians knew.
But to assert that inspiration's giv'n,
The copy of philosophy in Heav'n,
Strikes at religion's root, and fairly fells
The awful terrours of ten thousand Hells.
Attentive search the scriptures, and you'll find
What vulgar errours are with truths combin'.
Your tortur'd truths, which Moses seem'd to know,
He could not unto inspiration owe;
But if from God one errour you admit,
How dubious is the rest of Holy Writ?

What knotty difficulties fancy solves?
The Heav'ns irradiate, and the Earth revolves;
But here immagination is allow'd

To clear this voucher from its mantling cloud:
From the same word we different meanings quote,
As David wears a many colour'd coat.
O Inspiration, ever hid in night,
Reflecting various each adjacent light!
If Moses caught thee in the parted flood;
If David found thee in a sea of blood;
If Mahomet with slaughter drench'd thy soil,
On loaded asses bearing off thy spoil;
If thou hast favour'd Pagan, Turk, or Jew,
Say had not Broughton inspiration too?
Such rank absurdities debase his line,

I almost could have sworn he copied thine.
Confute with candour, where you can confute,
Reason and arrogance but poorly suit.
Yourself may fall before some abler pen,
Infallibility is not for men.

With modest diffidence new schemes indite,
Be not too positive, tho' in the right.
What man of sense would value vulgar praise,
Or rise on Penny's prose, or duller lays?
Tho' pointed fingers mark the man of fame,
And literary grocers chaunt your name;
Tho' in each taylor's book-case Catcott shines,
With ornamental flow'rs and gilded lines;
Tho' youthful ladies, who by instinct scan
The natural philosophy of man,

Can ev'ry reason of your work repeat,
As sands in Africa retain the heat:
Yet check your flowing pride: will all allow
To wreathe the labour'd laurel round your brow?
Some may with seeming arguments dispense,
Tickling your vanity to wound your sense:
But Clayfield censures, and demonstrates too,
Your theory is certainly untrue;

On reason and Newtonian rules he proves,
How distant your machine from either moves.
But my objections may be reckon'd weak,
As nothing but my mother tongue I speak;
Else would I ask; by what immortal pow'r
All nature was dissolv'd as in an hour?

How, when the earth acquir'd a solid state,
And rising mountains saw the waves abate,
Each particle of matter sought its kind,
All in a strata regular combin'd?
When instantaneously the liquid heap
Harden'd to rocks, the barriers of the deep,
Why did not earth unite a stony mass;
Since stony filaments thro' all must pass?
If on the wings of air the planets run,
Why are they not impell'd into the Sun?
Philosophy, nay common sense, will prove
All passives with their active agents move.
If the diurnal motion of the air,

Revolves the planets in their destin'd sphere;
How are the secondary orbs impell'd?
How are the moons from falling headlong held?
"Twas the Eternal's fiat" you reply;
"And who will give Eternity the lie?"
I own the awful truth, that God made all,
And by his fiat worlds and systems fall.
But study Nature; not an atom there
Will unassisted by her powers appear;
The fiat, without agents, is, at best,
For priesteraft or for ignorance a vest.
Some fancy God is what we Nature call,
Being itself material, all in all.
The fragments of the Deity we own,
Is vulgarly as various matter known.
No agents could assist creation's birth:
We trample on our God; for God is earth.
Tis past the pow'r of language to confute
This latitudinary attribute.

[brought

How lofty must imagination soar, To reach absurdities unknown before! Thanks to thy pinions, Broughton, thou hast From the Moon's orb a novelty of thought. Restrain, O Muse, thy unaccomplish'd lines, Fling not thy saucy satire at divines; This single truth thy brother bards must tell; Thou hast one excellence, of railing well. But disputations are befitting those

Who settle Hebrew points, and scold in prose.

O Learning, where are all thy fancied joys,
Thy empty pleasures and thy solemn toys?
Proud of thy own importance, tho' we see
We've little reason to be proud of thee:
Thou putrid fœtus of a barren brain,
Thou offspring illegitimate of pain.

Tell me, sententious mortals, tell me whence
You claim the preference to men of sense!

wants learning; see the letter'd throng
Banter his English in a Latin song.
Oxonian sages hesitate to speak
Their native language, but declaim in Greek.
If in his jests a discord should appear,

A dull lampoon is innocently clear.
Ye classic dunces, self-sufficient fools,
Is this the boasted justice of your schools?
has parts; parts which would set aside
The labour'd acquisitions of your pride;
Uncultivated now his genius lies,
Instruction sees his latent beauties rise;
His gold is bullion, yours debas'd with brass,
Imprest with Folly's head to make it pass.

But swears so loud, so indiscreet,
His thunders rattle thro' the list'ning street:
Ye rigid Christians, formally severe,
Blind to his charities, his oaths you hear;
Observe his virtues: calumny must own
A noble soul is in his actions shown;

Tho' dark this bright original you paint,
I'd rather be a than a saint.
Excuse me, Catcott, if from you I stray,
The Muse will go where merit leads the way;
The owls of learning may admire the night,
But - shines with reason's glowing light.

Still admonition presses to my pen,
The infant Muse would give advice to men.
But what avails it, since the man I blame
Owns no superior in the paths of fame?
In springs, in mountains, stratas, mines, and rocks,
Catcott is every notion orthodox.

If to think otherwise you claim pretence,
You're a detested heretic in sense 1,
But oh! how lofty your ideas roar,
In showing wond'ring cits the fossile store!
The ladies are quite ravish'd, as he tells
The short adventures of the pretty shells;
Miss Biddy sickens to indulge her touch,
Madame more prudent thinks 'twould seem to
much;

The doors fly open, instantly he draws
The sparry lood, and wonders of applause;
The full dress'd lady sees with envying eye
The sparkle of her di'mond pendants die;
Sage natural philosophers adore

The fossil whimseys of the numerous store.
But see! the purple stream begins to play,
To show how fountains climb the hilly way.
Hark what a murmur echoes thro' the throng.
Gods! that the pretty trifle should be wrong!
Experience in the voice of reason tells
Above its surface water never swells.

Where is the priestly soul of Catcott now?
Sce what a triumph sits upon his brow:
And can the poor applause of things like these,
Whose souls and sentiments are all disease,
Raise little triumphs in a man like you,
Catcott, the foremost of the judging few?
So at Llewellin's your great brother sits,
The laughter of his tributary wits;
Ruling the noisy multitude with ease,
Empties his pint and sputters his decrees.

Dec. 20th, 1769.

Mr. Catcott will be pleased to observe that I admire many things in his learned remarks. This poem is an innocent effort of poetical vengeance, as Mr. Catcott has done me the honour to criti cise my trifles. I have taken great poetical liberties, and what I dislike in verse possibly deserves my approbation in the plain prose of truth. -The many admirers of Mr. Catcott may on perusal of this rank me as an enemy: but I am indifferent in all things, I value neither the praise or the censure of the multitude.

SENTIMENT. 1769.

SINCE we can die but once, what matters it,
If rope or garter, poison, pistol, sword,

1 Renounce is written over the two frst words of this line. Which is the true meaning is uncertain, both being in his own hand-writing, and upcancelled.