Shall seek where sweet Anacreon plays,
Where Chapelle spends his festive days,
Where lies the vine-impurpled glade
By tuneful Chaulicu vocal made,
Or where our Shenstone's mossy cell,
Or where the fair Deshouliéres strays,
Or Hammond and Pavillon dwell,
And Gresset's gentle spirit roves
Surrounded by a group of Loves
With roses crown'd and asphodel.

Let the furr'd pedants of the schools,
In learning's formidable show,
Full of wise saws and bookish rules,
The meagre dupes of misery grow,
A lovelier doctrine I profess
Than their dull science can avow;
All that belongs to happiness

Their heads are welcome still to know, ⋅
My heart's contented to possess.
For in soft elegance and ease,
Secure of living whilst I live,
Each momentary bliss I seize,
Ere these warm faculties decay,
The fleeting moments to deceive
Of human life's allotted day.

And when th' invidious hand of Time
By stealth shali silver o'er my head,
Still Pleasure's rosy walks I'll tread,
Still with the jocund Muses rhymne,
And haunt the green Idalian bow'rs,
Whilst wanton boys of Paphos' court
In myrtles hide my staff for sport,

And coif me, where I'm bald, with flow'rs.
Thus to each happy habit true,
Preferring happiness to pow'r,
Will Aristippus e'en pursue
Life's comforts to the latest hour,
Till age (the only malady

Which thou and med'cine cannot cure,
Yet what all covet to endure)
This innocent voluptu❜ry

Shall, from the Laughs and Graces here,
With late and lenient change remove,
To regions of Elysian air,

Where shades of mortal pleasures rove,
Destin'd, without alloy, to share
Eternal joys of mutual love,
Which transitory were above.

A SONG.

DEAR Chloe what means this disdain, Which blasts each endeavour to please? Tho' forty, I'm free from all pain,

Save love, I am free from disease.

No Graces my mansion have fled,
No Muses have broken my lyre;
The Loves frolic still round my bed,
And Laughter is cheer'd at my fire.

To none have I ever been cold,

All beauties in vogue I'm among; I've appetite e'en for the old,

And spirit enough for the young. Believe me, sweet girl, I speak true, Or else put my love to the test;

Some others have doubted like you, Like them do you bless and be blest.

AN EPISTLE

FROM THE KING OF PRUSSIA TO MONSIEUR VOL-
TAIRE. 1775.

CROYEZ que si j' etois, Voltaire,
Particulier aujourdhui,

Me contentant du necessaire,

Je verrois envoler la Fortune legere,

Et m'en mocquerois comme lui.

Je connois l'ennui des grandeurs,

Le fardeau des devoirs, le jargon des flateurs,

Et tout l' amas des petitesses,

Et leurs genres et leurs especes,

Dont il faut s' occuper dans le sein des honneurs. Je meprise la vaine glorie,

Quoique poëte et souverain,

Quand du ciseau fatal retranchant mon destin
Atropos m' aura vu plonge dans la nuit noire,
Que n'importe l'honneur incertain

De vivre apres ma mort au temple de memoire:
Un instant de bonheur vaut mille ans dans l'his-
Nos destins sont ils donc si beaux?

Le doux plaisir et la mollesse,

La vive et naïve allegresse

[toire.

[sceaux,

Ont toujours fui des grands, la pompe, et les fai-
Nes pour la liberté leurs troupes enchantresses
Preferent l'aimable paresse

Aux austeres devoirs guides de nos travaux.
Aussi la Fortune volage

N'a jamais causé mes ennuis,

Soit qu' elle m' agaçe, ou qu' elle m' outrage
Je dormirai toutes les nuits

En lui refusant mon hommage.
Mais notre etat nous fait loi,
Il nous oblige, il nous engage
A mesurer notre courage,
Sur ce qu'exige notre emploi.
Voltaire dans son hermitage,
Dans un païs dont l' heritage
Est son antique bonne foi,

Peut 's addoner en paix à la vertu du sagé
Dont Platon nous marqué la loi;
Pour moi menacé du naufrage,
Je dois, en affrontant l' orage,
Penser, vivre, et mourir en roi,

THE SAME TRANSLATED. VOLTAIRE, believe me, were I now In private life's calm station plac'd, Let Heav'n for nature's wants allow With cold indiff'rence would I view Departing Fortune's winged haste, And laugh at her caprice like you. Th' insipid farce of tedious state, Imperial duty's real weight, The faithless courtier's supple bow, The fickle multitude's caress, And the great vulgar's littieness, By long experience well I know; And, tho' a prince and poet born, Vain blandishments of glory scorn. For when the ruthless shears of fate Have cut my life's precarious thread, And rank'd me with th' unconscious dead,

What will't avail that I was great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of fame
In mem❜ry's temple chaunts my name?
One blissful moment whilst we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do potentates receive
Of good, peculiarly their own?
Sweet ease and unaffected joy,
Domestic peace, and sportive pleasure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure,
To, what we monarchs buy so dear,
The thorny pomp of scepter'd care.
My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend
On fickle Fortune's casual flight,
For, whether she's my foe or friend,
In calm repose I'll pass the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
1 court her smile, or fear her frown.
But from our stations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,

And certain deeds each rauk calls forth,
By which is measur'd human worth.
Voltaire, within his private cell
In realms where ancient honesty
Is patrimonial property,

And sacred freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all his peaceful mind,
Guided by Plato's deathless page,
In silent solitude resign'd
To the mild virtues of a sage;

But I, 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Must be, to face the tempest's rage,
In thought, in life, in death, a king.

A HYMN TO HEALTH,

WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

SWEET as the fragrant breath of genial May,
Come, fair Hygeia, goddess heav'nly born,
More lovely than the Sun's returning ray,

To northern regions, at the half year's morn. Where shall I seek thee? in the wholesome grot, Where Temperance her scanty meal enjoys? Or Peace, contented with her humble lot,

Beneath her thatch th' inclement blast defies? Swept from each flow'r that sips the morning dew, Thy wing besprinkles all the scenes around; Where e'er thou fly'st the blossoms blush anew, And purple vi'lets paint the hallow'd ground.

Thy presence renovated nature shows,

By thee each shrub with varied hue is dy'd, Each tulip with redoubled lustre glows,

And all creation smiles with flow'ry pride.

But in thy absence joy is felt no more,

The landscape wither'd e'en in spring appears, The morn low'rs om'nous o'er the dusky shore, And evening suns set half extinct in tears. Ruthless Disease ascends, when thou art gone From the dark regions of th' abyss below, With Pestilence, the guardian of her throne, Breathing contagion from the realms of woe.

In vain her citron groves Italia boasts,
Or Po the balsam of his weeping trees;
In vain Arabia's aromatic coasts

Perfume the pinions of the passing breeze.
No wholesome scents impregn the western gale,
But noxious steuch exhal'd by scorching heat,
Where gasping swains the pois'nous air inhale
That once diffus'd a medicinal sweet.

Me, abject me, with pale disease oppress'd,
Heal with the balm of thy prolific breath;
Rekindle life within my clay-cold breast, [death.
And shield my youth from canker-worms of
Then on the verdant turf, thy fav'rite shrine,
Restor'd to thee a votary I'll come,
Grateful to offer to thy pow'r divine

Each herb that grows round Esculapius' tomb,

A SONG.

THE nymph that I lov'd was as cheerful as day,
And as sweet as the blossoming hawthorn in May;
Her temper was smooth as the down on the dove,
And her face was as fair as the mother's of love.

Tho' mild as the pleasantest zephyr that sheds,
And receives gentle odours from violet beds,
Yet warm in affection as Phoebus at noon, [Moon.
And as chaste as the silver-white beams of the
Her mind was unsullied as new-fallen snow,
Yet as lively as tints of young Iris's bow,
As firm as the rock, and as calm as the flood,
Where the peace-loving halcyon deposits her
brood.

The sweets that each virtue or grace had in store,
She cull'd as the bee would the bloom of each

Who far from courts maintains superior state,
And thinks that to be free is to be great;
Careless of pride's imperial smile or frown,
A friend to all mankind, but slave to none;
Above temptation, and unaw'd by pow'r,
Pleas'd with his present lot, nor wishes more,
Save that kind Heaven would one bless'd boon

bestow,

Which monarchs cannot grant, or courtiers know,
From each low view of selfish faction free,
To think, to speak, to live, O Pitt, like thee.

THE GENIUS OF BRITAIN.
As late o'er Britain's chalky coasts
The Genius of the island flew,
The venal swarm of foreign hosts'

Inglorious basking in his view,
Deep in his breast he felt the new disgrace,
And honest blushes warin'd his godlike face.
Quick flash'd the light'ning of his spear

Which blasted France on Cressy's field,
He wheel'd the blazing sword in air,

And on his shoulders spread the shield, As when o'er Agincourt's blood-purpled lands, Pale Terrour stalk'd thro' all the Gallic bands.

Soon as he cast his eyes below,

Deep heav'd the sympathetic sigh, Sudden the tears of anguish flow,

For sore he felt th' indignity;

Discordant passions shook his heavenly frame,
Now horrour's damp, now indignation's flame,
"Ah! what avails," he cry'd, “the blood
Shed by each patriot band of yore,
When Freedom's unpaid legions stood

Protectors of this sea-girt shore,

When ancient wisdom deem'd each British sword From hostile pow'r could guard its valiant lord.

"What tho' the Danish raven spread

Awhile his wings o'er English ground,

The bird of prey funereal fled

When Alfred call'd his peers around,

Whose fleets triumphaut riding on the flood,

Deep stain'd, each chalky cliff with Denmark's

blood.

"Alfred on natives could depend,

And scorn'd a foreign force t' employ, He thought, who dar'd not to defend

Were never worthy to enjoy ;

The realm's and monarch's int'rest deem'd but one, And arm'd his subjects to maintain their own.

"What tho' weak John's divided reign The Gallic legions tempted o'er,

When Henry's barons join'd again,

Those feather'd warriors left the shore;

Learn, Britons, hence, you want no foreign friends, The lion's safety on himself depends.

"Reflect on Edward's glorious name;

"Tho' Rome's fell star malignant shone,
When great Eliza rul'd this state,
On English hearts she plac'd her throne,
And in their happiness her fate,
While blacker than the tempests of the north,
The papal tyrant sent his curses forth.

"Lo! where my Thames's waters glide
At great Augusta's regal feet,
Bearing on each returning tide

From distant realms a golden fleet,
Which homeward wafts the fruits of ev'ry zone,
And makes the wealth of all the world your own.

"Shall on his silver waves be borne
Of armed slaves a venal crew?
Lo! the old god denotes his scorn,
And shudders at th' unusual view,
Down to his deepest cave retires to mourn,
And tears indignant bathe his crystal urn.

"O! how can vassals born to bear

The galling weight of slav'ry's chain, A patriot's noble ardour share,

Or freedom's sacred cause maintain? Britons exert your own unconquer'd might, A freeman best defends a freeman's right.

"Look back on every deathless deed For which your sires recorded stand; To battle let your nobles lead

The sons of toil, a hardy band;

The sword on each rough peasant's thigh be worn,
And war's green wreaths the shepherd's front adorn.

"But see, upon his utmost shores
America's sad genius lies,
Each wasted province he deplores,

And casts on me his languid eyes,
Bless'd with Heav'n's fav'rite ordinance I fly,
To raise th' oppress'd, and humble tyranny."

This said, the vision westward fled, His wrinkled brow denouncing war; The way fire-mantled Vengeance led, And Justice drove his airy car; Behind firm-footed Peace her olive bore, And Plenty's horn pour'd blessings on the shore.

THEAGENES TO SYLVIA.

First printed in Dodsley's Museum.

ARGUMENT.

Theagenes, son of Hieron, the priest of Pan, having fallen in love, at an annual festival in the temple of that god, with Sylvia, a votress to Diana, finds means to seduce her. After some time, the nymph being struck with horrour at her guilt, in the utmost despair and contrition makes a vow that she would endeavour to expiate her offence by a life of religious solitude: upon which occasion Theagenes writes the following epistle.

N.B. Several hints in the following epistle were taken from the celebrated lord Gray's Loveletters.

Must we for e'er, like soul and body, part?

Must I be doom'd whole ages to deplore,
And think of transports I must taste no more?
O dreadful thought! whose endless view contains
Grief foll'wing grief, and pains succeeding pains!
Each joy is blasted, and each comfort fled!
Ye dreary sisters, cut the fatal thread!

Ah! whither fly'st thou? to some dreary plain,
Where frozen Chastity and Horrour reign;
And Melancholy, daughter of Despair,
With pale Contrition, and with gloomy Care;
To spend thy youth in superstitious fears,
In needless penance, penitence, and tears!
Let those dwell there whose bosoms guilt reprove,
But thou hast none, if 'tis no sin to love.
For what is deem'd a half extorted vow
Too dull for lovers, and forgotten now?
Religious cheat! impos'd by fear on man,
And priests continue what the fool began.

O stay, for absence never can destroy,
No distance quell my visionary joy;
In vain you still endeavour to remove
The beauteous cause of my unhappy love:
Imagination foll'wing close behind,
Presents afresh past pleasures to my mind;
The rebel mind forbidden passion knows,
With welcome flames the guilty bosom glows,
Again th' ecstatic soul dissolves away,
In brightest visions of eternal day;
There sees thy fatal form, or seems to see,
For Heav'n it loses, when it loses thee.

Worn by my sorrows, see this wretched frame; Innocent object of thy fatal flame!

See! round my lips a deadly paleness spread;
Where roses bloom'd, the canker grief has fed;
From my cold cheeks the with'ring lily flies,
And light extinguish'd leaves my weeping eyes.
O count again the pleasures we have prov'd,
Promoting mutual what the other lov'd;
Recall in thought each ani'rous moment gone,、
Think each soft circumstance, and still think on;
But chief that day destructive to my rest,
For ever fatal, yet for ever blest,
When I, assisting, at the sacred shrine,
My aged father in the rights divine,
Bebeld thee first, celestial as thou art,
And feit thy image sink into my heart;
Fre I could think I found myself undone,
For but to see thee and to love are one.
No more the poinp ands olemn splendour pleas'd,
Devotion's flames within my bosom ceas'd;
Thy fairer form expell'd the Deity,
And all the mighty space was fill'd with thee.
I fear'd 'twas errour, and to Wisdom fled
To call her rigid doctrine to my aid:
But such the passion, Wisdom must approve,
She saw the object, and she bade ine love.
The pleasing paths of Venus I retrod,
No more a mortal, but an am'rous god.
O powhful weakness of th' ecstatic mind!
Celestial geams to human failings join'd!

But me, alas! far other cares employ,
To reap the harvest of unlawful joy;
Pensive 1 wander'd on the lonely shore,
Where breaking billows at a distance roar;
The sighs that issued from my lab’ring breast,
Woke Echo from her inmost cave of rest;
On thee I thought, on thee I call'd alone,
The soften'd rocks re-echo'd to my moan,
The sympathizing streams ran mournful by,
And tun'd their plaintive bubblings to my cry.

Thrice had the Moon her silver mantle spread,
As oft I wander'd from my sleepless bed;
As oft I travers'd o'er the neighb'ring plain,
As of I sought thee, but I sought in vain;
At last arriv'd the long-expected hour,
I found thee musing in a lonely bow'r;
The time and place invited to impart
The faithful language of my love-sick heart;
With agonizing sighs I gain'd belief,
And each pathetic circumstance of grief;
A war unequal in thy breast ensu'd,
Stern duty fail'd, and gentle pity woo'd,
Pity admitted, all disdain remov'd,
And soon what mercy spar'd, the woman lov'd.
A crimson blush o'er all thy face was spread,
Then lilies pale, and all the roses fled;
Each look more faithful, to thy heart reveal'd
The fatal secret that thy tongue conceal'd.
The happy omen of success I view'd,
Embrac'd th' advantage, and th' attack pursu'd
Honour's first guard of wakeful scruples o'er,
Love found a breach, and fears contend no more;
Each other's arms each other's body prest,
We spoke much pleasure, and we felt the rest;
The rest, which only can the faithful feel;
The rest, which none had ever pow'r to tell;
The rest, which feels unutterably sweet,
In the first intercourse when lovers meet;
The modest diffidence, and bold desires,
Soft thrilling cold, and quick-returning fires,
The glowing blushes, and the joyful tears,
The flatt'ring wishes, and th' alarming fears,
The gentle breathings, and the mutual sighs,
And all the silent eloquence of eyes.

Pleas'd with the first delight, my raptures rove To seize at once the last recess of love; Till flying swiftly on from joy to joy, I sunk at last in heav'nly ecstasy.

The secret progress thus we first began, Then soon round pleasure's flow'ry circle ran; How oft we met, dull reason frown'd in vain, How oft we parted but to meet again! O blessed moments, and divinest dreams! Enchanting transports, and celestial gleams! Fly quick, my fancy, bring 'em back to view, In retrospection let me love anew; And once in thought enjoy the bliss again, Even cheaply purchas'd by an age of pain. O sacred queen of silent night, advance, And cast thy sable mantle o'er th' expanse,

sails,

To lands of Paradise with gentle gales,
Love makes the sister soul for ever even;
Love can do all, for 'ove itself is Heav'n.

The tedious bus'ness of the day was done;
Our offrings ended with the parting Sun;
The night advanc'd, the shepherds homeward
sped

To the sweet comforts of the nuptial bed;

Give to my arms what hateful day denies,
For vain, alas! those dulcet wishes roll,
When sov'reign reason awes the wakeful soul;
Sleep sets it free to all its native fires,
And gives a grateful loose to soft desires.
At that calm hour, when Peace her requium sings,
And pleasing slumbers spread their airy wings,
Thy beauteous image comes before my sight:
(My theme by day, my constant dream by night;}

Fancy not fairer paints those Heav'n-born maids, In fair Elysium under myrtle shades, Who ever blooming, ever young appear, To drive from happy shades intruding fear. My ravish'd thoughts on plumes angelic soar, And feel within a Heav'n, or somewhat more. Straight on thy oft repeated name I call, Then wake, and sigh, and find it vanish'd all. Thus erst when Orpheus from the Stygian shore Had won his youthful oride by music's pow'r, Impatient to behold her, ere he past The pool Cocytus, and th' infernal waste, Heedless he cast forbidden looks behind; The fleeting shadow vanish'd like the wind, And all his joys wing'd their eternal flight With her, like frighted doves, to realms of night. Again I close my sleep-deluded eyes, Around my soul black swarms of demons rise, Pale spectres grin, and angry furies bowl, Quick light'nings flash, and horrid thunders roll; Again the frighted wand'rer hastes away Back to the living horrours of the day, There counts the visionary mis'ry o'er, And realizes what was dreamt before.

Ye dreary pow'rs, that hover o'er the plains Where sorrows reign, and everlasting pains, Bear me to places suited to my woe,

Where noxious herbs and deadly poisons grow, Whilst wintry winds howl fiercely round my bead,

The flint my pillow, sharpen'd rocks my bed;
And ghosts of wretches once who dy'd for love,
Round their unburied bodies nightly rove,
Which hang half moulder'd on some blasted
tree,

And by their sad example counsel me.

What now avail the joyous moments past,
Or what will all the wretched few that last?
In them I dying will our loves proclaim,
With fault'ring accents call upon thy name,
And whilst I bless thee with my parting breath,
Enjoy the raptures of my life in death.
Then spare thy curses, and forget th' offence
Of him who robb'd thee of thy innocence;
Or if not quite forget, forgive at least,
And sooth the dying penitent to rest.

Oh! may to thee the pitying gods bestow
Eternal peace, and happiness below;
Yet when thy mortal frame, as once it must,
Returns and mingles with its native dust;
May the same urn our mingled ashes have,
And find a lasting union in the grave!

If you ere long iny bleeding corse should see
Beneath the covert of yon conscious tree,
This last request I make for all my fears,
For all my sleepless minutes spent in tears,
For all those struggles of my parting breath,
And all the agonies in one, my death;
Think on the raptures which we ravish'd there,
Then breathe a sigh, and drop th' indebted tear.
This empty tribute's to the mem'ry due,
Of one, who liv'd and dy'd in love of you.
My ghost, thus sooth'd, shall seek the Stygian
shore,

Mix with the happy crowd, and grieve no more,
But eager wait till thou at last art giv'n,
To raise each blessing of th' Elysian Heav'n,
Where uncontrol'd in amorous sports we'll
play,

And love a whole eternity away.

THE POWER OF HARMONY:

A POEM, IN TWO BOOKS.
THE DESIGN.

IT is observable, that whatever is true, just, and harmonious, whether in nature or morals, gives an instantaneous pleasure to the mind, exclusive of reflection. For the great Creator of all things, infinitely wise and good, ordained a perpetual agreement between the faculties of moral perception, the powers of fancy, and the organs of bodily sensation, when they are free and undistempered. From hence is deducible the most comfortable, as well as the most true philosophy that ever adorned the world; namely a constant admiration of the beauty of the creation, terminating in the adoration of the First Cause, which naturally leads mankind cheerfully to co-operate with his grand design for the promotion of universal happiness.

From hence our author was led to draw that analogy between natural and moral beauty: since the same faculties, which render us susceptible of pleasure from the perfection of the creation, and the excellence of the arts, afford us delight in the contemplation of dignity and justice in characters and manners. For what is virtue, but a just regulation of our affections and appetites, to make them correspond to the peace and welfare of society? so that good and beauty are inseparable.

From this true relish of the soul, this harmonious association of ideas, the ancient philosophers, and their disciples among the moderns, have enlivened their imaginations and writings in this amicable intercourse of adding moral epithets to natural objects, and illustrating their observations upon the conduct of life, by metaphors drawn from the external scenes of the world. So we know, that by a beautiful action, or consonant behaviour, is meant the generous resignation of private advantage by some individual, to submit and adapt his single being to the whole community, or some part of it. And in like manner, when we read of a solemn grove, where horrour and melancholy reign, we entertain an idea of a place that creates such thoughts. in the mind, by reason of its solitary situation, want of light, or any other circumstances analogous to those dispositions, so termed, in human

nature.