IN ftorms when clouds the moon do hide,
And no kiud ftars the pilot guide,
Shew me at fea the boldeft there,
Who does not wifh for quiet here.
For quiet, friend, the foldier fights,
Bears weary marches, fleepless nights,
For this feeds hard, and lodges cold;
Which can't be bought with hills of gold.
Since wealth and power too weak we find,
To quell the tumults of the mind;
Or from the monarch's roofs of flate
Dive thence the cares that round him wait:
Happy the man with little bleft,
Of what his father left poffeft;
No base desires corrupt his head,
No fears difturb him in his bed.
What then in life, which foon must end,
Can all our vain defigns intend?
From shore to shore why fhould we run,
When none his tire fome felf can fhun?
For baneful care will ftill prevail,
And overtake us under fail,
'Twill dodge the great man's train behind,
Out-run the roe, out-fly the wind.
If then thy foul rejoice to-day,
Drive far to-morrow's cares away.
In laughter let them all be drown'd:
No perfe&t goed is to be found.
One mortal feels Fate's fudden blow,
Another's lingering death comes flow;
And what of life they take from thee,
The gods may give to punish mc.
Thy portion is a wealthy ftock,
A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock,
Horfes and chariots for thy cafe,
Rich robes to deck and make thee please.
For me, a little cell I choose,
Fit for my mind, fit for my Mufe,
Which foft content does best adorn,
Shunning the knaves and fools I fcorn.
I LOVE, I doat, I rave with pain,
No quiet's in my mind,
Though ne'er could be a happier fwain,
Were Sylvia lefs unkind.
For when, as long her chains I've worn,
I ask relief from smart,
She only gives me looks of fcorn;
Alas! 'twill break my heart!
My rivals, rich in worldly ftore,
May offer heaps of gold,
VOL. VI.
But furely I a heaven adore,
Too precious to be fold; Can Sylvia fuch a coxcomb prize, For wealth, and not defert; And my poor fighs and tears defpife? Alas! 'twill break my heart!
When, like fome panting, hovering dove,
I for my blefs contend,
And plead the caufe of eager love,
She coldly calls me friend.
Alas! Sylvia! thus vain you strive
To act a healer's part,
'Twill keep but lingering pain alive,
Alas! and break my heart.
When, on my lonely, pensive bed
I lay me down to rest,
In hope to calm my raging head,
And cool my burning breast,
Her cruelty all cafe denies:
With fome fad dream I ftart, All drown'd in tears I find my eyes,
And breaking feel my heart.
Then rifing, through the path I rove,
That leads me where the dwells,
Where to the fenfelefs waves my love
Its mournful ftory tells:
With fighs I dew and kifs the door,
Till morning bids depart;
Then vent ten thousand fighs and more:
Alas! 'twill break my heart!
But, Sylvia, when this conqueft's won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you've done,
Nor glory when 'tis told;
For every lovely generous maid
Will take my injur'd part,
And curfe thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.
Nature their fpecies fure must needs difown,
Scarce knowing poets, lefs by poets known.
Yet this poor thing, fo fcorn'd and set at nought,
Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought.
Difabled wafting whore-masters are not
Prouder to own the brats they never got,
Than fumbling, itching rhymers of the town
T'adopt fome bafe-born fong that's not their
Spite of his ftate, my Lord fometimes defcends,
To please the importunity of friends.
The dulleft he, thought most for business fit,
Will venture his bought place to aim at wit;
And though he finks with his employs of state,
Till common fenfe forsake him, he'll tranflate.
The Poet and the Whore alike complains,
Of trading quality, that spoil their gains;
The lords will write, and ladies will have (
fwains!
Therefore all you who have male-iffue born
Under the ftarving fign of Capricorn,
Prevent the malice of their stars in time,
And warn them carly from the fin of rhyme :
Tell them how Spenfer ftarv'd, how Cowley
mourn'd,
How Butler's faith and fervice was return'd;
And if fuch warning they refufe to take,
This laft experiment, O parents make!
With hands behind them fee th' offender ty'd,
The parish whip and beadle by his fide;
Then lead him to fome ftall that does expofe
The authors he loves moft; there rub his nose,
Till, like a fpaniel lafh'd to know command,
He by the due correction understand,
To keep his brain clean, and not foul the land;.
Till he against his nature learn to strive,
And get the knack of dulnefs how to thrive.
THE BEGINNING OF A PASTORAL ON THE
DEATH OF HIS LATE M 'JESTY.
WHAT horror's this that dwells upon the plain,'
And thus difturbs the thepherd's peaceful reign?
A difmal found breaks through the yielding air,
Forewarning us fome dreadful form is near.
The bleating flocks in wild confufion stray,
The early larks for fake their wandering way,
And ceafe to welcome in the new-born day.
Each nymph poffeft with a diftracted fear,
Disorder'd hangs her loose difhevel`d hair.
Difeafes with her ftrong convulfions reign,
and deities, not known before to pain,
Are now with apoplectic feizures flain.
Hence flow our forrows, hence increase our fears
Each humble plant does drop her filver tears.
Ye tender lambs, fray not fo faft away,
To weep and mourn let us together stay;
O'er all the univerfe let it be spread,
That now the fhepherd of the flock is dead.
The royal Pan, that fhepherd of the sheep,
He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,
Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from death's
eternal fleep!
Begin, Damela, let thy numbers fly Aloft where the foft milky way does lie; Mopfus, who Daphnis to the ftars did fing, Shall join with you, and thither waft our king. Play gently on your reeds a mournful train, And tell in notes, through all th' Arcadian plain, The royal Pan, the shepherd of the sheep, He, who to leave his flock did dying weef, Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from death's eternal fleep!
I'd be concern'd in no litigious jar;
Belov'd by all, not vainly popular.
Whate'er affiftance I had power to bring,
T'oblige my country, or to ferve my king,
Whene'er they call, I'd readily afford
My tongue, my pen, my counfel, or my fword.-
If Heaven a date of many years would give,
'Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live.—
And when committed to the duft, I'd have
Few tears, but friendly, dropp'd into my grave:
Then would my exit fo propitious be,
All men would wish to live and die like me.
PRINTED BY MUNDELL AND SON, ROYAL BANK CLOSE,
JOHN POMFRET was the fon of the Reverend Mr. Pomfret, Rector of Luton, in Bedfordshire, where he was born in 1677.
He was inftructed in grammatical learning at an eminent school in the country; from whence he was fent to Queen's College, Cambridge; where, as appears by the university register, he took his Bachelor's degree in 1684, and his Mafter's degree in 1698.
On his leaving the university, he entered into orders, and was preferred to the living of Malden, in Bedfordshire.
About this time, he appears to have been reproached with fanaticism; an aspersion from which he is fully cleared by a nameless friend, in a narrative prefixed to his poems, in 1724.
About 1703, he applied to Dr. Compton, Bishop of London, for inftitution to a living of confiderable value, to which he had been presented; bnt was retarded for fome time by a malicious interpretation of a paffage in his Choice.
And as I near approach'd the verge of life,
Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife)
Should take upon him all my worldly care,
While I did for a better ftate prepare."
Though these verses imply no more than his preference of a single life to marriage, it was inferred from the parenthesis, that he confidered happiness as more likely to be found in the company of a mistress than of a wife.
The reproach was easily obliterated; for he was then married: but the malice of his enemies had a very fatal confequence; for the delay occafioned by the obftruction he met with, constrained his attendance in London; where he caught the fmall-pcx, and died in 1703, in the the thirty-fixth year of his age.
This is all that is known of Pomfret; a man not destitute either of erudition or genius, and who feems to have fpent his life in innocence, eafe, and tranquillity; but his fituation being obfcure, and his life fhort and inactive, there are few incidents recorded concerning him.
The first edition of his poems was printed in 1699; to which he prefixed a very modeft and fenfible preface. His Remains, confisting of Reason, a Satire, and Dies Novissima, a Pindaric Ode, were inferted in the edition 1724; the first from a copy printed in 1700, and the other from a manufcript in the poffeffion of a friend. The fubfequent editions have been numerous. The poems of Pomfret have always been held in very great efteem by the common readers of poetry; Ly whom the merit of every poetical production must ultimately be decided.
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