TO

STELLA,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY,

1721-2.

WHILE, Stella, to your lasting praise

The Muse her annual tribute pays,

While I affign myself a task

Which you expect, but fcorn to afk;
If I perform this task with pain,
Let me of partial fate complain;
You every year the debt enlarge,
grow lefs equal to the charge :
you each virtue brighter shines,
But my poetic vein declines;

I

In

My harp will foon in vain be strung,
And all your virtues left unfung:
For none among the upftart race
Of Poets dare affume my place ;
Your worth will be to them unknown,
They must have Stella's of their own;
And thus, my stock of wit decay'd,
I dying leave the debt unpaid,
Unless Delany, as my heir,

Will anfwer for the whole arrear.

ON THE GREAT BURIED BOTTLE, BY DR. DELANY.

AMPHORA, quæ motum linquis, lætumque revifes

Arentem dominum, fit tibi terra levis.

Tu quoque depofitum ferves, neve opprime, marmor; Amphora non meruit tam pretiofa mori.

EPITAPH,

EPITAPH, BY THE SAME.

OC tumulata jacet proles Lenæa fepulchro,
Immortale genus, nec peritura jacet ;

Quin oritura iterum, matris concreditur alvo;
Bis natum referunt te quoque, Bacche Pater.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY; A great Bottle of Wine, long buried, being that Day dug up. 1722-3.

RESOLV'D my annual verfe to pay,

By duty bound, on Stella's day,
Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely fat me down to think:

bit my nails, and scratch'd my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled:
Or, if with more than ufual pain,
A thought came flowly from my brain,
It coft me lord knows how much time
To fhape it into fenfe and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curfe,
Long thinking made my fancy worse.
Forfaken by th' inspiring Nine,

I waited at Apollo's shrine :

I told him what the world would say,
If Stella were unfung to-day ;

How

4

How I fhould hide my head for fhame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer,
How Sheridan the rogue would ineer,
And fwear it does not always follow,
That femel 'n anno ridet Apollo.
I have affur'd them twenty times,
That Phoebus help'd me in my rhymes;
Phoebus infpir'd me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me fo dull and dry fince,
They'll call it all poetic licence;
And, when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eufden's right as good as mine.
Nor do I afk for Stella's fake;
'Tis my own credit lies at ftake:
And Stella will be fung, while I
Can only be a stander-by.

Apollo, having thought a little,
Return'd this anfwer to a tittle.

Though you should live like old Methufalem,
I furnish hints, and you fhall ufe all 'em,
You yearly fing as she grows old,

You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But, to fay truth, fuch dulness reigns,
Through the whole fet of Irish deans,
I'm daily ftunn'd with fuch a medley,
Dean W, Dean D-, and Dean Smedley,

That, let what Dean foever come,

My orders are, I'm not at home;

And,

And, if your voice had not been loud,
You must have pafs'd among the croud.
But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent;
For fhe, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the god of earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her defcribe a circle round
In Saunders' cellar on the ground:
A fpade let prudent Archy hold,
And with difcretion dig the mould
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecca, Ford, and Grattans by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated towards the skies!
The god of winds and god of fire
Did to its wondrous birth confpire;
And Bacchus for the poet's ufe
Pour'd in a strong infpiring juice.
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a fpacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A fovereign medicine for the brains.

You'll find it foon, if fate consents;
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents,
Ten thousand Archys armd with fpades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's fhades.

From thence a plenteous draught infufe,
And boldly then invoke the Muse

(But first let Robert, on his knees,
With caution drain it from the lees):
The Muse will at your call appear,
With Stella's praise to crown the year.

A SATIRICAL ELEGY
ON THE DEATH OF

A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL.

IS Grace! impoffible! what dead!

HIS

Of old age too, and in his bed!

And could that mighty warrior fall,
And fo inglorious, after all!.

Well, fince he's gone, no matter how,

The last loud trump must wake him now:
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He'd wish to fleep a little longer.

And could he be indeed fo old
As by the news-papers we 're told?
Threefcore, I think, is pretty high;
'Twas time in confcience he should die!
This world he cumber'd long enough;
He burnt his candle to the fnuff;

And that's the reafon, fome folks think,
He left behind fo great a f→k.

Behold his funeral appears,

Nor widow's fighs, nor orphan's tears,
Wont at fuch times each heart to pierce,

Attend the progress of his hearse.

VOL. I.

S

But