Gens assueta mari, & pedibus percurrere rupes,
Terretur tamen, & longè fugit, arva relinquens.
Gramina dum carpunt pendentes rupe capellæ,
Vi falientis aquæ de fummo præcipitantur,
Et dulces animas imo fub gurgite linquunt.
Pifcator terrâ non audet vellere funem;
Sed latet in portu tremebundus, & aëra fudum
Haud sperans, Nereum precibus votisque fatigat.
TRANSLATED BY DR. DUNKIN..
O! from the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds Its airy head amidst the azure clouds, Hangs a huge fragment; deftitute of props, Prone on the waves the rocky ruin drops; With hoarfe rebuff the swelling feas rebound, From shore to shore the rocks return the found: The dreadful murmur heaven's high convex cleaves,. And Neptune shrinks beneath his fubject waves: For long the whirling winds and beating tides Had scoop'd a vault into its nether fides. Now yields the base, the summits nod, now urge Their headlong course, and lash the founding furge. Not louder noife could shake the guilty world, When Jove heap'd mountains upon mountains hurl'd;; Retorting Pelion from his dread abode,
To crush Earth's rebel-fons beneath the load.
Oft' too with hideous yawn the cavern wide
Presents an orifice on either fide,
A difinal orifice, from fea to fea
Extended, pervious to the God of Day:
Uncouthly join'd, the rocks stupendous form
An arch, the ruin of a future storm:
High on the cliff their nests the Woodquests make,
And Sea-calves stable in the oozy lake.
But when bleak Winter with his fullen train
Awakes the winds to vex the watery plain;
When o'er the craggy steep without control,
Big with the blast, the raging billows roll;
Not towns beleaguer'd, not the flaming brand,..
Darted from Heaven by Jove's avenging hand,
Oft' as on impious men his wrath he pours,
Humbles their pride, and blafts their gilded towers,
Equal the tumult of this wild uproar:
Waves rush o'er waves, rebellows fhore to shore.
The neighbouring race, though wont to brave the shocks
Of angry feas, and run along the rocks,
Now pale with terror, while the ocean foams,
Fly far and wide, nor truft their native homes.
The goats, while pendent from the mountain-top
The wither'd herb improvident they crop,
Wash'd down the precipice with fudden sweep,
Leave their sweet lives beneath th' unfathom'd deep.
The frighted fisher, with desponding eyes,
Though fafe, yet trembling in the harbour lies,
Nor hoping to behold the skies serene,
Wearies with vows the monarch of the main.
UPON THE HORRID PLOT DISCOVERED BY HARLEQUIN, The Bishop of ROCHESTER'S French Dog *. In a Dialogue between a WHIG and a TORY. 1723
I ASK'D a Whig the other night,
How came this wicked plot to light?
He answer'd, that a dog of late:
Inform'd a minifter of state.
Said I, from thence I nothing know;
For are not all informers fo?
A villain who his friend betrays,
We style him by no other phrafe ;
And fo a perjur'd dog denotes
Porter, and Prendergast, and Oates,
And forty others I could name.
WHIG. But, you must know, this dog was lame.
TORY. A weighty argument indeed!
Your evidence was lame: - proceed :
Come, help your lame dog o'er the style.
WHIG. Sir, you mistake me all this, while :
I mean a dog (without a joke)
Can howl, and bark, but never fpoke.
TORY. I'm still to seek, which dog you mean
Whether cur Plunkeit, or whelp Skean,
An English or an Irish hound;
Or t' other puppy, that was drown'd;
*See the "State Trials," Vol. VI.
Or Mafon, that abandon'd bitch :
Then pray be free, and tell me which :
For every stander by was marking
That all the note they made was barking...
You pay them well; the dogs have got
Their dogs-heads in a porridge pot:
And 'twas but juft; for wife men say,
That every dog must have bis day.
Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on 't,.
He'd either make a boy or dog on 't;
And look'd, fince he has got his wifh,
As if he had thrown down a difb.
Yet this I dare foretel you from it,
He 'll foon return to his own vomit..
WHIG. Besides, this horrid plot was found
By Neynoe, after he was drown'd......
TORY. Why then the proverb is not right,
Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.
WHIG. I prov'd my propofition full:
But jacobites are ftrangely dull.
Now let me tell you plainly, Sir,
Our witness is a real cur,
A dog of spirit for his years,
Has twice two legs, two hanging ears;
His name is Harlequin, I wot,
And that's a name in every plot :
Refolv'd to fave the British nation,..
Though French by birth and education;
His correspondence plainly dated
Was all decypher'd and translated:
His answers were exceeding pretty
Before the fecret wife committee:
Confeft as plain as he could bark:
Then with his fore-foot fet his mark.
TORY. Then all this while have I been bubbled,
I thought it was a dog in doublet :
The matter now no longer sticks;
For statefmen never want dog-tricks.
But fince it was a real cur,
And not a dog in metaphor,
I give you joy of the report,
That he 's to have a place at court.
WHIG. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in;
A turn-spit in the royal-kitchen.
Sir, to be plain, I tell you what,
We had occafion for a plot :
And, when we found the dog begin it,
We guess'd the bishop's foot was in it.
TORY. I own, it was a dangerous project,
And you have prov'd it by dog-logick.
Sure fuch intelligence between
A dog and bishop ne'er was feen,
Till you began to change the breed;
Your bishops all are dogs indeed!
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