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Give me the like unusual joys to prove,
And though irregular, indulge my love.
Delighted Venus heard the moving prayer,
And soon resolv'd to ease the lover's care,
To set Miss Tabby off with every grace,
To dress, and fit her for the youth's embrace.
Now she by gradual change her form forsook,
First her round face an oval figure took;
The roguish dimples next his heart beguile,
And each grave whisker soften'd to a smile;
Unusual ogles wanton'd in her eye,
Her solemn purring dwindled to a sigh:
Sudden, a huge hoop-petticoat display'd,
A wide circumference! intrench'd the maid,
And for the tail in waving circles play'd.
Her fur, as destin'd still her charms to deck,
Made for her hands a muff, a tippet for her neck.
In the fine lady now her shape was lost,
And by such strange degrees she grew a toast;
Was all for ombre now; and who but she,
To talk of modes and scandal o'er her tea;
To settle every fashion of the sex,
And run through all the female politics;
To spend her time at toilet and basset,
To play, to flaunt, to flutter, and coquet:
From a grave thinking mouser, she was grown
The gayest flirt that coach'd it round the town.

But see how often some intruding woe,
Nips all our blooming prospects at a blow!
For as the youth his lovely consort led
To the dear pleasures of the nuptial bed,
Just on that instant from an inner house,
Into the chamber popt a heedless mouse.
Miss Tabby saw, and brooking no delay,
Sprung from the sheets, and seiz'd the trembling
Nor did the bride, in that ill fated hour, [prey,
Reflect that all her mousing-days were o'er.
The youth, astonish'd, felt a new despair,
Ixion-like he grasp'd, and grasp'd but air;
He saw his vows and prayers in vain bestow'd,
And lost the jilting goddess in a cloud.

TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER'S ILIAD.

"Tis true, what fam'd Pythagoras maintain'd,
Inat souls departed in new bodies reign'd:
We most approve the doctrine since we see
The soul of god-like Homer breathe in thee.
Old Ennius first, then Virgil felt her fires;
But now a British poet she inspires.

To you, O Pope, the lineal right extends,
To you th' hereditary Muse descends.
At a vast distance we of Homer heard,
Till you brought in, and naturaliz'd the bard;
Bade him our English rights and freedom claim,
His voice, his habit, and his air the same.
Now in the mighty stranger we rejoice,
And Britain thanks thee with a public voice.
See! too the poet, a majestic shade,
Lifts up in awful pomp his laurel'd head,
To thank his successor, who sets him free
From the vile hands of Hobbes and Ogilby;
Who vext his venerable ashes more,

Than his ungrateful Greece, the living bard before. While Homer's thoughts in thy bold lines are shown,

Thongh worlds contend, we claim him for our own;

Our blooming boys prond flion's fate bewail;
Our lisping babes repeat the dreadful tale,
Ev'n in their slumbers they pursue the theme,
Start, and enjoy a sight in every dream.
By turns the chief and bard their souls inflame,
And every little bosom beats for fame.
Thus shall they learn (as future times will see)
From him to conquer, or to write from thee.

In every hand we see the glorious song,
And Homer is the theme of every tongue.
Parties in state poetic schemes employ,
And Whig and Tory side with Greece and Troy;
Neglect their feuds; and seem more zealous grown
To push those countries' interests than their own.
Our busiest politicians have forgot [fought;
How Somers counsel'd, and how Marlborough
But o'er their settling coffee gravely tell,
What Nestor spoke, and how brave Hector fell.
Our softest beaux and coxcombs you inspire,
With Glaucus' courage, and Achilles' fire.
Now they resent affronts which once they bore,
And draw those swords that ne'er were drawn before:
Nay, ev'n our belles, inform'd how Homer writ,
Learn thence to criticise on modern wit.

Let the mad critics to their side engage The envy, pride, and dulness of the age: In vain they curse, in vain they pine and mourn, Back on themselves their arrows will retnrn; Whoe'er would thy establish'd fame deface, Are but immortaliz'd to their disgrace. Live, and enjoy their spite, and share that fate, Which would, if Homer liv'd, on Homer wait.

And lo! his second labour claims thy care, Ulysses' toils succeed Achilles' war. Haste to the work; the ladies long to see The pious frauds of chaste Penelope. Helen they long have seen, whose guilty charms For ten whole years engag'd the world in arms. Then, as thy fame shall see a length of days, Some future bard shall thus record thy praise:

In those blest times when smiling Heaven and Had rais'd Britannia to her happiest state, [Fate When wide around, she saw the world submit, And own her sons supreme in arts and wit; Then Pope and Dryden brought in triumph home The pride of Greece, and ornament of Rome; To the great task each bold translator came, With Virgil's judgment, and with Homer's flame; Here the pleas'd Mantuan swan was taught to soar, Where scarce the Roman eagles tower'd before: And Greece no more was Homer's native earth, Though her seven rival cities claim'd his birth; On her seven cities he look'd down with scorn, And own'd with pride he was in Britain born."

SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE

ODYSSEY1.

THE nurse all wild with transport seem'd to swim ; Joy wing'd her feet, and lighten'd ev'ry limb; Then, to the room with speed impatient borne, Flew with glad tidings of her lord's return.

'Dr. Ridley was one of Mr. Spence's executors. Mr. Steevens assisted him in looking over the papers of the deceased; and transcribed this letter, &c. from the original. N.

There bending o'er the sleeping queen, she cries,)
"Rise my Penelope, my daughter, rise
To see Ulysses thy long absent spouse,
Thy soul's desire and lord of all thy vows:
Though late, he comes, and in his rage has slain,
For all their wrongs, the haughty suitor train.”

"Ah! Euryclea," she replies, "you rave;\
The gods resume that reason which they gave;
For Heaven deep wisdom to the fool supplies,
But oft infatuates and confounds the wise.
And wisdom once was thine! but now I find
The gods have ruin'd thy distemper'd mind.
How could you hope your fiction to impose?
Was it to flatter or deride my woes?

How could you break a sleep with talk so vain,
That held my sorrows in so soft a chain?
A sleep so sweet I never could enjoy
Since my dear lord left Ithaca for Troy :
Curst Troy-oh! why did I thy name disclose?
Thy fatal name awakens all my woes:
But fly-some other had provok'd my rage1,
And you but ove your pardon to your age.",

"No artful tales, no studied lies, I frame,
Ulysses lives" (rejoins the reverend dame)
"In that dishonour'd stranger's close disguise,
Long has he pass'd all unsuspecting eyes,
-All but thy son's-and long has he supprest
The well-concerted secret in his breast;
Till his brave father should his foes defeat,
And the close scheme of his revenge compleat."
Swift as the word the queen transported sprung,
And round the dame in strict embraces hung;
Then, as the big round tears began to roll,
Spoke the quick doubts and hurry of her soul.
"If my victorious hero safe arrives,

If my dear lord, Ulysses, still survives,
Tell me, oh tell me, how he fought alone?
How were such multitudes destroy'd by one?"
"Nought I beheld, but heard their cries," she
said,

| When Brunswick, pious, brave, and wise,

"When Death flew raging, and the suitors bled:
Immur'd we listen'd, as we sat around,
To each deep groan and agonizing sound.
Call'd by thy son to view the scene I fled,"
And saw Ulysses striding o'er the dead!
Amidst the rising heaps the hero stood
All grim, and terribly adorn'd with blood.
"This is enough in conscience for this time:
besides, I am desired, by Mr. Pope or Mr. Lintot,
I don't know which, to write to Mr. Pope on a
certain affair.”

ON

HIS MAJESTY'S PLAYING WITH Å TYGER

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS.

Prima dicte mihi, summa dicende Camoena, Hor.

AMIDST the den, the lions' prey,
Seal'd up for death the prophet lay;
But couch'd the hungry monsters sit,
And fawning lick his sacred feet;
Swift shot an angel from above,
And chang'd their fury into love.

As swift did Britain's genius fly,

And for her charge stand trembling by ;

2 The words in Italic are copied by Mr. Pope. N.

Like him the favourite of the skies,
Play'd with the monster's dreadful teeth,
And sported with the fangs of Death.

Genius of Britain, spare thy fears,
For know, within, our sovereign wears
The surest guard; the best defence;
A firm untainted innocence.

So sweet an innocence disarms
The fiercest rage with powerful charms,
So far rebellion it beguiles,

That Faction bends; that Envy smiles;
That furious savages submit,
And pay due homage at his feet.

Britain! by this example prove
Thy duty, loyalty, and love.
See! the fierce brutes thy king caress,
And court him with a mute address;
Well mayst thou own his gentle sway,
If tigers bend, and savages obey.

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SIR,-I've long waited in my turn to have

A word with you-but I'm your humble slave.
P. What knave is that? my rascal!
S. Sir, 'tis I,
No knave nor rascal, but your trusty Guy.

P. Well, as your wages still are due, I'll bear
Your rude impertinence this time of year. [ever,
S. Some folks are drunk one day, and some for
And some, like Wharton, but twelve years together.
Old Evremond, renown'd for wit and dirt,
Would change his living oftener than his shirt;
Roar with the rakes of state a month; and come
To starve another in his hole at home.
Now some innholder's, now a monarch's guest;
So rov'd wild Buckingham the public jest,
His life and politics of every shape,
This hour a Roman, and the next an ape.
The gout in every limb from every vice,
Poor Clodio hir'd a boy to throw the dice.
Some wench for ever, and their sins on those,
By custom, sit as easy as their clothes.
Some fly, like pendulums, from good to evil,
And in that point are madder than the Devil :
For they

P. To what will these wild maxims tend?
And where, sweet sir, will your reflections end?
S. In you.

P. In me, you knave? make out your charge.
S. You praise low living, but you live at large.
Perhaps you scarce believe the rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practice what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle journey down,
But, without business, you're again in town.
If none invite you, sir, abroad to roam,
Then-Lord, what pleasure 'tis to read at home:
And sip your two half-pints, with great delight,
Of beer at noon, and muddled port at night.

392

From Encome1, John comes thundering at the door,
With "Sir, my master begs you to come o'er,
To pass these tedious hours, these winter nights,
Not that he dreads invasions, rogues, or sprites."
Straight for your two best wigs aloud you call,
This stiff in buckle, that not curl'd at all,
"And where, you rascal, are the spurs," you cry;
"And O! what blockhead laid the buskins by?"
On your old batter'd mare you'll needs be gone,
(No matter whether on four legs or none) [heath;
Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the
All swear at Morden 'tis on life or death;
Wildly through Wareham streets you scamper on,
Raise all the dogs and voters in the town;
Then fly for six long dirty miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston gentry think you mad.
And all this furious riding is to prove
Your high respect, it seems, and eager love:
And yet, that mighty honour to obtain,
Banks, Shaftesbury, Doddington, may send in vain.
Before you go, we curse the noise you make,
And bless the moment that you turn your back:
As for myself, I own it to your face,

I love good eating, and I take my glass:
But sure 'tis strange, dear sir, that this should be
In you amusement, but a fault in me.
All this is bare refining on a name,

To make a difference where the fault's the same.
My father sold me to your service here,
For this fine livery, and four pounds a year.
A livery you should wear as well as I,

And this I'll prove-but lay your cudgel by.
You serve your passions-Thus, without a jest,
Both are but fellow-servants at the best.
Yourself, good sir, are play'd by your desires,
A mere tall puppet dancing on the wires.

P. Who, at this rate of talking, can be free?
S. The brave, wise, honest man, and only he:
All else are slaves alike, the world around,
Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground:
He, sir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf,
And (greater still) is master of himself:
Not-to-and-fro by fears and factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the interests of the world:

And while that world turns round, entire and whole,
He keeps the sacred tenour of his soul;
In every turn of fortune still the same,
As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame:
Collected in himself, with godlike pride,
He sees the darts of Envy glance aside;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempest blow,
Smiles at the idle storms that roar below.
One such you know, a layman, to your shame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name,
If you can such a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your slave again.

But when in Hemskirk's pictures you delight,
More than yourself, to see two drunkards fight;
"Fool, rogue, sot, blockhead," or such names are
mine:

Your's are, "a Connoiseur," or " Deep Divine."
I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,

The sacred prize of learning, worth, and wit:/
And yet some sell their lands these bits to buy;
Then, pray, who suffers most from luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I seal no bonds, I mortgage no estate.

'The seat of John Pitt, esq. in Dorsetshire.

Besides, high living, sir, must wear you out
With surfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout.
By some new pleasures are you still engross'd,"
And when you save an hour, you think it lost.
To sports, plays, races, from your books you run,
And like all company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, sleep, or (idler still) you rhyme
Why?-but to banish thought, and murder time:
And yet that thought, which you discharge in
vain,

Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.

P. Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a stone-
S. For what?

P. A sword, a pistol, or a gun:
I'll shoot the dog.

S. Lord! who would be a wit?
He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.

P. Fly, fly, you rascal, for your spade and fork;
For once I'll set your lazy bones to work:
Fly, or I'll send you back, without a groat,
To the bleak mountains where you first were caught.

ÒDE TO JOHN PITT, ES2.

ADVISING HIM TO BUILD A BANQUETTING-HOUSE ON
HILL TRAT OVERLOOKS THE SEA.

FROM this tall promontory's brow
You look majestic down,

And sec extended wide below

'Th' horizon all your own.

With growing piles the vales are crown'd,
Here hills peep over hills;
There the vast sky and sea profound
Th' increasing prospect fills;

O bid, my friend, a structure rise,
And this huge round command;
Then shall this little point comprise
The ocean and the land.

Then you, like Æolus,on high,
From your aerial tower,
Shall see secure the billows fly,

And hear the whirlwinds roar.

You, with a smile, their rage despise,
Till some sad wreck appears,

And calls, from your relenting eyes,
The sympathising tears.

Thus may you view, with proud,delight,
While winds the deep deform,
(Till human woes your grief excite)
All nature in a storm.

Majestic, awful scene! when, hurl'd
On surges, surges rise,
And all the heaving watery world

Tumultuous mounts the skies.

The seas and thunder roar by turns,
By turns the peals expire:
The billows flash, and ether burns
With momentary fire.

But lo! the furious tempests cease,

The mighty rage subsides;
Old Ocean hush'd, in solemn peace,
Has still'd the murmuring tides.

Spread wide abroad, the glassy plain,
In various colours gay,
Reflects the glorious Sun again,

And doubly gilds the day.

Th' horizon glows from side to side,
And flames with glancing rays;
The floating, trembling, silver tide,
Is one continual blaze.

Your eyes the prospect now command,
All uncontrol'd and free,

Fly like a thought from land to land,
And dart from sea to sea.

Thus, while above the clouds we sit,

And innocently gay,
Pass in amusements, wine, or wit,
The sultry hours away;
Sometimes, with pity, or disdain,

In thought a glance we throw

Down on the poor, the proud, the vain,
In yonder world below.

We see, from this exalted seat,
(How shrunk, reduc'd, confin'd!)
The little person of the great,

As little as his mind.

See there amidst the crowds our view
Some scatter'd virtues strike;
But those so throng'd, and these so few,
The world looks all alike.

Yet, through this cloud of human-kind, The Talbots we survey,

The Pitts, the Yorkes, the Seckers find, Who shine in open day.

ODE TO JOHN PITT ESQ.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

O'ER curious models as you rove
The vales with piles to crown,
And great Palladio's plans improve
With nobler of your own;

O bid a structure o'er the floods

From this high mountain rise, Where we may sit enthron'd like gods, And revel in the skies.

Th' ascending breeze, at each repast,
Shall breathe an air divine,
Give a new brightness to the taste,
New spirit to the wine.

Or these low pleasuses we may quit
For banquets more refin'd,
The works of each immortal wit,
The luxury of the mind.

Plato, or Boyle's, or Newton's page,
Our towering thoughts shall raise,
Or Homer's fire, or Pindar's rage,
Or Virgil's lofty lays.

Or with amusive thoughts the sea
Shall entertain the mind,
While we the rolling scene survey,
An emblem of mankind.

Where, like sworn foes, successive all,
The furious surges run,
To urge their predecessor's fall,
Though follow'd by their own.

Where, like our moderns so profound,
Engag'd in dark dispute,

The scattles cast their ink around
To puzzle the dispute.

Where sharks, like shrewd directors, thrive,
Like lawyers, rob at will;

Where flying-fish, like trimmers live;
Like soldiers, sword-fish kill.

Where on the less the greater feed,

The tyrants of an hour,

Till the huge royal whale succeed,
And all at once devour.

Thus in the mortal world we now

Too truly understand,

Each monster of the sea below
Is match'd by one at land.

ON MRS. WALKER'S POEMS.

PARTICULARLY THAT ON THE AUTHOR.

BLUSH, Wilmot, blush; a female Muse, Without one guilty line,

The tender theme of love pursues

In softer strains than thine.

"Tis thine the passion to blaspheme,
"Tis hers with wit and ease
(When a mere nothing is the theme)
Beyond thyself to please.

Then be to her the prize decreed,
Whose merit has prevail'd;
For what male poet can succeed,
If Rochester has fail'd?

Since Phoebus quite forgetful grows,
And has not yet thought fit,
In his high wisdom, to impose
A salique law on wit;

Since of your rights he takes no care,
Ye Priors, Popes, and Gays;

"Tis hard! -but let the women wear
The breeches and the bays.

VERSES ON A FLOWERED CARPET.

WORKED BY THE YOUNG LADIES AT KINGSTON.

WHEN Pallas saw the piece her pupils wrought,
She stood long wondering at the lovely draught:
"And, Flora, now" (she cried) "no more display
Thy flowers, the trifling beauties of a day :
For see! how these with life immortal bloom,
And spread and flourish for an age to come!
In what unguarded hour did I impart
To these fair virgins all my darling art?
In all my wit I saw these rivals shine,
But this one art I thought was always mine:
Yet lo! I yield; their mistress now no more,
But proud to learn from these I taught before.

For look, what vegetable sense is here!
How warm with life these blushing leaves appear!
What temper'd splendours o'er the piece are laid!
Shade steals on light, and light dies into shade.
Through heaven's gay bow less various beauties run,
And far less bright, though painted by the Sun.
See in each blooming flower what spirit glows!
What vivid colours flush the opening rose:
In some few hours thy lily disappears;
But this shall flourish through a length of years,
See unfelt winters pass successive by,
And scorn a mean dependence on the sky.
And oh! may Britain, by my counsels sway'd,
But live and flourish, till these flowers shall fade!
Then go, fond Flora, go, the palm resign
To works more fair and durable than thine;
For I, even I, in justice yield the crown
To works so far superior to my own."

VERRSES ON A FLOWERED CARPET.

Os this fair ground, with ravish'd eyes,
We see a second Eden rise,

As gay and glorious as the first,
Before th' offending world was curst.
While these bright nymphs the needle guide,
To paint the rose in all her pride,
Nature, like her, may blush to own
Herself so far by Art out-done.

These flowers she rais'd with all her care,
So blooming, so divinely fair!
The glorious children of the Sun,
That David's regal heir out-shone,
Were scarce like one of these array'd;
They died, but these shall never fade,

ON THE ART OF PREACHING.

A FRAGMENT.

IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S ART OF POETRY.
-Pendent opera interrupta.-

SHOULD
some fam'd hand, in this fantastic age,
Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the stage,
With all his postures in one motley plan,
The god, the hound, the monkey, and the man,
Here o'er his head high brandishing a leg,
And there just hatch'd, and breaking from his egg;
While monster crowds on monster through the piece,
Who could help laughing at a sight like this?
Or, as a drunkard's dream together brings
"A court of coblers, or a mob of kings1;"
Such is a sermon, where, confus'dly dark,
Join Sharp, South, Sherlock, Barrow, Wake, and
So eggs of different parishes will run

[Clarke;

To batter, when you beat six yolks to one;
So six bright chymic liquors when you mix,
In one dark shadow vanish all the six.

1

Dryden.

2 Another copy reads,

Full licence priests and painters ever had
To run bold lengths, but never to run mad;
For these can't reconcile God's grace to sin,
Nor those paint tigers in an ass's skin.
No common dauber in one piece would join
The fox and goose-unless upon a sign.
Some steal a page of sense from Tillotson,
And then conclude divinely with their own.
Like oil on water, mounts the prelate up;
His grace is always sure to be at top:
That vein of mercury its beams will spread,
And shine more strongly through a mine of lead.
With such low arts your audience never bilk;
For who can bear a fustian lin'd with silk?
Sooner than preach such stuff, I'd walk the town,
Without my scarf, in Whiston's draggled gown;
Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's to read
For pence, and bury for a groat a head.

Some easy subject chuse, within your power,
Or you can never hold out half an hour.
One rule observe: this Sunday split your text;
Preach one part now, and t'other half the next.
Speak, look, and move, with dignity and ease,
Like mitred Secker, you'll be sure to please.
But if you whine like boys at country schools,
Can you be said to study Cambray's rules?
Begin with care, nor, like that curate vile,
Set ont in this high prancing stumbling style,
"Whoever with a piercing eye can see
"Through the past records of futurity—”
All gape-no meaning-the puff'd orator
Talks much, and says just nothing for an hour
Truth and the text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away:
So frugal dames insipid water pour,
Till green, bohea, and coffee, are no more.
His arguments in silly circles run

Still round and round, and end where they begun:
So the poor turn-spit, as the wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he loses ground.
Surpris'd with solitary self-applause,

He sees the motley mingled scene he draws:
Dutch painters thus at their own figures start,
Drawn with their utmost uncreating art.
Thus when old Bruin teems, her children fail
Of limbs, form, figure, features, head, or tail;
Nay, though she licks her cubs, her tender

cares

At best can bring the Bruins but to bears.
Still to your hearers all your sermons sort;
Who'd preach against corruption at the court?
Against church-power at Visitations bawl,
Or talk about damnation at Whitehall?
Harangue the Horse-guards on a Cure of souls,
Condemn the quirks of Chancery at the Rolls,
Or rail at hoods and organs at St. Paul's!
Or be, like David Jones, so indiscreet,
To rave at usurers in Lombard-street.
Ye country-vicars, when you preach, in town,
A turn at Paul's to pay your journey down,
If you would shun the sneer of every prig,
Lay-by the little band and rusty wig ;
But yet be sure your proper language know,
Nor talk as born within the sound of Bow;
Speak not the phrase that Drury-lane-affords,
Nor from 'Change-alley steal a cant of words:
Coachmen will criticise your style; nay, further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful murther:

"Join Hoadly, Sharp, South, Sherlock, Wake, and The dregs of the canaille will look askew,

Clarke."

To hear the language of the town from you:

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