POEMS

MISS

то

OF HORSEMANDEN, IN KENT.

W

HEN Wit and Science trimm'd their wither'd bays,

At Petrarch's voice, and beam'd with half their rays.

Some heav'n-born genius, panting to explore
The scenes oblivion wifh'd to live no more,
Found Abelard in grief's fad pomp array'd,
And call'd the melting mourner from the shade,
Touch'd by his woes, and kindling at his rage,
Admiring nations glow'd from age to age;
From age to age the foft infection ran,
Taught to lament the hermit in the man ;
Pride dropt her creft, Ambition learn'd to figh,
And dove-like pity ftream'd in every eye.

Sick of the world's applaufe, yet fond to warm
Each maid that knows with Eloife to charm,
He afks of verfe to aid his native fire,
Refines, and wildly lives along the lyre;
Bids all his various paffions throb anew,
And hopes, my fair, to fteal a tear from you.
O bleft with temper, bleft with skill to pour
Life's ev'ry comfort on each focial hour;
Chafte as thy blushes, gentle as thy mien,
Too grave for folly, and too gay for spleen ;
Indulg'd to win, to foften, to infpire,
To melt with mufic, and with wit to fire;
To blend, as judgment tells thee how to please,
Wisdom with smiles, and majefty with ease;
Alike to virtue as the Graces known,
And proud to love all merit but thy own!
Thefe are thy honours, thefe will charms fupply,
When those dear funs fhall fet in either eye;
While She, who, fond of drefs, of paint, and place,
Aims but to be a goddess in the face;
Born all thy fex illumines to despise,
Too mad for thought, too pretty to be wife,
Haunts for a year fantastically vain,
With half our Fribbles dying in her train ;
Then finks, as beauty fades and paffion cools,
The fcorn of coxcombs, and the jeft of fools.

Abelard and Eloifa flourished in the twelfth century: they were two of the most diftinguished perfons of their age in learning and beauty, but for nothing more famous than for their unfortunate paffion. After a long courfe of calamities, they retired each to a fe veral convent, and confecrated the remainder of their days to religion. It was many years after this feparation that a letter of Abelard's to a friend, which contained the hiftory of his misfortunes, fell into the hands of Eloifa: this occafioned thofe celebrated letters (out of which the following is partly extracted) which give fo lively a picture of the struggles of Grace and Nature, Virtue and Paffion.

A

MR. POPE.

H! why this boding start? this sudden pain,
That wings my pulfe, and shoots from vein
to vein !

What mean, regardless of yon midnight bell,
These earthborn vifions faddening o'er my cell!
What strange disorder prompts these thoughts to
glow,

These fighs to murmur, and these tears to flow?
'Tis fhe, 'tis Eloifa's form reftor'd,

Once a pure faint, and more than faints ador'd:
She comes in all her killing charms confefs'd,
Glares thro' the gloom, and pours upon my breast,
Bids heaven's bright guard from Paraclete remove,
And drags me back to misery and love..

Enjoy thy triumphs, dear illufion! fee
This fad apoftate from his God to thee;
See at thy call, my guilty warmths return,
Flame thro' my blood, and steal me from my urn.
Yet, yet, frail Abelard! one effort try,
Ere the last lingering spark of virtue die;
The deadly charming forceress controul,
And, fpite of nature, tear her from thy foul.
Long has that soul, in these unsocial woods,
Where anguish mufes, and where forrow broods,
From love's wild visionary wishes stray'd,
And fought to lose thy beauties in the shade.
Faith dropp'd a smile, devotion lent her fire,
Woke the keen pang, and sanctified defire;
Led me enraptur'd to the bleft abode,
And taught my heart to glow with all its God.

prove

But, O! how weak fair faith and virtue
When Eloifa melts away in love!
When her fond foul, impaffion'd, rapt, unveil'd,
No joy forgotten, and no wish conceal'd,
Flows thro' her pen as infant-softness free,
And fiercely fprings in ecftacies to me!
Ye heav'ns! as walking in yon facred fane,
With every feraph warm in every vein,
Juft as remorfe had rous'd an aching figh,
And my torn foul hung trembling in my eye,
In that kind hour thy fatal letter came,
I faw, I gaz'd, I fhiver'd at the name;
The conscious lamps at once forgot to shine,
Prophetic tremors fhook the hallow'd fhrine;
Priests, cenfers, altars from thy genius fled,
And heav'n itfelf fhut on me while I read.

Dear fmiling mifchief; art thou still the fame,
The ftill pale victim of too soft a flame?
Warm as when first, with more than mortal shine,
Each melting eye-ball mix'd thy foul with mine?
Have not thy tears, for ever taught to flow,
The glooms of abfence, and the pangs of woe,
The pomp of facrifice, the whisper'd tale,
The dreadful vow yet lov'ring o'er thy veil,
Drove this bewitching fondness from thy breast,
Curb'd the loose with, and form'd each pulfe to
reft?

And canst thou still, still bend the suppliant knee
To love's dread shrine, and weep and figh for me?
Then take me, take me, lock me in thy arms,
Spring to my lips, and give me all thy charms.
No-fly me, fly me, fpread th' impatient fail,
Steal the lark's wing, and mount the swifteft gale;
Skim the vast ocean, freeze beneath the pole,
Renounce me, curfe me, root me from thy foul;
Fly, fly, for juftice bears the arm of God,
And the grafp'd vengeance only waits his nod.

Are these thy wishes? can they thus aspire ?
Does phrenzy form them, or does grace inspire?
Can Abelard, in hurricanes of zeal,
Betray his heart, and teach thee not to feel?
Teach thy enamour'd spirit to difown

Each human warmth, and chill thee into ftone?
Ah! rather let my tenderest accents move
The laft wild accents of unholy love;
On that dear bofom trembling let me lie,
Pour out my foul, and in fierce raptures die,
Roufe all my paffions, act my joys new.
Farewell, ye cells! ye martyr'd faints! adieu!

Return, ye scenes!-Ah, no, from fancy fly,
On time's stretch'd wing, till each idea die,
Eternal-fly; fince all that learning gave,
Too weak to conquer, and too fond to fave,
To love's foft empire every wish betray'd,
And left my laurels with'ring in the shade.
Let me forget that, while deceitful fame
Grafp'd her fhrill trump, and fill'd it with my name,
Thy ftronger charms, impower'd by heav'n to move
Each faint, each bleft insensible to love,

At once my foul from bright ambition won,
I hugg'd the dart, I wish'd to be undone :
No more pale science durft my thoughts engage,
Infipid dulnefs hung on every page i

The midnight-lamp no more enjoy'd its blaze,
No more my spirit flew from maze to maze :
Thy glances bade philofophy refign

Her throne to thee, and every fense was thine.
But what could all the frofts of wisdom do,
Oppos'd to beauty, when it melts in you?
Since thefe dark, cheerlefs, folitary caves,
Death-breathing woods, and daily-opening graves,
Misshapen rocks, wild images of woe,
For ever howling to the deeps below;
Ungenial deferts, where no vernal show'r
Wakes the green herb, or paints th' unfolding
flow'r ;

Th' embrowning glooms thefe holy manfions fhed,
The night-born horrors brooding o'er my bed,
The difmal scenes black melancholy pours
O'er the fad vifions of enanguifh'd hours;
Lean abstinence, wan grief, low-thoughted care,
Distracting guilt, and, hell's worst fiend, despair,
Confpire in vain, with all the aids of art,
To blot thy dear idea from my heart.

Delufive, fightless God of warm defire!
Why would't thou wish to fet a wretch on fire?
Why lives thy foft divinity where woe
Heaves the pale figh, and anguish loves to glow!
Fly to the mead, the daify-painted vale,
Breathe in its fweets, and melt along the gale;
Fly where gay fcenes luxurious youths employ,
Where ev'ry moment steals the wing of joy :
There may'st thou fee, low proftrate at thy throne,
Devoted flaves, and victims all thy own;
Each village-fwain the turf-built fhrine shall raise,
And kings command whole hecatombs to blaze.
O memory! ingenious to revive

Each fleeting hour, and teach the past to live,

What griefs I fuffer'd; and what pangs I bore!
How long I struggled, labour'd, ftrove to fave
An heart that panted to be still a slave!
When youth, warmth, rapture, fpirit, love and flame,
Seiz'd every fenfe, and burnt thro' all my frame;
From youth, warmth, rapture, to these wilds I fied,
My food the herbage, and the rock my bed.
There, while thefe venerable cloifters rife
O'er the bleak furge, and gain upon the skies,
My wounded foul indulg'd the tear to flow
O'er all her fad viciffitudes of woe;
Profufe of life, and yet afraid to die,
Guilt in my heart, and horror in my eye,
With ceafelefs pray'rs, the whole artill'ry giv’a'
To win the mercies of offended heav'n,
Each hill, made vocal, echoed all around,
While my torn breast knock'd bleeding on the

ground.

Spite of the joys that truth and virtue prove,
I feel but thee, and breathe not but to love;
Repent in vain, fcarce with to be forgiv?n,
Thy form my idol, and thy charms my heav'n.
Yet, yet, my fair! thy nobler efforts try,
Lift me from earth and give me to the sky;
Let
my loft foul thy brighter virtues feel,

Alas! my HUGHES! and muft this mourning verfe

Refign thy triumph to attend thy hearse!
Was it for this that friendship's genial flame
Woke all my wishes from the trance of fame?
Was it for this I left the hallow'd page,
Where ev'ry science beams of ev'ry age;

zeal.

And when, low-bending at the hallow'd shrine,
Thy contrite heart shall Abelard refign;
When pitying heav'n, impatient to forgive,
Unbars the gates of light and bids thee live;
Seize on th' aufpicious moment ere it flee,
And ask the fame immortal boon for me.

That when these black terrific fcenes are o'er,
And rebel nature chills the foul no more ;
When on thy cheek th' expiring roses fade,
And thy laft luftres darken in the shade;
When arm'd with quick varieties of pain,
Or creeping dully flow from vein to vein,
Pale death fhall set my kindred-spirit free.
And these dead orbs forget to doat on thee;
Some pious friend, whose wild affections glow
Like ours in fad fimilitude of woe,
Shall drop one tender, fympathizing tear,
Prepare the garland, and adorn the bier;
Our lifeless reliques in one tomb enshrine,
And teach thy genial duft to mix with mine.
Meanwhile, divinely purg'd from every stain,
Our active fouls fhall climb th' ethereal plain,
To each bright cherub's purity aspire,

Catch all his zeal, and pant with all his fire;
There, where no face the glooms of anguish wears,
No uncle murders, and no paffion tears,
Enjoy with heav'n eternity of rest,
For ever bleffing, and for ever blest.

AN

EL EGY

TO THE

From Rome's firft Cæfar to the great Eugene;
Explor'd th' embattled van, the deep'ning line,
Th' enambush'd phalanx, and the springing mine;
Then, pale with horror, bent the fuppliant knee,
And heav'd the figh, and dropp'd the tear for thee!
What boots it now, that when, with hideous roar,
The gath'ring tempest howl'd from ev'ry shore
Some pitying angel, vigilant to save,

Spread all his plumes, and fnatch'd thee from the wave?

Preferv'd thee facred from the fell disease,

When the blue plague had fir'd th' autumnal breeze? Ah! when my hero panted to engage

Where all the battle burst in all its rage;

Where dreadful flew the miffive deaths around,

And the mad faulchion blufh'd from wound to wound;

Was he deny'd the privilege to bleed,
Sav'd on the main to fall upon the Tweed?

Ye graces! tell with what address he stole
The lift'ning ear, and open'd all the foul.
What tho' rough winter bade his whirlwinds rife,
Hid his pale funs, and frown'd along his skies,
Pour'd the big deluge on the face of day,
My HUGHES was here to smile the glooms away
With all the luxuries of found to move
The pulfe of glory, or the figh of love;
And, fpite of winter, laffitude, or pain,
Taught life and joy to throb in ev'ry vein.
Fancy dear artist of the mental pow'r !
Fly,-fetch my genius to the focial hour;
Give me again his glowing fenfe to warm,
His fong to warble, and his wit to charm.
Alas! alas! how impotently true

Th' aerial pencil forms the scene anew!

E'en now, when all the vifion beams around,
And my ear kindles with th' ideal found-
Juft as the fmiles, the graces live impreft,
And all his image takes up all my breast-

A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.

VA

AIN were the task to give the foul to glow, The nerve to kindle, and the verse to flow; When the fond mourner, hid from ev'ry eye, Bleeds in the anguish of too keen figh; And, loft to glory, loft to all his fire, Forgets the port before he grafps the lyre.

Nature! 'tis thine with manly warmth to mourn Expiring virtue, and the clofing urn;

To teach, dear Seraph! o'er the good and wife
The dirge to murmur, and the buft to rife.
Come then, O guiltlefs of the tear of art!
Sprung from the fky, and thron'd within the heart!
O cone, in all the pomp of grief array'd,
And weep the warrior, whilft I grace the fhade.
'Tis o'er the bright delufive scene is o'er,
And war's proud vifions mock the foul no more;
The laurel fades, th' imperial car retires,
All youth ennobles, and all worth admires.

And the short rapture melts into a tear.

Thus in the lake's clear cryftal we descry The bright diffufion of a radiant skyReflected nature sheds a milder green; While half her forefts float into the scene. Ah! as we gaze the luckless zephyr flies, The furface trembles, and the picture dies.

O bleft with all that youth can give to please, The form majestic, and the mien of ease, Alike empowr'd by nature, and by art, To ftorm the rampart, and to win the heart; Correct of manners, delicate of mind, With spirit humble, and with truth refin'd; For public life's meridian sunshine made, Yet known to ev'ry virtue of the shade; In war, while all the trumps of fame infpire, Each paffion raving, and each wish on fire; At home, without or vanity, or rage; As foft as pity, and as cool as age.

Thefe were thy virtues-these will still be just, Light all their beams, and blaze upon thy duft; While pride in vain folemnity bequeaths To pow'r her ftatues, and to guilt her wreaths: Or, warm'd by faction, impudently Яings The price of nations on the urns of kings.

ΤΗΣ

EQUALITY OF HUMAN CONDITIONS:

A

POETICAL DIALOGUE:

SPOKEN AT THE ANNUAL VISITATION OF

TUNBRIDGE SCHOOL, 1746,

BY MESSRS. M

WH

AND A

M-.

HILE airy Belville, guiltlefs of a school,
Shines out a French edition of a fool,
Studies his learned taylor once a week,
But curfes ev'ry fyllable of Greek;

I fit, and think o'er all that Sparta fir'd,
That Athens boasted, and that Rome admir'd,
Enraptur'd fancy, bufied with the theme,
Forms ev'ry bright idea to a dream,
Paints all the charming pageantry anew,
And brings at once each claffic to my view.
Now, fondly wild, I thunder in the war,

Shake the keen fpear, and mount th' imperial car;
With daring Regulus to Carthage run,
Or nobly bleed with Brutus in a fon;
Seize, Cafca-like, on Cæfar's gorgeous veft,
And boldly plant a dagger in his breast.
Now, foftly-breathing all the mufe's fire,
I drop the faulchion, and I grafp the lyre;
With Pindar's pinion skim the bleft abode,
Or ftrive to charm Auguftus with an ode.

Come then, my Lelius! come, my joy and pride! Whofe friendship fooths me, while thy precepts guide;

Thou, whofe quick eye has glanc'd thro' every age,
View'd every fcene, and studied ev'ry page;
Teach me, like thee, with ev'ry virtue bleft,
To catch each eye, and steal to ev'ry breaft;
To rife to all that in each patriot shone,
And make each hero's happiness my own.

Say, fhall I, with a triumph in my view,
Fame's air-drefs'd goddess thro' each scene pursue;
Ambitious court her in the pomp of war,
And number every trophy by a scar?
Shall I, with Solon, form the moral plan,
And aim to mould a favage to a man?
Or, pleas'd to rival every Grecian sage,
Glean Plato's fenfe, and copy Homer's rage.

A-.

You afk me, Sir! what few would care to give, Some grave instructions how you ought to live. You with that envied blifsful fcene to find, That charms the taste, and dignifies the mind; That nobly mingles every art to please, And joins the majesty of life to ease. VOL. VII.

Hear then, my friend! the doctrine I disclose, As true as if difplay'd in pompous profe; As if Locke's facred hand the page had wrote, And every doctor stamp'd it with a vote.

All lots are equal, and all states the fame, Alike in merit, tho' unlike in name. In Reason's eye no difference lies between Life's noon-day luftres or her milder scene. 'Tis not the plate that dignifies the board, Nor all the titles blazing round a lord; 'Tis not the fplendid plume, the embroider'd veft, The gorgeous fword-knot, or the martial crest, That lends to life the fimile, the jeft, the glee, Or makes his honour happier than me. When Florio's acres ftretch'd o'er half the land, A gilded chariot roll'd him thro' the Strand: Reduc'd at laft with humbler scenes to mix, He fmoak'd a speculative pipe at Dick's. The fame great genius, in or out of pow'rEase smooth'd his brow, and foften'd ev'ry hour; Taught him to live as happy in a shed, As when a dutchefs grac'd his nuptial bed.

Content's the port all mortals wish to hail:
She points the compass, and she guides the fail.
To her alone our leaky veffels roll

Thro' all the feas that rage from pole to pole.
What boots it then, when gath'ring ftorms behind
Rife black in air, and howl in ev'ry wind,"
That thy rich fhip a pomp of pride difplay'd,
Her masts all cedar, and her fails brocade!
Say, canst thou think the tempeft will discern
A filken cable, or a painted ftern;
Hufh the wild tumult that tornados bring,
And kindly fpare the yacht that holds a king?
No, no, my friend! if skilful pilots guide,
And heav'n aufpicious calms the whirling tide,
No winds diftrefs you, and no storm destroys,
Whether you fail in gondolas or hoys.

M

What, has juft heav'n no flight diftinction made
Betwixt a life of funfhine and of thade?
And think a cottage equal to a throne?
Muft I, in filence, this wild fyftem own,
Sure if I did, my friends would foon beftow
A few ftout cords, and Tend me to Monro.

Your taylor, fkill'd in fashion's ev'ry grace,
Decks you in all the pageantry of lace,
Lives in a cell, and eats, from week to week,
An homely meal of cabbage and ox-cheek.
You walk majestic in a nobler fcene,
Guiltless of ev'ry anguish, but the spleen;
With all the luxury of statesmen dine
On daily feafts of ortolans and wine.
Then tell me, fir! if this defcription's true,
Is not your taylor less at ease than you?

Hardwicke, great patriot! envy'd, lov'd, careft,
Mark'd by each eye, and hugg'd to ev'ry breaft;
Whose bright example learns us to admire
All Cowper's graces, and all Talbot's fire-
Firm to his truft, whatever bribes affail,

Truth guides his fword, and juftice holds his fcale.
Say, is not he more happy than the throng
Of beardlefs Templars melting o'er a song?
Than him, who, buried in a country-town,
Engroffes half a folio for a crown.

Heroic glory in the martial fcene
Spread ev'ry plume to dignify Eugene-