The Sun, with cheerful beams, to purge the air, But roll their suffocating horrours round Incessant, banishing the blooming train

Of Health, and Joy, for ever, from the dome.

In sad magnificence the palace rears

Of sable marble, and Egyptian mines
Embowell'd. Nor Corinthian pillars, gay
With foliag'd capitals and figur'd frize,
Nor feminine Ionique, nor, tho' grave,
The fluted Dorique, and the Tuscan plain,
In just proportions rise: but Gothic, rude,
Irreconcil'd in ruinous design:
Save in the centre, in relievo high,
And swelling emblematically bold,

In gold the apple rose," whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe 4."
Malignantly delighted, dire Disease

Surveys the glittering pest, and grimly smiles
With hellish glee. Beneath, totters her throne,
Of jarring elements; earth, water, fire; [tain
Where hot, and cold; and moist, and dry main-
Unnatural war. Shapeless her frightful form,
(A chaos of distemper'd limbs in one)
Huge as Megæra, cruel as the grave,
Her eyes, two comets; and her breath, a storm.
High in her wither'd arms, she wields her rod,
With adders curl'd, and dropping gore; and points
To the dead walls, besmear'd with cursed tales
Of Plagues red-spotted, of blue Pestilence,
Walking in darkness; Havock at their heels;
Lean Famine, gnawing in despight her arm:
Whatever Egypt, Athens, or Messine,
Constantinople, Troynovant, Marseilles,
Or Cairo felt, or Spagnolet could paint.
A sickly taper, glimmering feeble rays
Across the gloom, makes horrour visible,
And punishes, while it informs, the eye.

A thousand and ten thousand monstrous shapes
Compose the group; the execrable crew
Which Michael, in vision strange, disclos'd
To Adam, in the Lazar-house of woe;
A colony from Hell. The knotted Gout,
The bloated Dropsy, and the racking Stone
Rolling her eyes in anguish; Lepra foul,
Strangling Angina; Ephialtic starts;
Unnerv'd Paralysis; with moist Catarrhs;
Pleuritis bending o'er its side, in pain;
Vertigo; murderous Apoplexy, proud

With the late spoils of Clayton's honour'd life:
Clayton, the good, the courteous, the humane;
Tenacious of his purpose, and his word
Firm as the fabled throne of Grecian Jove.
Be just, O memory! again recall

Those looks illumin'd by his honest heart,
That open freedom, and that cheerful ease,
The bounteous emanations of his soul:
His British honour; Christian charity;
And mild benevolence for human-kind.

From every quarter, lamentations loud,
And sighs resound, and rueful peals of groans
Roll echoing round the vaulted dens, and screams
Dolorous, wrested from the heart of pain,
And brain-sick agony. Around her throne
Six favourite Furies, next herself accurst,
Their dismal mansions keep; in order each,
As most destructive. In the foremost rank,
Of polish'd steel, with armour blood-distain'd,

• Milton's Paradise Lost, Book 1st,

This habitable globe, (the curse of sin,)
Invent new desolations to cut off

The Christian race? At least in Christian climes
Let olives shade your mountains, and let Peace
Stream her white banner o'er us, blest from War,
And laurels only deck your poet's brows.
Or, if the fiery metal in your blood,
And thirst of human-life your bosom sting,
Too savage! let the fury loose of War,
And bid the battle rage against the breasts
Of Asian infidels: redeem the tow'rs
Where David sung, the son of David bled;
And warm new Tasso's with the epic-flame.

Right opposite to War a gorgeous throne
With jewels flaming and emboss'd with gold,
And various sculpture, strikes the wond'ring eye
With jovial scenes (amid destruction gay,)
Of instruments of mirth, the harp, the lute,
Of costly viands, of delicious wines,
And flow'ry wreaths to bind the careless brow
Of youth, or age; as youth or age demand
The pleasing ruin from th' enchantress, vile
Intemperance: than Circe subtler far,
Only subdu'd by wisdom; fairer far
Than young Armida, whose bewitching charms
Rinaldo fetter'd in her rosy chains;
Till, by Ubaldo held, his diamond shield
Blaz'd on his mind the virtues of his race,
And, quick, dissolv'd her wanton mists away.
See, from her throne, slow-moving, she extends
A poison'd gobblet! fly the beauteous bane:
The adder's tooth, the tiger's hungry fang,
Are harmless to her smiles; her smiles are death.
Beneath the foamy lustre of the bowl,
Which sparkles men to madness, lurks a snake
Of mortal sting: fly: if you taste the wine,
Machaon swears that moly cannot cure.
Tho' innocent and fair her looks, she holds
A lawless commerce with her sister-pests,
And doubly whets their darts: away-and live.
Next, in a low-brow'd cave, a little hell,
A pensive hag, moping in darkness, sits
Dolefully-sad: her eyes (so deadly-dull!)
Stare from their stonied sockets, widely wild;
For ever bent on rusty knives, and ropes;
On poignards, bows of poison, daggers red
With clotted gore. A raven by her side
Eternal croaks; her only mate Despair;
Who, scowling in a night of clouds, presents
A thousand burning hells, and damned souls,
And lakes of stormy fire, to mad the brain
Moon-strucken. Melancholy is her name;
Britannia's bitter bane. Thou gracious Pow'r,
(Whose judgments and whose mercies who can
tell!)

With bars of steel, with hills of adamant
Crush down the sooty fiend; nor let her blast
The sacred light of Heaven's all-cheering face,
Nor fright, from Albion's isle, the angel Hope.
Fever the fourth: adust as Afric-wilds,
Chain'd to a bed of burning brass; her eyes
Like roving meteors blaze, nor ever close
Their wakeful lids: she turns, but turns in vain,
Through nights of misery. Attendant Thirst

Grasps hard an empty bowl, and shrivell'd strives |
To drench her parched throat. Not louder groans
From Phalaris's bull, as Fame reports,
Tormented with distressful din the air,
And drew the tender tear from Pity's eye.
Consumption near; a joyless, meagre wight,
Panting for breath, and shrinking into shade
Eludes the grasp: thin as the embodied air
Which, erst, deceiv'd Ixion's void embrace,
Ambitious of a goddess! scarce her legs
Feebly she drags, with wheezing labour, on,
And motion slow: a willow wand directs
Her tottering steps, and marks her for the grave.
The last, so turpid to the view, affrights
Her neighbour hags. Happy herself is blind,
Or madness would ensue; so bloated-black,
So loathsome to each sense, the sight or smell,
Such foul corruption on this side the grave;
Variola yclep'd; ragged and rough, [scenes
Her couch perplex'd with thorns. What heavy
Hang o'er my heart to feel the theme is mine;
But Providence commands, his will be done!
She rushes through my blood; she burns along,
And riots on my life.-Have mercy, Heav'n!-
Variola, what art thou? whence proceeds
This virulence, which all, but we, escape?
Thon nauseous enemy to human-kind:
In man, and man alone, thy mystic seeds,
Quiet, and in their secret windings hid,
Lie unprolific; till Infection rouze
Her pois'nous particles, of proper size,
Figure and measure, to exert their pow'r
Of impregnation; atoms subtle, barb'd,
Infrangible, and active to destroy;
By geometric or mechanic rules
Yet undiscover'd: quick the leaven runs,
Destructive of the solids, spirits, blood
Of mortal man, and agitates the whole
In general conflagration and misrule.
As when the flinty seeds of fire embrace
Some fit materials, stubble, furze, or straw,
The crackling blaze ascends; the rapid flood
Of ruddy flames, impetuous o'er its prey,
Rolls its broad course, and half the field devours.

As adders deaf to beauty, wit, and youth,
How many living lyres, by thee unstrung,
E'er balf their tunes are ended, cease to charm
Th' admiring world? So ceas'd the matchless
By Cowley honour'd, by Roscommon lov'd, [name,
Orinda: blooming Killigrew's soft lay:
And manly Oldham's pointed vigour, curs'd
By the gor'd sons of Loyola and Rome.
And he who Phedra sung, in buskin'd pomp,
Mad with incestuous fires, ingenious Smith:
Oxonia's sons! And, O, our recent grief!
Shall Beauchamp5 die, forgotten by the Muse,
Or are the Muses with their Hertfort dumb!
Where are ye? weeping o'er thy learned Rhine,
Bononia, fatal to our hopes! or else

By Kennet's chalky wave, with tresses torn,
Or rude, and wildly floating to the winds,
Mute, on the hoary willows hang the lyre,
Neglected? Or in rural Percy-lodge,
Where Innocence and he walk'd hand in hand,
The cypress crop, or weave the laurel-bough
To grace his honour'd grave? Ye lilies, rise

5 Lord Beauchamp, only son of the earl of Hertford, died at Bolognia of the small-pox, September 11th, 1744, aged 19.

Immaculate; ye roses, sweet as morn;
Less sweet and less immaculate than he.

His op'ning flow'r of beauty softly smil'd,
And, sparkling in the liquid dews of youth,
Adorn'd the blessed light! with blossoms fair,
Untainted; in the rank Italian soil
From blemish pure. The virgins stole a sigh,
The matrons lifted up their wond'ring eyes,
And blest the English angel as he pass'd,
Rejoicing in his rays! Why did we trust
A plant so lovely to their envious skies,
Unmercifully bright with savage beams?
His were the arts of Italy before,
Courting, and courted by the classic Muse.
He travell'd not to learn, but to reform,
And with his fair example mend mankind.

Why need 1 name (for distant nations know,
Hesperia knows; O would Hesperia sing!
As Maro, erst, and, late, Marino rais'd
The blooming Beauchamps of the former times,
Marcellus, and Adonis to the stars,
On wings of soaring fire! so would she sing!)
His uncorrupted heart; his honour clear
As summer-suns, effulging forth his soul
In every word and look: his reason's ray
By folly, vanity, or vice unstain'd,
Shining at once with purity and strength,
With English honesty and Attic fire:
His tenderness of spirit, high-inform'd
With wide benevolence, and candid zeal
For learning, liberty, religion, truth:
The patriot-glories burning in his breast,
His king's and country's undivided friend!
Each public virtue, and each private grace;
The Seymour-dignity, the Percy-flame;
All, all!-Ere twenty autumns roll'd away
Their golden plenty. Further still! behold
His animated bloom; his flush of health;
The blood exulting with the balmy tide
Of vernal life! so fresh for pleasure form'd
By Nature and the Graces: yet his youth
So temperately warm, so chastely cool,
Ev'n seraphims might look into his mind,
Might look, nor turn away their holy eyes!

Th' unutterable essence of good Heav'n,
That breath of God, that energy divine
Which gives us to be wise, and just, and pure,
Full on his bosom pour'd the living stream,
Illum'd, inspir'd, and sanctify'd his soul!

And are these wonders vanish'd? are those eyes, Where ardent truth and melting mildness shone, Clos'd in a foreign land? no more to bless A father, mother, friend! no more to charm A longing people? O, lamented youth! Since fate and gloomy night thy beauties veil'd With shade mysterious, and eclips'd thy beams, How many Somersets are lost in thee!

Yet only lost to Earth!-for trust the Muse, (His virtues rather trust) she saw him rise She saw him smile along the tissu'd clouds, In colours rich-embroider'd by the Sun, Engirt with cherub-wings, and kindred-forms, Children of light, the spotless youth of Heav'n! They hail their blest companion, gain'd so soon A partner of their joys; and crown with stars, Almost as fair, the radiance of his brows. Ev'n where the angel host, with tongues of fire, Chant to their glittering harps th' Almighty's And, in a burning circle, shout around [praise, The jasper-throne, he mingles flames with them;

The date of our English poetry may with great justice begin with Spenser. It is true, Chaucer, Gower, and Lydgate were masters of uncommon beauties, considering the age they lived in, and have described the humours, passions, &c. with great discernment. Yet none of them seem to have been half so well acquainted with the very life and being of poetry, invention, painting, and design, as Spenser. Chaucer was the best before him; but then he borrowed most of his poems, either from the ancients, or from Boccace, Petrarch, or the Provençal writers, &c. Thus his Troilus and Cressida, the largest of his works, was taken from Lollius; and the Romaunt of the Rose was translated from the French of John de Meun, an Englishman, who flourished in the reign of Richard 11. and so of the rest. As for those who followed him, such as Heywood, Scogan, Skelton, &c. they seem to be wholly ignorant of either numbers, language, propriety, or even decency itself. I must be understood to except the earl of Surry, sir Thomas Wiat, sir Philip Sidney, several pieces in the Mirror of Magistrates, and a few parts of Mr. G. Gascoign's and Turbervill's works.

amello blooming still In Virgil's rural page.

Est etiam flos in pratis cui nomen amello Fecere agricolæ. Virg. Georg. Lib. vi. Besides there grows a flow'r in marshy ground, Its name amellus, easy to be found: A mighty spring works in its root, and cleaves The sprouting stalk, and shows itself in leaves. The flow'r itself is of a golden hue, The leaves inclining to a darker blue, &c.

P. 42.

Addison's Works, Vol. i. 4to.

or Spagnolet could paint. A famous painter, eminent for drawing the distresses and agonies of human nature.

P. 42. Which Michael in vision strange. See Milton's Paradise Lost, b. xi. P. 42. Clayton's honoured life. Sir William Clayton, bart. died at Marden in Surry, December the 28th, 1744.

P. 42. Where David sung, &c. Though a croisade may seem very romantic (and perhaps it is so) yet it has been applauded neas Sylvius, by Bessarion, by Naugerius, &c. by the greatest writers of different ages; by who have each writ orations upon that subject. and Jac. Baldè, the two most celebrated of the And here I cannot help observing, that Casimire modern lyric poets, have writ several of their such a design; and that Tasso has adorned the finest odes to animate the christian princes to expedition of Godfrey of Bulloign with the most beautiful and perfect poem since the Æneis (for I prefer Milton to Virgil himself.)

P. 42. Than Circe subtler far.

See Homer's Odyssey, Lib. 10.

P. 42. Than young Armida, &c. See Tasso's Il Godfredo, Canto iv. Stanz. 29, &c. Canto xiv. Stanz. 68. Canto xvi. Stanz. 29.

P. 42. Machaon swears, &c.

Machaon celebrated in Homer; but here used, in general, for any physician. So Ovid: Firma valent per se, nullumque Machaona quærunt.

And Martial:

Quid tibi cum medicis? dimitte Machaonas omnes.

To open on the sphere, to drink the day,
Or (worse!) behold Ianthe's face divine,

And wonder o'er her charms.-But yet forbear,
O dare not murmur; 'tis Heav'n's high behest:
Tho' darkness through the chambers of the grave
This dust pursue, and death's sad shade involve,
Ere long, the Filial light himself shall shine;
(The stars are dust to him, the Sun a shade)
These very eyes, these tunicles of flesh,
Ev'n tho' by worms destroy'd, shall see my God,
And, seeing, ne'er remember darkness more,
Environ'd with eternity of day.

Tho', at their visual entrance, quite shut out
External forms, forbidden, mount the winds,
Retire to chaos, or with night commix;
Yet, Fancy's mimic work, ten thousand shapes,
Antic and wild, rush sweeping o'er my dreams,
Irregular and new; as pain or ease
The spirits teach to flow, and in the brain
Direction diverse hold: gentle and bright
As hermits, sleeping in their mossy cells,
Lull'd by the fall of waters! by the rills
From Heliconian cliffs devolv'd; or where,
Thy ancient river, Kishon, sacred stream!
Soft murmurs on their slumbers: peace within,
And conscience, ev'n to ecstasy sublim'd
And beatific vision. Sudden, black,
And horrible as murderers; or hags,
Their lease of years spun out, and bloody bond
Full-flashing on their eyes, the gulf, beneath,
Mad'ning with gloomy fires; and Heav'n, behind,
With all her golden valves for ever clos'd.

Now in Elysium lap'd, and lovely scenes,
Where honeysuckles rove, and eglantines,
Narcissus, jess'min, pinks, profusely wild,
In every scented gale Arabia breathe:
As blissful Eden fair; the morning-work
Of Heav'n and Milton's theme! where Innocence
Smil'd, and improv'd the prospect.-Now, anon,
By Isis' favourite flood supinely laid,
In tuneful indolence, behold the bards
(Harps in each hand, and laurel on each brow)
A band of demi-gods, august to sight,
In venerable order sweetly rise,

(The Muses sparkling round them) who have trod
In measur'd pace its banks, for ever green,
Enamell'd from their feet! harmonious notes,
Warbled to Doric reeds, to Lesbian lyres,
Or Phrygian minstrelsie, steal on the ear
Enamour'd with variety: and loud
The trumpets shrilling clangours fill the sky
With silver melody-now, happier still!
Round thy Italic cloisters, musing slow,
Or in sweet converse with thy letter'd sons,
Philosophers, and poets, and divines,
Enjoy the sacred walk, delighted, Queen's'!
Where Addison and Tickell lay inspir'd,
Inebriated from the classic springs,

And tun'd to various-sounding harps the song,
Sublime, or tender, humorous, or grave,
Quaffing the Muses' nectar to their fill.
Where Smith in hoary reverence presides,
(Crown'd with the snow of Virtue for the skies)
With graceful gravity, and gentle sway;
With perfect peace encircled and esteem.
Whose mild and bright benevolence of soul,
By reason cool, and by religion warm,
And generous passion for the college-weal,

1 Queen's-college, in Oxford.

More than a Muse inspire.-Momental bliss!
For sudden rapt, the midnight howl of wolves,
The dragon's yell, the lion's roar, astound
My trembling ear. Ha! down a burning mount
I plunge deep, deep: sure Vulcan's shop is here—
Hark, how the anvils thunder round the dens
Flammivomous! What? are those chains to bind
This skeleton! the Cyclops must be mad :
Those bolts of steel, those adamantine links
Demand Typhæus' strength to burst.—Away—
Venus and Mars-beware.-In giddy whirls
I ride the blast, and tow'ring through the storm
Enjoy the palace of the Morn. The Sun
Resigns the reins of Phlegon to my hands:
His mane waves fire: he scorches me to dust:
Avaunt, thou fiend!-I'll hurl thee down the deep
Of Heav'n, with bolted thunder, and enwrapt
With forky light'ning.-Now staggering I reel,
By murderers pursu'd: my faithless feet
Scarce shift their pace: or down rushing amain,
I cease to recollect my steps, and roll
Passive on earth. Sure, 'twas Astolpho's horn
Pour'd on my ear th' annoying blast: at which,
Rogero trembled, Bradamant grew pale,

And into air dissolv'd th' enchanted dome.

Now starting from this wilderness of dreams, I wake from fancy'd into real woe.

Pain empties all her vials on my head,
And steeps me o'er and o'er. Th' envenom'd shirt
Of Hercules enwraps my burning limbs

| With dragon's blood: I rave and roar like him, Writhing in agony. Devouring fires

Eat up the marrow, frying in my bones.
O whither, whither shall I turn for aid?—
Methinks a seraph whispers in my ears,
Pouring ambrosia on them, "Turn to God;
So peace shall be thy pillow, ease thy bed,
And night of sorrow brighten into noon.
Let the young cherub Patience, bright-ey'd Hope,
And rosy-finger'd Pray'r, combining hold
A sure dominion in thy purpos'd mind,
Unconquer'd by affliction."I receive
The mandate as from Heav'n itself.-Expand
Thyself, my soul, and let them enter in.

Come, smiling angel, Patience, from thy seat;
Whether the widow's cot, or hermit's cell,
By fasting strong, and potent from distress;
Or midnight-student's taper-glimmering roof,
Unwearied with revolving tedious tomes,
O come, thou panacea of the mind!
The manna of the soul! to every taste
Grateful alike: the universal balm
To sickness, pain, and misery below.

She comes! she comes! she dissipates the gloom;
My eyes she opens, and new scenes unfolds
(Like Moses' bush, tho' burning, not consum'd)
Scenes full of splendour, miracle, and God.
Behold, my soul, the martyr-army, who
With holy blood the violence of fire
Quench'd, and with ling'ring constancy fatigu'd
The persecuting flame: or nobly stopp'd
The lion's mouth, and triumph'd in his jaws.
Hark, how the virgin white-rob'd-tender train
Chant hallelujahs to the rack; as dear
And pleasing to the ear of God, as hymns
Of angels on the resurrection-morn,
When all the host of Heaven Hosanna sing!
Yet further; lift thy eyes upon the cross,

A bleeding Saviour view, a dying God!
Earth trembles, rend the rocks, creation groans: