To Bacchus, author of heart-cheering mirth.
His honest friends, at thirsty hour of dusk,
Come uninvited; he with bounteous hand
Imparts his smoking vintage, sweet reward
Of his own industry; the well-fraught bowl
Circles incessant, whilst the humble cell
With quavering laugh and rural jests resounds.
Ease, and content, and undissembled love,
Shine in each face; the thoughts of labour past
Increase their joy: As, from retentive cage
When sullen Philomel escapes, her notes
She varies, and of past imprisonment
Sweetly complains; her liberty retriev'd
Cheers her sad soul, improves her pleasing song.
Gladsome they quaff, yet not exceed the bounds
Of healthy temperance, nor encroach on night,
Season of rest, but well bedew'd repair
Each to his home, with unsupplanted feet.
Ere Heaven 's emblazon'd by the rosy dawn,
Domestic cares awake them; brisk they rise,
Refresh'd, and lively with the joys that flow
From amicable talk, and moderate cups
Sweetly interchang'd. The pining lover finds
Present redress, and long oblivion drinks
Of coy Lucinda. Give the debtor wine;

His joys are short, and few; yet when he drinks,
His dread retires, the flowing glasses add
Courage and mirth: magnificent in thought,
Imaginary riches he enjoys,

And in the jail expatiates unconfin'd.
Nor can the poet Bacchus' praise indite,
Debarr'd his grape: the Muses still require
Humid regalement, nor will aught avail
Imploring Phoebus, with unmoisten'd lips.
Thus to the generous bottle all incline,

By parching thirst allur'd: with vehement suns
When dusty Summer bakes the crumbling clods,
How pleasant is 't, beneath the twisted arch
Of a retreating bower, in mid-day's reign
To ply the sweet carouse, remote from noise,
Secur'd of feverish heats! When th' aged year
Inclines, and Boreas' spirit blusters frore,
Beware th' inclement Heavens; now let thy hearth
Crackle with juiceless boughs; thy lingering blood
Now instigate with th' apple's powerful streams.
Perpetual showers, and stormy gusts confine
The willing ploughman, and December warns
To annual jollities; now sportive youth
Carol incondite rhymes, with suiting notes,
And quaver unharmonious; sturdy swains
In clean array for rustic dance prepare,
Mixt with the buxom damsels; hand in hand
They frisk and bound, and various mazes weave,
Shaking their brawny limbs, with uncouth mien,
Transported, and sometimes an oblique leer
Dart on their loves, sometimes an hasty kiss
Steal from unwary lasses; they with scorn,
And neck reclin'd, resent the ravish'd bliss.
Meanwhile blind British bards with volant touch
Traverse loquacious strings, whose solemn notes
Provoke to harmless revels; these among,
A subtle artist stands, with wondrous bag
That bears imprison'd winds (of gentler sort
Than those, which erst Laertes' son enclos'd.)
Peaceful they sleep; but let the tuneful squeeze
Of labouring elbow rouze them, out they fly
Melodious, and with sprightly accents charm.
'Midst these desports, forget they not to drench
Themselves with bellying goblets; nor, when Spring
Returns, can they refuse to usher in

The fresh-born year with loud acclaim, and store-
Of jovial draughts, now, when the sappy boughs
Attire themselves with blooms, sweet rudiments
Of future harvest. When the Gnossian crown
Leads on expected autumn, and the trees
Discharge their mellow burthens, let them thank
Boon Nature, that thus annually supplies
Their vaults, and with her former liquid gifts
Exhilarates their languid minds, within

The golden nean confin'd: beyond there's nought
Of health, or pleasure. Therefore, when thy heart
Dilates with fervent joys, and eager soul
Prompts to pursue the sparkling glass, be sure
'Tis time to shun it; if thou wilt prolong
Dire compotation, forthwith Keason quits
Her empire to confusion, and misrule,

And vain debates; then twenty tongues at once
Conspire in senseless jargon, nought is heard
But din, and various clamour, and mad rant:
Distrust, and jealousy to these succeed,
And anger-kindling taunt, the certain bane
Of well-knit fellowship. Now horrid frays
Commence, the brimming glasses now are hurl'd
With dire intent; bottles with bottles clash
In rude encounter, round their temples fly
The sharp-edg'd fragments, down their batter'd
cheeks

Mix'd gore and cider flow. What shall we say
Of rash Elpenor, who in evil hour

Dry'd an immeasurable bowl, and thought
T'exhale his surfeit by irriguous sleep,
Imprudent? him Death's iron-sleep opprest,
Descending careless from his couch; the fall
Luxt his neck-joint, and spinal marrow bruis'd.
Nor need we tell what anxious cares attend
The turbulent mirth of wine; nor all the kinds
Of maladies, that lead to Death's grim cave,
Wrought by intemperance, joint-racking gout,
Intestine stone, and pining atrophy,
Chill even when the Sun with July heats
Fries the scorch'd soil, and dropsy all a-float,
Yet craving liquids: nor the Centaurs tale
Be here repeated; how, with lust and wine
Inflam'd, they fought, and split their drunken souls
At feasting hour. Ye heavenly Powers, that guard
The British isles, such dire events remove
Far from fair Albion, nor let civil broils
Ferment from social cups: may we, remote
From the hoarse, brazen sound of war, enjoy
Our humid products, and with seemly draughts
Enkindle mirth, and hospitable love.
Too oft, alas! has mutual hatred drench'd
Our swords in native blood; too oft has pride,
And hellish discord, and insatiate thirst
Of others rights, our quiet discompos'd.
Have we forgot, how fell Destruction rag'd
Wide-spreading, when by Eris' torch incens'd
Our fathers warr'd? what heroes, signaliz'd
For loyalty and prowess, met their fate
Untimely, undeserv'd! how Bertie fell,
Compton, and Granville, dauntless sons of Mars,
Fit themes of endless grief, but that we view
Their virtues yet surviving in their race!
Can we forget, how the mad, headstrong rout
Defy'd their prince to arms, nor made account
Of faith or duty, or allegiance sworn?
Apostate, atheist rebels! bent to ill,
With seeming sanctity, and cover'd fraud,
Instill'd by him, who first presum'd t' oppose
Omnipotence; alike their crime, th' event

Was not alike; these triumph'd, and in height
Of barbarous malice, and insulting pride,
Abstain'd not from imperial blood. O fact
Unparallel'd! O Charles, O best of kings!
What stars their black disastrous infuence shed
On thy nativity, that thou should'st fall
Thus, by inglorious hands, in this thy realm,
Supreme and innocent, adjudg'd to death
By those thy mercy only would have sav'd!
Yet was the Cider-land unstain'd with guilt;
The Cider-land obsequious still to thrones,
Abhorr'd such base disloyal deeds, and all
Her pruning-hooks extended into swords,
Undaunted, to assert the trampled rights
Of monarchy; but, ah! successless she,
However faithful! then was no regard

Of right, or wrong. And this once happy land,
By homebred fury rent, long groan'd beneath
Tyrannic sway, till fair revolving years
Our exil'd kings and liberty restor❜d.
Now we exult, by mighty Anna's care
Secure at home, while she to foreign realms
Sends forth her dreadful legions, and restrains
The rage of kings: here, nobly she supports
Justice oppress'd; here, her victorious arms
Quell the ambitious: from her hand alone
All Europe fears revenge, or hopes redress.
Rejoice, O Albion! sever'd from the world
By Natures wise indulgence, indigent
Of nothing from without; in one supreme
Entirely blest; and from beginning time
Design'd thus happy; but the fond desire
Of rule and grandeur multiply'd a race
Of kings, and numerous sceptres introduc'd,
Destructive of the public weal. For now
Each potentate, as wary fear, or strength,
Or emulation urg'd, his neighbour's bounds
Invades, and ampler territory seeks
With ruinous assault; on every plain
Host cop'd with host, dire was the din of war,
And ceaseless, or short truce haply procur'd
By havoc, and dismay, till jealousy
Rais'd new combustion. Thus was peace in vain
Sought for by martial deeds, and conflict stern:
Till Edgar grateful (as to those who pine
A dismal half-year night, the orient beam
Of Phoebus' lamp) arose, and into one
Cemented all the long-contending powers,
Pacific monarch; then her lovely head
Concord rear'd high, and all around diffus'd
The spirit of love. At ease, the bards new strung
Their silent harps, and taught the woods and vales,
In uncouth rhymes, to echo Edgar's name.
Then gladness smil'd in every eye; the years
Ran smoothly on, productive of a line
Of wise, heroic kings, that by just laws
Establish'd happiness at home, or crush'd
Insulting enemies in furthest climes.

See lion-hearted Richard, with his force
Drawn from the North, to Jewry's hallow'd plains!
Piously valiant (like a torrent swell'd
With wintry tempests, that disdains all mounds,
Breaking a way impetuous, and involves
Within its sweep, trees, houses, men) he press'd
Amidst the thickest battle, and o'erthrew
Whate'er withstood his zealous rage: no pause,
No stay of slaughter, found his vigorons arm,
But th' unbelieving squadrons turn'd to flight,
Smote in the rear, and with dishonest wounds
Mangled behind. The Soldan, as he fled,

Oft call'd on Alla, gnashing with despite,
And shame, and murmur'd many an empty curse.
Behold third Edward's streamers blazing high
On Gallia's hostile ground! his right withheld,
Awakens vengeance. O imprudent Gauls,
Relying on false hopes, thus to incense
The warlike English! One important day
Shall teach you meaner thoughts. Eager of fight,
Fierce Brutus' offspring to the adverse front
Advance resistless, and their deep array
With furious inroad pierce: the mighty force
Of Edward twice o'erturn'd their desperate king;
Twice he arose, and join'd the horrid shock:
The third time, with his wide-extended wings,
He fugitive declin'd superior strength,
Discomfited; pursued, in the sad chase
Ten thousand ignominious fall; with blood
The vallies float. Great Edward thus aveng'd,
With golden Iris his broad shield emboss'd.

Thrice glorious prince! whom Fame with all her

tongues

For ever shall resound. Yet from his loins
New authors of dissention spring; from him
Two branches, that in hosting long contend
For sov'reign sway; and can such anger dwell
In noblest minds? but little now avail'd
The ties of friendship; every man, as led
By inclination, or vain hope, repair'd
To either camp, and breath'd immortal hate,
And dire revenge. Now horrid Slaughter reigns:
Sons against fathers tilt the fatal lance,
Careless of duty, and their native grounds
Distain with kindred blood; the twanging bows
Send showers of shafts, that on their barbed points
Alternate ruin bear. Here might you see
Barons, and peasants on th' embattled field
Slain, or half-dead, in one hoge, ghastly heap
Promiscuously amass'd. With dismal groans,

And ejulation, in the pangs of death

Some call for aid, neglected; some o'erturn'd
In the fierce shock, lie gasping, and expire,
Trampled by fiery coursers: Horrour thus,
And wild Uproar, and Desolation, reign'd
Unrespited. Ah! who at length will end
This long, pernicious fray? what man has Fate
Reserv'd for this great work?-Hail, happy prince
Of Tudor's race, whom in the womb of Time
Cadwallador foresaw! thou, thou art he,
Great Richmond Henry, that by nuptial rites
Must close the gates of Janus, and remove
Destructive Discord. Now no more the drum
Provokes to arms, or trumpet's clangour shrill
Affrights the wives, or chills the virgin's blood;
But joy and pleasure open to the view
Uninterrupted! with presaging skill
Thou to thy own unitest Fergus' line

By wise alliance: from thee James descends,
Heaven's chosen favourite, first Britannic king.
To him alone hereditary right

Gave power supreme; yet still some seeds remain'd

Of discontent: two nations under one,
In laws and interest diverse, still pursued
Peculiar ends, on each side resolute
To fly conjunction; neither fear, nor hope,
Nor the sweet prospect of a mutual gain,
Could aught avail, till prudent Anna said,
Let there be union; strait with reverence due
To her command, they willingly unite,
One in affection, laws and government,

Indissolubly firm; from Dubris south,
To northern Orcades, her long domain.

And now, thus leagued by an eternal bond,
What shall retard the Britons' bold designs,
Or who sustain their force, in union knit,
Sufficient to withstand the powers combin'd
Of all this globe? At this important act
The Mauritanian and Cathaian kings
Already tremble, and th' unbaptiz'd Turk
Dreads war from utmost Thule. Uncontrol'd
The British navy through the ocean vast
Shall wave her double cross, t' extremest climes
Terrific, and return with odorous spoils
Of Araby well fraught, or Indus' wealth,
Pearl, and barbaric gold: meanwhile the swains
Shall unmolested reap what Plenty strows
From well-stor'd horn, rich grain, and timely fruits.
The elder year, Pomona, pleas'd, shall deck
With ruby-tinctur'd births, whose liquid store
Abundant, flowing in well-blended streams,
The native shall applaud; while glad they talk
Of baleful ills, caus'd by Bellona's wrath
In other realms; where'er the British spread
Triumphant banners, or their fame has reach'd
Diffusive, to the utmost bounds of this
Wide universe, Silurian cider borne

Shall please all tastes, and triumph o'er the vine.

CEREALIA', 1706.

Per ambages, Deorumque ministeria Præcipitandus est liber spiritus.

Petronius.

Or English tipple, and the potent grain,
Which in the conclave of Celestial Powers
Bred fell debate, sing, nymph of heavenly stem,
Who on the hoary top of Pen-main-maur
Merlin the seer didst visit, whilst he sate
With astrolabe prophetic, to foresee
Young actions issuing from the Fates' divan.
Full of thy power infus'd by nappy ale,
Darkling he watch'd the planetary orbs,
In their obscure sojourn o'er Heaven's high cope;
Nor ceas'd till the grey dawn with orient dew
Impearl'd his large mustachoes, deep ensconc'd
Beneath his overshadowing orb of hat,
And ample fence of elephantin nose,
Scornful of keenest polar winds, or sleet,
Or hail, sent rattling down from wintry Jove.
(Vain efforts on his seven-fold mantle, made
Of Caledonian rug, immortal woof!)
Such energy of soul to raise the song,
Deign, goddess, now to me; nor then withdraw
Thy sure presiding power, but guide my wing,
Which nobly meditates no vulgar flight.

Now from th' ensanguin'd Ister's reeking flood
Tardy with many a corse of Boïan knight,
And Gallic deep ingulft, with barbed steeds
Promiscuous, Fame to high Olympus flew,
Shearing th' expanse of Heaven with active plume;
Nor swifter from Plinlimmon's steepy top

This poem is taken from a folio copy, 1706, communicated from the Lambeth Library by Dr. Ducarel, in which the name of Philips was inserted in the hand-writing of archbishop Tenison. It was

The staunch Gerfaulcon through the buxom air
Stoops on the steerage of his wings, to truss
The quarry, hern, or mallad, newly sprung
From creek, whence bright Sabrina bubbling forth
Runs fast a Naïs through the flowery meads,
To spread round Uriconium's towers her streams.
Her golden trump the goddess sounded thrice,
Whose shrilling clang reach'd Heaven's extremest
sphere.

Rouz'd at the blast, the gods with winged speed
To learn the tidings came: on radiant thrones,
With fair memorials, and impresses quaint
Emblazon'd o'er, they sate, devis'd of old
By Mulciber, nor small his skill I ween.
There she relates what Churchill's arm had wrought,
On Blenheim's bloody plain. Up Bacchus rose,
By his plump cheek and barrel belly known;
The pliant tendrils of a juicy vine
Around his rosy brow in ringlets curl'd,
And in his hand a bunch of grapes he held,

The ensigns of the god! With ardent tone

He mov'd, that straight the nectar'd bowl should

flow,

Devote to Churchill's health, and o'er all Heaven
Uncommon orgies should be kept till eve,
Till all were sated with immortal Moust,
Delicious tipple! that, in heavenly veins
Assimilated, vigorous ichor bred,
Superior to Frontiniac, or Bourdeaux,
Or old Falern, Campania's best increase;
Or the more dulcet juice the happy isles
From Palma or Forteventura send.

Joy flush'd on every face, and pleasing glee
Inward assent discover'd, till uprose
Ceres, not blithe, for marks of latent woe
Din on her visage lour'd: such her deport
When Arethusa from her reedy bed
Told her how Dis young Proserpine had rap'd,
To sway his iron sceptre, and command
In gloom tartareous half his wide domain.
Then, sighing, thus she said-"Have I so long
Employ'd my various art, t' enrich the lap
Of Earth, all-bearing mother; and my lore
Communicated to the unweeting hind,
And shall not this pre-eminence obtain ?"
Then from beneath her Tyrian vest she took
The bearded ears of grain she most admir'd,
Which gods call Chrithe, in terrestrial specch
Ycleped Barley. ""Tis to this," she cry'd,
"The British cohorts owe their martial fame
And far-redoubted prowess, matchless youth!
This, when returning from the foughten field,
Or Noric, or Iberian, seam'd with scars,
(Sad signatures of many a dreadful gash!)
The veteran, carousing, soon restores
Puissance to his arm, and strings his nerves!
And, as a snake, when first the rosy hours
Shed vernal sweets o'er every vale and mead,
Rolls tardy from his cell obscure and dank;
But, when by genial rays of summer sun
Purg'd of his slough, he nimbly thrids the brake,
Whetting his sting, his crested head he rears
Terrific, from each eye retort he shoots
Ensanguin'd rays, the distant swains admire
His various neck, and spires bedropt with gold:

published by T. Bennet, the bookseller for whom Blenheim was printed: another strong presumptive proof of this being by the same author. N.

So at each glass the harass'd warrior feels
Vigour renate; his horrent arms he takes,
And rusting falchion, on whose ample hilt
Long Victory sate dormant: soon she shakes
Her drowsy wings, and follows to the war,
With speed succinct; where soon his martial port
She recognizes, whilst he haughty stands
On the rough edge of battle, and bestows
Wide torment on the serried files, so us'd,
Frequent in bold emprize, to work sad rout,
And havoc dire; these the bold Briton mows,
Dauntless as deities exempt from fate,
Ardent to deck his brow with murald gold,
Or civic wreath of oak, the victor's meed.
Such is the power of Ale with vines embower'd,
While dangling bunches court his thirsting lip;
Sullen he sits, and sighing oft extols
The beverage they quaff, whose happy soil
Prolific Dovus laves, or Trenta's urn
Adorns with waving Chrithe (joyous scenes
Of vegetable gold!) secure they dwell,

Nor feel th' eternal snows that clothe their cliffs:
Nor curse th' inclement Air, whose horrid face
Scowls like that Arctic heaven, that drizzling sheds
Perpetual winter on the frozen skirts

Of Scandinavia and the Baltic main,
Where the young tempests first are taught to roar.
Snug in their straw-built huts, or darkling earth'd
In cavern'd rock they live: (small need of art
To form spruce architrave, or cornice quaint,
On Parian marble, with Corinthian grace
Prepar'd) there on well-fuel'd hearth they chat,
Whilst black pots walk the round with laughing Ale
Surcharg'd; or brew'd in planetary hour,
When March weigh'd night and day in equal scale:
Or in October tunn'd, and mellow grown
With seven revolving suns, the racy juice,
Strong with delicious flavour, strikes the sense.
Nor wants on vast circumference of board,
Of Arthur's imitative, large surloin
Of ox, or virgin-heifer, wont to browse
The meads of Longovicum (fattening soil
Replete with clover-grass, and foodful shrub.)
Planted with sprigs of rosemary it stands,
Meet paragon (as far as great with small
May correspond) for some Panchæan hill,
Embrown'd with sultry skies, thin-set with palm,
And olive rarely interspers'd, whose shade
Screens hospitably from the Tropic Crab
The quiver'd Arabs' vagrant clan, that wafts
Insidious some rich caravan, which fares
To Mecca, with Barbaric gold full fraught.

"Thus Britain's hardy sons; of rustic mould,
Patient of arms, still quash th' aspiring Caul,
Blest by my boon: which when they slightly prize,
Should they, with high defence of triple brass
Wide-circling, live immur'd, (as erst was tried
By Bacon's charms, on which the sickening Moon
Look'd wan, and cheerless mew'd her crescent horns,
Whilst Demogorgon heard his stern behest)
Thrice the prevailing power of Gallia's arms
Should there resistless ravage, as of old
Great Pharamond, the founder of her fame,
Was wont, when first his marshall'd peerage pass'd
The subject Rhene. What though Britannia boasts
Herself a world, with ocean circumfus'd?
'Tis Ale that warms her sons t' assert her claim,
And with full volley makes her naval tubes
Thunder disastrous doom to opponent powers!
"Nor potent only to enkindle Mars,

And fire with knightly prowess recreant souls:
It science can encourage, and excite
The mind to ditties blithe, and charming song.
Thou, Pallas, to my speech just witness bear;
How oft hast thou thy votaries beheld
At Crambo merry met, and hymning shrill
With voice harmonic each, whilst others frisk
In mazy dance, or Cestrian gambols show,
Elate with mighty joy, when to the brim
Chritheian nectar crown'd the lordly bowl.
(Equal to Nestor's ponderous cup, which ask'd
A hero's arm to mount it on the board,
Ere he th' embattail'd Pylians led, to quell
The pride of Dardan youth in hosting dire.)
Or if, with front unbless'd, came towering in
Proctor armnipotent, in stern deport
Resembling turban'd Turk, when high he wields
His scimetar with huge two-handed sway.
Aların'd with threatening accent, harsher far
Than that ill-omen'd sound the bird of night,
With beak uncomely bent, from dodder'd oak
Screams out, the sick man's trump of doleful doom:
Thy jocund sons confront the horrid van,
That crowds his gonfalon of seven foot size:
And with their rubied faces stand the foe;
Whilst they of sober guise contrive retreat,
And run with ears erect; as the tall stag
Unharbour'd by the woodman quits his layre,
And flies the yerning pack which close pursue,
So they not bowsy dread th' approaching foe:
They run, they fly, till flying on obscure,
Night-founder'd in town-ditches stagnant gurge,
Soph rowls on Soph promiscuous.-Caps aloof
Quadrate and circular confus'dly fly,
The sport of fierce Norwegian tempests, tost
By Thrascia's coadjutant, and the roar
Of loud Euroclydon's tumultuous gusts."

She said: the sire of gods and men supreme,
With aspect bland, attentive audience gave,
Then nodded awful: from his shaken locks
Ambrosial fragrance flew the signal given
By Ganymede the skinker soon was ken'd;
With Ale he Heaven's capacious goblet crown'd,
To Phrygian mood Apollo tun'd his lyre,
The Muses sang alternate, all carous'd,

But Bacchus murmuring left th' assembled power.

BACHANALIAN SONG'.

COME, fill me a glass, fill it high,

A bumper, a bumper I'll have:

He's a fool that will flinch; I'll not bate an inch, Though I drink myself into my grave.

Here's a health to all those jolly souls,

Who like me will never give o'er,

Whom no danger controls, but will take off their bowls,

And merrily stickle for more.

From many circumstances, I have little doubt but this convivial song was by the author of The Splendid Shilling. There was, however, an earlier poet, of both the names of this author; who was nephew to Milton, and wrote some memoirs of his uncle, and several burlesque poems. N.