Or if 'tis wreck'd, his trembling client saves
On the next plank, and disappoints the waves.
In this, at least, all histories agree,
That though he lost his cause he sav'd his fee.
When the fat client looks in jovial plight,
How complaisant the man! each point how right!
But if the' abandon'd orphan puts his case,
And poverty sits shrinking on his face,
How like a cur he snarls! when at the door
For broken scraps he quarrels with the poor.
The farmer's oracle, when rent-day's near,
And landlords, by forbearance, are severe;
When huntsmen trespass, or his neighbour's swine,
Or tatter'd Crape extorts by right divine:
Him all the rich their contributions pay,
Him all the poor with aching hearts obey:
He in his swanskin doublet struts along,
Now begs, and now rebukes, the pressing throng.
A passage clear'd, he takes his aim with care,
And gently from his hand lets loose the sphere:
Smooth as a swallow o'er the plain it flies,
While he pursues its track with eager eyes;
Its hopeful course approv'd, he shouts aloud,
Claps both his hands, and justles through the crowd.
Hovering awhile, soon at the mark it stood,
Hung o'er inclin'd and fondly kiss'd the wood;
Loud is the' applause of every betting friend,
And peals of clamprous joy the concave rend.
But in each hostile face a dismal gloom
Appears, the sad presage of loss to come;
'Mong these Trebellius, with a mournful air
Of livid hue, just lying with despair,
Shuffles about, scews his chop-fallen face,
And no whipp'd gg so often shifts his place;
Then gives his sage advice with wondrous skill,
Which no man ever heeds, or ever will:
Yet he persists, instructing to confound,
And with his cane points out the dubious ground.
Strong Nimrod now, fresh as the rising dawn,
Appears; his sinewy limbs and solid brawn
The gazing crowd admires. He nor in courts
Delights, nor pompous balls, but rural sports
Are his soul's joy. At the horn's brisk alarms
He shakes the' unwilling Phillis from his arms;
Mounts with the sun, begins his bold career,
To chase the wily fox or rambling deer.
So Hercules, by Juno's dread command,
From savage beasts and monsters freed the land.
Hark! from the covert of yon gloomy brake
Harmonious thunder rolls, the forests shake;
Men, boys, and dogs, impatient for the chase,
Tumultuous transports flush in every face;
With ears erect the courser paws the ground,
Hills, vales, and hollow rocks, with cheering cries
[speed,
Drive down the precipice (brave youths!) with
Bound o'er the river banks, and smoke along the
But whither would the devious Muse pursue [mead.
The pleasing theme, and my past joys renew?
Another labour now demands try song.
Stretch'd in two ranks, behold the' expecting throng As Nimrod pois'd the sphere: lis arms he drew Back like an arrow in the Parthian yew, [it flew: Then launch'd the whirling globe, and full as swift) Bowls dash'd on bowls confounded all the plain, Safe stood the foe, well cover'd by his train. Assaulted tyrants thus their guard defends, Escaping by the ruin of their friends.
But now he stands expos'd, their order broke,
And seems to dread the next decisive stroke.
So at some bloody siege, the pondrous ball
Batters with ceaseless rage the crumbling wall,
(A breach once made) soon galls the naked town,
Riots in blood, and heaps on heaps are thrown.
Each avenue thus clear'd, with aching heart
Griper beheld, exerting all his art;
Once more resolves to check his furious foe,
Block up the passage, and elude the blow.
With cautious hand, and with less force, he threw
The well-pois'd sphere, that gently circling flew,
But stopping short, cover'd the mark from view.
So little Teucer on the well-fought field
Securely skulk'd behind his brother's shield.
Nimrod, in dangers bold, whose heart elate
Nor courted Fortune's smiles nor fear'd her hate,
Perplex'd, but not discourag'd, walk'd around,
With curious eye examin'd all the ground;
Not the least opening in the front was found.
Sideway he leans, declining to the right,
And marks his way, and moderates his might.
Smooth-gliding o'er the plain the' obedient sphere
Held on its dubious road, while hope and fear
Alternate ebb'd ard flow'd in every breast:
Now rolling nearer to the mark it press'd;
Then chang'd its course, by the strong bias rein'd, And on the foe discharg'd the force that yet remain'd:
Smart was the stroke: away the rival fled,
The bold intruder triumph'd in his stead.
Victorious Nimrod seiz'd the glittering prize,
Shouts of outrageous joy invade the skies;
Hands, tongues, and caps, exalt the victor's fame,
Sabrina's banks return him loud acclaim.
The Day after the great Meteor, in March 1715.
THIS dismal morn, when east winds blow,
And every languid pulse beats low,
With face most sorrowfully grim,
And head oppress'd with wind and whim,
Grave as an owl, and just as witty,
To thee I twang my doleful ditty,
And in mine own dull rhymes would find
Music to sooth my restless mind:
But oh! my friend, I sing in vain,
No doggrel can relieve my pain ;
Since thou art gone, my heart's desire,
And heav'n, and earth, and sea, conspire
To make my miseries complete;
Where shall a wretched Hip retreat?
What shall a drooping mortal do,
Who pines for sunshine and for you?
If in the dark alcove I dream,
And you or Phillis is my theme,
While love or friendship warm my soul,
My shins are burning to a coal
If rais'd to speculations high,
I gaze the stars and spangled sky,
With heart devout and wondering eye,
Amaz'd I view strange globes of light;
Meteors with horrid lustre bright
My guilty trembling soul affright.
To Mother Earth's prolific bed,
Pensive I stoop my giddy head,
From thence, too, all my hopes are fled.
Nor flowers, nor grass, nor shrubs, appear
To deck the smiling infant year,
But blasts my tender blossoms wound,
And desolation reigns around.
If sea-ward my dark thoughts I bend,
O! where will my misfortunes end?
My loyal soul distracted meets
Attainted dukes and Spanish fleets '.
Thus jarring elements unite,
Pregnant with wrongs, and arm'd with spite;
Successive mischiefs every hour
On my devoted head they pour.
Whate'er I do, where'er I go,
"Tis still an endless scene of woe.
"Tis thus disconsolate I mourn,
I faint, I die, till thy return;
Till thy brisk wit and humorous vein
Restore me to myself again.
Let others vainly seek for ease
From Galen or Hippocrates,
I scorn such nauseous aids as these:
Haste then, my dear! unbrib'd attend;
The best elixir is a friend.
An invasion from Spain was then expected.
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