VERSES TO MR. C.

ST. JAMES'S PLACE.1

LONDON, OCT. 22.

EW words are best; I wish you well:
Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here;
Some morning walks along the Mall,
And evening friends, will end the

year.

If, in this interval, between

The falling leaf and coming frost,
You please to see, on Twit'nam green,
Your friend, your poet, and your
host:

For three whole days you here may rest
From office business, news and strife;
And (what most folks would think a jest)
Want nothing else, except your wife.

LINES WRITTEN IN WINDSOR
FOREST.2

LL hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade!

Scene of my youthful loves and happier hours!

Where the kind Muses met me as I strayed,

1 Mr. Cleland, whose residence was in St. James'splace, where he died in 1741.---Carruthers.

2 Sent in an undated letter to Martha Blount.

And gently pressed my hand, and said "Be ours!

Take all thou e'er shalt have, a constant Muse: At Court thou may'st be liked, but nothing

gain :

Stock thou may'st buy and sell, but always lose, And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain."

ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,
COMPOSED OF MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND
1
MINERALS.

HOU who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent wave

Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave;

Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distill,

And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill, Unpolished gems no ray on pride bestow, And latent metals innocently glow:

:

Approach! Great Nature studiously behold; And eye the mine without a wish for gold. Approach but awful! Lo! the Egerian grot, Where, nobly-pensive, St. John sat and thought; Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's soul.

Let such, such only tread this sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

1 Sent in a letter to Bolingbroke, September 3, 1740.

TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM
ENTITLED "SUCCESSIO."1

EGONE, ye critics, and restrain your spite,

Codrus writes on, and will for ever write.

The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone, As clocks run fastest when most lead is on; What though no bees around your cradle flew, Nor on your lips distilled their golden dew; Yet have we oft discovered in their stead

A swarm of drones that buzzed about your head. When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre,

Attentive blocks stand round you and admire.
Wit passed through thee no longer is the same,
As meat digested takes a different name:
But sense must sure thy safest plunder be,
Since no reprisals can be made on thee.
Thus thou may'st rise, and in thy daring flight
(Though ne'er so weighty) reach a wondrous
height.

So, forced from engines, lead itself can fly, And ponderous slugs move nimbly through the sky.

Sure Bavius copied Mævius to the full,

And Chærilus taught Codrus to be dull;
Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o'er
This needless labour; and contend no more
To prove a dull succession to be true,
Since 'tis enough we find it so in you.

1 Elkanah Settle. In a note on the Dunciad, Bk. i. 181, Warburton says that this poem was written by Pope when fourteen years old.

ARGUS.1

CHEN wise Ulysses, from his native coast

W

Long kept by wars, and long by
tempests tossed,

Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone,
To all his friends and ev'n his Queen unknown;
Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,
Furrowed his reverend face, and white his hairs,
In his own palace forced to ask his bread,
Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed,
Forgot of all his own domestic crew;

The faithful dog alone his rightful master knew!
Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay,
Like an old servant, now cashiered, he lay;
Touched with resentment of ungrateful man,
And longing to behold his ancient lord again.
Him when he saw-he rose, and crawled to meet,
('Twas all he could) and fawned and kissed his
feet,

Seized with dumb joy-then falling by his side,
Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died!

PRAYER OF ST. FRANCIS XAVIER.2

'HOU art my God, sole object of my love;

Not for the hope of endless joys above;

Not for the fear of endless pains below, Which they who love Thee not must undergo.

1 These lines were sent by Pope in a letter to Henry Cromwell, dated Oct. 19, 1709.

2 First published in the Gentleman's Magazine,

For me, and such as me, Thou deign'st to bear
An ignominious cross, the nails, the spear:
A thorny crown transpierced Thy sacred brow,
While bloody sweats from every member flow.

For me in tortures Thou resign'st Thy breath,
Embraced me on the cross, and saved me by
Thy death.

And can these sufferings fail my heart to move? What but Thyself can now deserve my love?

Such as then was, and is, Thy love to me, Such is, and shall be still, my love to TheeTo Thee, Redeemer! mercy's sacred spring! My God, my Father, Maker, and my King!

TRANSLATION OF A PRAYER OF BRUTUS.1

ODDESS of woods, tremendous in the chase,

To mountain wolves and all the

savage race,

Wide o'er the aërial vault extend thy sway,

October, 1891, where it is said that Pope was requested by Mr. Brown, domestic chaplain in the family of Mr. Caryll, to change the subject of his compositions, and to devote his talents to the translating of the Latin hymn composed by Francis Xavier, and beginning, "O Deus ! ego amo te," &c.

1 The Rev. Aaron Thompson, of Queen's College, Oxon., translated the Chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth. He submitted the translation to Pope, 1717, who gave him the following lines, being a translation of a prayer of Brutus.-Carruthers.