And struts as much in ready light, Which credit gives him upon sight, As if the rainbow were in tail Settled on him and his heirs male;

So the young 'squire, when first he comes
From country shool to Will's or Tom's,
And equally, in truth, is fit
To be a statesman, or a wit;
Without one notion of his own,
He saunters wildly up and down,

Till some acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes notice of a staring lad,
Admits him in among the gang;
They jest, reply, dispute, harangue :

He acts and talks, as they befriend him,
Smear'd with the colours which they lend him.

Thus, merely as his fortune chances,

His merit or his vice advances.

If haply he the sect pursues,
That read and comment upon news;
He takes up their mysterious face;
He drinks his coffee without lace;
This week his mimic tongue runs o'er
What they have said the week before;
His wisdom sets all Europe right,
And teaches Marlborough when to fight.
Or if it be his fate to meet

With folks who have more wealth than wit;
He loves cheap port, and double bub;
And settles in the Hum-drum club;
He learns how stocks will fall or rise;
Holds poverty the greatest vice;
Thinks wit the bane of conversation,
And says that learning spoils a nation.

But if, at first, he minds his hits,
And drinks champagne among the wits;
Five deep he toasts the towering lasses;
Repeats you verses wrote on glasses;
Is in the chair: prescribes the law;
And lies with those he never saw.

FROM "ALMA; OR, TIE PROGRESS OF THE MIND."*

CANTO II.

TURN we this globe, and let us see
How different nations disagree

In what we wear, or eat and drink;
Nay, Dick, perhaps in what we think.
In water as you smell and taste
The soils through which it rosé and past;
In Alma's manners you may read
The place where she was born and bred.
One people from their swaddling bands
Released their infants' feet and hands;
Here Alma to these limbs was brought,
And Sparta's offspring kick'd and fought.
Another taught their babes to talk,
Ere they could yet in go-carts walk:

[* What Prior meant by this poem I cannot understand; by the Greek motto to it one would think it was either to laugh at the subject or his reader. There are some parts of it very fine; and let them save the badness of the rest. -GOLDSMITH.

What suggested to Johnson the thought that the Alma

There Alma settled in the tongue,
And orators from Athens sprung.

Observe but in these neighbouring lands
The different use of mouths and hands;
As men reposed their various hopes,
In battles these, and those in tropes.

In Britain's isles, as Heylin notes,
The ladies trip in petticoats;
Which, for the honour of their nation,
The quit but on some great occasion.
Men there in breeches clad you view;
They claim that garment as their due.
In Turkey the reverse appears;
Long coats the haughty husband wears,
And greets his wife with angry speeches
If she be seen without her breeches.

In our fantastic climes, the fair
With cleanly powder dry their hair;
And round their lovely breast and head
Fresh flowers their mingled odours shed.
Your nicer Hottentots think meet
With guts and tripe to deck their feet:
With down-cast looks on Totta's legs
The ogling youth most humbly begs
She would not from his hopes remove
At once his breakfast and his love:
And, if the skittish nymph should fly,
He in a double sense must die.

We simple toasters take delight
To see our women's teeth look white,
And every saucy, ill-bred fellow
Sneers at a mouth profoundly yellow.
In China none hold women sweet,
Except their snags are black as jet.
King Chihu put nine queens to death,
Convict on statute, Ivory Teeth.

At Tonquin, if a prince should die
(As Jesuits write, who never lie,)
The wife, and counsellor, and priest,
Who served him most, and loved him best,
Prepare and light his funeral fire,
And cheerful on the pile expire.
In Europe, 'twould be hard to find
In each degree one half so kind.

Now turn we to the farthest east,
And there observe the gentry dress'd.
Prince Giolo, and his royal sisters,
Scarr'd with ten thousand comely blisters;
The marks remaining on the skin,
To tell the quality within.
Distinguish'd slashes deck the great:
As each excels in birth or state,
His oylet-holes are more and ampler:
The king's own body was a sampler.
Happy the climate, where the beau
Wears the same suit for use and show:
And at a small expense your wife,
If once well pink'd, is clothed for life.
Westward again, the Indian fair

Is nicely smear'd with fat of bear:

was written in imitation of Hudibras I cannot conceive. In former years they were both favourites of mine, and I often read them; but I never saw in them the least resemblance to each other; nor do I now, except that they are composed in verse of the same measure.-CowPER, Letter to Unwin, 21st March, 1784.]

Before you see, you smell your toast;
And sweetest she who stinks the most.
The finest sparks and cleanest beaux
Drip from the shoulders to the toes :

How sleek their skins! their joints how easy!
There slovens only are not greasy.

I mention'd different ways of breeding:
Begin we in our children's reading.
To master John the English maid
A horn-book gives of gingerbread;

And, that the child may learn the better,
As he can name, he eats the letter.
Proceeding thus with vast delight,
He spells and gnaws from left to right.
But, show a Hebrew's hopeful son
Where we suppose the book begun,

The child would thank you for your kindness,
And read quite backward from our finis.
Devour he learning ne'er so fast,
Great A would be reserved the last,
An equal instance of this matter

Is in the manners of a daughter.
In Europe if a harmless maid,

By nature and by love betray'd,

Should, ere a wife, become a nurse,

Her friends would look on her the worse.
In China, Dampier's travels tell ye
(Look in his Index for Pagelli,)
Soon as the British ships unmoor,
And jolly long-boat rows to shore,
Down come the nobles of the land;
Each brings his daughter in his hand,
Beseeching the imperious tar

To make her but one hour his care.
The tender mother stands affrighted,
Lest her dear daughter should be slighted:
And poor miss Yaya dreads the shame
Of going back the maid she came.

Observe how custom, Dick, compels,
The lady that in Europe dwells:
After her tea, she slips away,
And what to do, one need not say.
Now see how great Pomonque's queen
Behaved herself amongst the men:
Pleased with her punch, the gallant soul
First drank, then water'd in the bowl;
And sprinkled in the captain's face
The marks of her peculiar grace.

To close this point we need not roam For instances so far from home.

What parts gay France from sober Spain?
A little rising rocky chain.

Of men born south or north o' th' hill,
Those seldom move, these ne'er stand still.
Dick, you love maps, and may perceive
Rome not far distant from Geneve.
If the good Pope remains at home,
He's the first prince in Christendom.
Choose then, good Pope, at home to stay,
Nor westward curious take thy way:
Thy way unhappy shouldst thou take,
From Tiber's bank to Leman lake,
Thou art an aged priest no more,
But a young flaring painted whore:
Thy sex is lost, thy town is gone;
No longer Rome, but Babylon.

That some few leagues should make this change,

To men unlearn'd seems mighty strange.

But need we, friend, insist on this? Since, in the very Cantons Swiss,

All your philosophers agree,

And prove it plain, that one may be

A heretic, or true believer,

On this, or t' other side a river.

Here, with an artful smile, quoth Dick,
Your proofs come mighty full and thick-
The bard, on this extensive chapter
Wound up into poetic rapture,
Continued: Richard, cast your eye
By night upon a winter-sky:
Cast it by day-light on the strand
Which compasses fair Albion's land:
If you can count the stars that glow
Above, or sands that lie below,
Into those common-places look,
Which from great authors I have took,
And count the proofs I have collected,
To have my writings well protected.
These I lay by for time of need,
And thou may'st at thy leisure read.
For standing every critic's rage,
I safely will to future age
My system, as a gift, bequeath,
Victorious over spite and death.

made him acceptable; but at his death not a friend or relative came to commit his remains to the dust! He was buried in the meanest manner, under a hollow tree, that was once part of the boundary of the churchyard of Hampstead. No memorial was placed over his remains.

VERSES,

SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR ON HIMSELF, WHEN HE
WAS IN A CONSUMPTION.

WHY, Damon, with the forward day,
Dost thou thy little spot survey,
From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer,
Pursue the progress of the year,

What winds arise, what rains descend,
When thou before that year shalt end?

What do thy noon-day walks avail,
To clear the leaf, and pick the snail,
Then wantonly to death decree
An insect usefuller than thee?

Thou and the worm are brother-kind,
As low, as earthy, and as blind.

Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see
The downy peach make court to thee?
Or that thy sense shall ever meet
The beau-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet,
Exhaling with an evening blast?
Thy evenings then will all be past.

Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green,
(For vanity's in little seen)

All must be left when death appears, In spite of wishes, groans, and tears; Nor one of all thy plants that grow, But rosemary will with thee go.

SIR JOHN VANBRUGH, the poet and architect, was the oldest son of Mr. Giles Vanbrugh, of London, merchant; he was born in the parish of St. Stephen, Walbrook, 1666. He received a very liberal education, and at the age of nineteen was sent by his father to France, where he continued several years. In 1703, he was appointed Clarencieux King of Arms, and in 1706 was commissioned by Queen Anne to carry the habit and ensigns of the order of the garter to King George

the First, then at Hanover. He was also made comptroller-general of the board of works, and surveyor of the gardens and waters. In 1714, he received the order of knighthood, and in 1719 married Henrietta Maria, daughter of Colonel Yarborough. Sir John died of a quinsey at his house in Scotland-yard, and is interred in the family vault under the church of St. Stephen, Walbrook. He left only one son, who fell at the battle of Fontenoy.†

FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO ESOP.

A BAND, a Bob-wig, and a Feather,
Attack'd a lady's heart together.
The Band, in a most learned plea,
Made up of deep philosophy,
Told her, if she would please to wed
A reverend beard, and take instead
Of vigorous youth,

Old solemn truth,
With books and morals, into bed,
How happy she would be.

The Bob, he talked of management,
What wond'rous blessings heaven sent
On care, and pains, and industry:
And truly he must be so free
To own he thought your airy beaux,
With powder'd wigs, and dancing shoes,

[The family of Sir John Vanbrugh is stated, in the Biographia Dramatica, to have come originally from France; but my friend, the Rev. George Vanbrugh, rector of Aughton, in Lancashire, the only surviving descendant of the family, informs me that his ancestors were eminent merchants of Antwerp, and fled out of Flanders when the Duke of Alva tried to establish the inquisition in those provinces. They first took refuge in Holland, and from thence came over to England to enjoy the protestant protection of Queen Elizabeth.

Were good for nothing (mend his soul!)
But prate, and talk, and play the fool.
He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth,
And that to be the dearest wife
Of one, who labour'd all his life
To make a mine of gold his own,

And not spend sixpence when he'd done,
Was heaven upon earth.

When these two blades had done, d'ye see,
The Feather (as it might be me,)
Steps out, sir, from behind the skreen,
With such an air and such a mien-
Look you, old gentlemen,-in short
He quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport.

It proved such sunshine weather
That you must know, at the first beck
The lady leap'd about his neck,

And off they went together.

[† No man who has been satirized by Swift, and praised by Reynolds, could have much chance of being forgotten; but the fame of him who was at once the author of "The Relapse" and "The Provoked Wife," and the architect of Castle Howard and Blenheim, stands independent of even such subsidiaries.-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM'S Lives of British Artists, vol. iv. p. 253.]

FROM "THE MOURNING BRIDE."

Alm. No, all is hush'd, and still as death-'tis
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes.*
Leon. Let us return; the horror of this place,
And silence, will increase your melancholy.
Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that.
No, I will on; show me Anselmo's tomb, [earth,
Lead me o'er bones and skulls, and mouldering
Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them,
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse,
Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride
Of Garcia's more detested bed: that thought
Exerts my spirits, and my present fears

Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me,
Lead me, for I am bolder grown: lead on
Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again,
To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul.
Leon. I go; but Heaven can tell with what regret.
[Exeunt.
Heli. I wander through this maze of monu-
ments,

Enter HELI.

[This is the passage that Johnson admired so much. "Congreve," he said, "has one finer passage than any that can be found in Shakspeare. What I mean is, that you can show me no passage where there is simply a description of material objects without any intermixture of moral notions, which produced such an effect."-Croker's Boswell, vol. ii. p. 86. "If I were required," he says, in his life of Congreve, "to select from the whole mass of English poetry the most poetical paragraph, I know not what I could prefer to this. He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the powers of a poet; he feels what he remembers to have felt before; but he feels it with a great increase of sensibility; he recognises a familiar image, but meets it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty and enlarged with majesty." Mr. Croker had much improved his edition of Boswell, if he had illustrated Johnson's conversation by his own writings.]

Yet cannot find him-Hark! sure tis the voice Of one complaining-there it sounds! I'll follow it. [Exit.

SCENE II.-Opening, discovers a place of Tombs: one Monu ment, fronting the view, greater than the rest. Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA.

Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb,

The poor remains of good Anselmo rest,
Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms.
What do I see? Oh, Heaven! either my eyes
Are false, or still the marble door remains
Unclosed; the iron gates, that lead to death
Beneath, are still wide stretch'd upon their hinge,
And staring on us with unfolded leaves! [me;

Alm. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for
And that dumb mouth, significant in show,
Invites me to the bed, where I alone [weary
Shall rest; shows me the grave where nature,
And long oppress'd with woes and bending cares,
May lay the burthen down, and sink in slumbers
Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold
Me in his leaden arms, and press me close
To his cold, clayey breast! My father, then,
Will cease his tyranny; and Garcia, too,
Will fly my pale deformity with loathing.
My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount,
And range the starry orbs, and milky-ways,
Of that refulgent world, where I shall swim
In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss,
To my Alphonso's soul. Oh, joy too great!
Oh, ecstasy of thought! Help me, Anselmo;
Help me, Alphonso; take me, reach thy hand;
To thee, to thee I call; to thee, Alphonso;
Oh, Alphonso!

OSMYN ascending from the tomb.

Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was
Alphonso?

Alm. Angels, and all the host of heaven, sup-
port me!

Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness,

from the grave,

And growing to his father's shroud, roots up
Alphonso?

Alm. Mercy! providence! Oh, speak,
Speak to it quickly, quickly; speak to me,
Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide
me,
Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light,
And from my eyes!

Osm. Amazement and illusion! Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers, [Coming forward.

That, motionless, I may be still deceived!
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve
That tender, lovely form of painted air,
So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls:
I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade!

Is this a father?

Osm. Look on thy Alphonso.

Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia:
Nor am I what I seem, but thy Alphonso. [me?
Wilt thou not know me? Hast thou then forgot
Hast thou thy eyes, yet canst not see Alphonso?
Am I so altered, or art thou so changed,
That, seeing my disguise, thou seest not me?

Alm. It is, it is Alphonso! 'tis his face,
His voice-I know him now, I know him all.
Oh, take me to thy arms, and bear me hence,
Back to the bottom of the boundless deep,
To seas beneath, where thou so long hast dwelt.
Oh, how hast thou return'd? How hast thou
charm'd

The wildness of the waves and rocks to this; That, thus, relenting, they have given thee back To earth, to light and life, to love and me?

Osm. Oh, I'll not ask, nor answer, how or why
We both have backward trod the paths of fate,
To meet again in life; to know I have thee,
Is knowing more than any circumstance,
Or means, by which I have thee

To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips,
And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy,
I have not leisure to reflect or know,
Or trifle time in thinking.

How is all this? All-powerful Heaven, what are we?

Oh, my strain'd heart-let me again behold thee, For I weep to see thee-Art thou not paler! Much, much; how thou art changed!

Osm. Not in my love.

Alm. No, no! thy griefs, I know, have done this to thee.

Thou hast wept much, Alphonso; and, I fear, Too much, too tenderly, lamented me.

Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly. No more, my life; talk not of tears or grief; Affliction is no more, now thou art found. Why dost thou weep, and hold thee from my

arms,

My arms which ache to hold thee fast, and grow To thee with twining? Come, come to my heart! Alm. I will, for I should never look enough. They would have married me; but I had sworn To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have

died

Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love! Alm. Indeed I would-Nay, I would tell thee all,

If I could speak; how I have mourn'd and pray'd;
For I have pray'd to thee, as to a saint;
And thou hast heard my prayer; for thou art come
To my distress, to my despair, which Heaven
Could only, by restoring thee, have cured.

Osm. Grant me but life, good Heaven, but length

of days,

To pay some part, some little of this debt,
This countless sum of tenderness and love,
For which I stand engaged to this all-excellence;
Then bear me in a whirlwind to my fate,
Snatch me from life, and cut me short unwarn'd:
Then, then 'twill be enough-I shall be old,
I shall have pass'd all æras then

Of yet unmeasured time; when I have made
This exquisite, this most amazing goodness,
Some recompense of love and matchless truth.

Alm. "Tis more than recompense to see thy face.
If Heaven is greater joy, it is no happiness,
For 'tis not to be borne-What shall I say?
I have a thousand things to know and ask,
And speak-That thou art here beyond all hope,
All thought; and all at once thou art before me,
And with such suddenness hast hit my sight,
Is such surprise, such mystery, such ecstasy,
It hurries all my soul, and stuns my sense.
Sure from thy father's tomb thou didst arise?
Osm. I did: and thou, my love, didst call me;
thou.
[thou alone?
Alm. True; but how camest thou there? Wert
Osm. I was, and lying on my father's lead,
When broken echoes of a distant voice
Disturb'd the sacred silence of the vault,
In murmurs round my head. I rose and listen'd,
And thought I heard thy spirit call Alphonso;
I thought I saw thee too; but, Oh, I thought not
That I indeed should be so blest to see thee-
Alm. But still, how camest thou thither? How
thus ? -Ha?

What's he, who, like thyself, is started here
Ere seen?