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But languishingly sweet, her ruby lips
Soft-op'ning, thus began: "Father and friends,
Wound me not doubly with your tender grief:
I was not born alone for you. My life

I gladly offer for my country's weal:
"Tis glory thus to die. Receive my blood
Dear native soil! O may it health restore

And peace; and Bacchus' wrath be now appeas'd,
And thou, Coresus, whom I most have wrong'd,
Look not so fiercely on me, while the steel
My once-lov'd bosom lances; drop a tear;
One sigh in mercy heave, and drop one tear,
And I will thank thee for thy blow. For, oh!
I never hated thee: but female-pride,
Our sex's curse! forbade me to comply,
Too easy won!-Then pity me, Coresus;
O pity; and if possible, forgive."

He answer'd not: but, ardent, snatch'd the knife,
And, running o'er her beauties, strangely wild,
With eyes which witness'd huge dismay and love,
"Thus, thus I satisfy the gods!" he cry'd,
And bury'd in his heart, in his own heart,

The guilty blade: Then, reeling to her arms, He sunk, and groaning, “O Callirhoe!”—dy'd.

Heav'n rings with shouts, "Was ever love like this?"

Callirhoe shriek'd; and from the gaping wound,
Quick as the lightnings wing, the reeking knife
Wrench'd: in an agony of grief and love,
Her bosom piercing, on his bosom fell,
And sigh'd upon his lips her life away.
Their blood uniting in a friendly stream,
With bubbling purple stain'd the silver-flood,
Which to the fountain gave Callirhoe's name.

TO MISS ADDISON.

ON SEEING MR. ROWE'S MONUMENT
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY,
ERECTED AT THE EXPENSE OF HIS WIDOW.

LATE an applauding people rear'd the stone
To Shakspeare's honour, and, alike, their own.
A perfect whole, where part consents to part;
The wonder he of Nature, this of Art.
And now a wife (ye wits, no more despise
The name of wife) bids Rowe in marble rise.
Smiling he views her conjugal regard;
A nation's cost had been a less reward:
A nation's praise may vulgar spirits move,
Rowe more deserv'd and gain'd,—a sponsal love.

O Italy! thy injur'd marble keep
Deep in thy bowels, providently deep,
When fools would force it over knaves to weep.
But when true wit and merit claim a shrine,
Pour forth thy stores and beggar every mine.
They claim them now: for Virtue, Sense, and Wit
Have long been fled, and want thy succours--yet:
They claim them now for one,-yes, one, I see:-
Marble would weep-if Addison be he.

O crown'd with all the glories of thy race,
The father's candour, and the mother's grace!
With Rowe, Charlotta! vie, in generous strife,
And let the daughter emulate the wife.
Be justly pious; raise the honour'd stone,
And so deserve a Rowe, or-Addison!

THE MILKMAID.

"TWAS at the cool and fragrant hour,
When ev'ning steals upon the sky,
That Lucy sought a woodbine-grove,
And Colin taught the grove to sigh;
The sweetest damsel she, on all the plains;
The softest lover he, of all the swains.

He took her by the lily-hand,
Which oft had made the milk look pale;
Her cheeks with modest roses glow'd,
As thus he breath'd his tender tale:
The list'ning streams awhile forgot to flow,
The doves to murmur, and the breeze to blow.

"O smile my love! thy dimply smiles
Shall lengthen on the setting ray:
Thus let us melt the hours in bliss,
Thus sweetly languish life away:
Thus sigh our souls into each other's breast,
As true as turtles, and as turtles blest!

"So may thy cows for ever crown
With floods of milk thy briming pail;
So may thy cheese all cheese surpass,
So may thy butter never fail:

So may each village round this truth declare,
That Lucy is the fairest of the fair.

"Thy lips with streams of honey flow,
And pouting swell with healing dews;
More sweets are blended in thy breath,
Than all thy father's fields diffuse:
Tho' thousand flow'rs adorn each blowing field,
Thy lovely cheeks more blooming beauties yield.

"Too long my erring eyes had rov'd
On city-dames in scarlet drest;
And scorn'd the charmful village-maid,
With innocence and grogram blest:
Since Lucy's native graces fill'd my sight,
The painted city-dames no more delight.

"The speaking purple, when you blush,
Out-glows the scarlet's deepest dye;
No diamonds tremble on thy hair,
But brighter sparkle in thy eye.
Trust me the smiling apples of thy eyes,
Are tempting as were those in Paradise.
"The tuneful linnet's warbling notes,
Are grateful to the shepherd-swain;
To drooping plants, and thirsty fields
The silver drops of kindly rain;
To blossoms, dews, as blossoms to the bee;
And thou, my Lucy! only art to me.
"But mark, my love! yon western-clouds:
With liquid gold they seem to burn:
The Ev'ning Star will soon appear,
And overflow his silver urn.
Soft stillness now, and falling dews invite
To taste the balmy blessings of the night.

"Yet ere we part, one boon I crave,
One tender boon! nor this deny:
O promise that you still will love,
O promise this! or else I die:

Death else my only remedy must prove;
I'll cease to live, whenc'er you cease to love."

She sigh'd, and blush'd a sweet consent;
Joyous he thank'd her on his knee,
And warmly press'd her virgin-lip.➡
Was ever youth so bless'd as he !-

The Moon, to light the lovers homeward, rose,
And Philomela lull'd them to repose.

While the bloom of orient light Gilds thee in thy tuneful flight, May the Day-spring from on high, Seen by Faith's religious eye, Cheer me with his vital ray, Promise of eternal day!

THE CONQUEST.

WHEN Phoebus heard Ianthe sing
And sweetly bid the groves rejoice,
Jealous he smote the trembling string,
Despairing, quite, to match her voice.

Smiling, her harpsicord she strung:
As soon as she began to play,
Away his harp poor Phoebus flung;
It was no time for him to stay.

Yet hold; before your godship go
The fair shall gain another prize;
Your voice and lyre's outdone, you know;
Nor less thy sunshine by her eyes.

THE BEE.

LEAVE wanton Bee, those blossoms leave,
Thou buzzing harbinger of Spring,
To Stella fly, and sweeter spoils
Shall load thy thigh, and gild thy wing.

Her cheeks, her lips with roses swell,
Not Paphian roses deeper glow;
And lilies o'er her bosom spread
Their spotless sweets, and balmy snow.
Then, grateful for the sacred dews,
Invite her, humming round, to rest;
Soft dreams may tune her soul to love,
Tho' coldness arm her waking breast.

But if she still obdurate prove,
O shoot thy sting.-The little smart
May teach her then to pity me
Transfix'd with Love's and Beauty's dart.

Ah no, forbear, to sting forbear;

Go, fly unto thy hive again,
Much rather let me die for her,
Than she endure the least of pain.

Go, fly unto thy hive again,
With more than Hybla-honey blest:
For Pope's sweet lips prepare the dew,
Or else for Love a nectar-feast.

THE MORNING LARK.
ANACREONTIC.

FEATHER'D lyric! warbling high,
Sweetly gaining on the sky,
Op'ning with thy matin-lay
(Nature's hymn!) the eye of day,
Teach my soul, on early wing,
Thus to soar and thus to sing.

ANNA MARIA. W**DF**RD1!
"Go, Anna!" Nature said, " to Oxford go:
(Anna! the fairest form and mind below,
Blest with each gift of Nature and of Art
To charm the reason or to fix the heart.)
Go with a sprightly wit and easy mien,
To prove the Graces four, the Muses ten.
I see the wits adore, the wise approve,

Ev'n fops themselves have almost sense to love.
When poets would describe a lip or eye,
They'll look on thee and lay their Ovids by.
I see a love-sick youth, with passion fir'd,
Hang on thy charms, and gaze to be inspir'd.
With asking eyes explain his silent woes,
Glow as he looks, yet tremble as he glows:
Then drunk with beauty, with a warmer rage,
Pour thy soft graces through the tragic-page.
He sighs; he bleeds;-to twilight shades he
flies:

Shakspeare he drops, and with his Otway dies.
This pomp of charms you owe to me alone,
The charms which scarce six thousand years have
That face illumin'd softly by the mind, [known.
That body, almost to a soul refin'd;

That sweetness, only to an angel giv'n;
That blush of innocence, and smile of Heav'n!
I bade thy cheeks with morning-purple glow;

I bade thy lips with nectar-spirit flow;

I bade the diamond point thy azure eyes,
Turn'd the fine waist, and taught the breast to rise.
Whether thy silver tides of music roll,
Or pencil on the canvass strikes a soul,
Or curious needle pricks a band or heart,
At once a needle, and at once a dart!
All own that nature is alone thy art.
Why thus I form'd thy body and thy mind
With sumless graces, prodigally kind,

The reason was,-but you in time will know it;-
One is, but that's the least-to make a poet."

MINERVA MISTAKEN.

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MINERVA last week (pray let no body doubt it) Went an airing from Oxford, six miles, or about it: When she spy'd a young virgin so blooming and fair, That, "O Venus," she cry'd, "is your ladyship Pray is not that Oxford? and lately you swore Neither you, nor one like you, should trouble us [fy'd?" Do you thus keep your promise? and am I deThe virgin came nearer and smiling reply'd: My goddess! what, have you your pupil for got?"[S?' -"Your pardon, my dear, is it you, Molly

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Written in a window at the Three-Tuns tavern, Oxford; May 29th, 1738.

THE MAGI.

A SACRED ECLOGUE.

No more in beauty's praise my numbers move,
Nor melt away in dying falls of love:

A child on Earth, yet Heav'n's eternal king,
The manger'd God, the Virgin's Son I sing. [flow,
Thou Fountain-Good, with light my soul o'er-
With hallow'd ardour bid my bosom glow!
Fir'd at the promise of thy dawning ray,
The eastern sages found celestial day.

Drawn by a leading flame, with sweet surprise,
The Infant Deity salutes their eyes.
The Heir-elect of Love his mother prest,
Smil'd in her arms, and wanton'd on her breast.
No jewels sparkle here, nor India's stores
The portals brighten or emblaze the doors.
But young-ey'd seraphims around him glow,
And Mercy spreads her many-colour'd bow!
Her bow, compos'd of new-created light,
How sweetly lambent and how softly bright!
The sacred circle of embodied rays

The cradle crowns, and round his temples plays.
So shines the rainbow round th' eternal throne
To shade the Holy, Holy, Holy One.
By turns the ruby bleeds a beam, by turns,
Smiles the green em'rald, and the topaz burns:
The various opal mingles every ray,
Fades into faintness, deepens into day:
Promiscuous lustre kindles half the skies,
Too slippery bright for keen seraphic eyes.
The venerable three, low-bending down,
Extend their offerings and the Godhead own.

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Ye planets, unregarded walk the skies,
Your glories lessen as his glories rise:
His radiant word with gold the Sun attires,
The Moon illumes, and lights the starry fires,

MAG. III.

Hail, Lord of Nature, hail! To thee belong My song, my life,-I give my life, my song: Walk in thy light, adore thy day alone, Confess thy love, and pour out all my own.

ON MR. POPE'S WORKS.

WRITTEN SOON AFTER HIS DEATH.

MAN not alone hath end: in measur'd time,
(So Heav'n has will'd) together with their snows
The everlasting hills shall melt away:
This solid globe dissolve as ductile wax
Before the breath of Vulcan; like a scroll
Shrivel th' unfolded curtains of the sky;

Thy planets, Newton, tumble from their spheres, | Just, as the Stagyrite; as Horace, free;

That lead harmonious on their mystic rounds:
The Moon be perish'd from her bloody orb;
The Sun himself, in liquid ruin, rush
And deluge with destroying flames the globe-
Peace then, my soul, nor grieve that Pope is dead.

If ere the tuneful spirit, sweetly strong, Spontaneous numbers, teeming in my breast, Enkindle; O, at that exalting name, Be favourable, be propitious now, While, in the gratitude of praise, I sing The works and wonders of this man divine.

I tremble while I write.-His lisping muse Surmounts the loftiest efforts of my age. "What wonder? when an infant, he apply'd The loud Papinian trumpet to his lips, Fir'd by a sacred fury, and inspir'd With all the god, in sounding numbers sung "Fraternal rage, and guilty Thebes' alarms."

Sure at his birth (things not unknown of old) The Graces round his cradle wove the dance, And led the maze of harmony: the Nine, Prophetic of his future honours, pour'd Plenteous, upon his lips Castalian dews; And attic bees their golden store distill'd. The soul of Homer, sliding from its star, Where, radiant, over the poetic world It rules and sheds its influence, for joy Shouted, and bless'd the birth: the sacred choir Of poets, born in elder, better times, Enraptur'd, catch'd the elevating sound,

As Fabian, clear; and as Petronius' gay.

But whence those peals of laughter shake the Of decent mirth? Am I in Fairy-land? [sides Young, evanescent forms, before my eyes, Or skim, or seem to skim; thin essences Of fluid light; Zilphs, Zilphids, Elves, and Gnomes; Genii of Rosicruce, and ladies' gods!— And, lo, in shining trails, Belinda's hair, Bespangling with dishevell'd beams the skies, Flames o'er the night. Behind, a Satyr grins And, jocund holds a glass, reflecting, fair, Hoops, crosses, mattadores; beaux, shocks, and Promiscuously whimsical and gay. Tassoni, hiding his diminish'd head, Droops o'er the laughing page; while Boileau With blushes cover'd, low beneath the desk.

[belles, [skulks,

More mournful scenes invite. The milky vein Of amorous grief devolves its placid wave Soft-streaming o'er the soul, in weeping woe And tenderness of anguish. While we read Th' infectious page, we sicken into love, And languish with involuntary fires. The Zephyr, panting on the silken buds Of breathing violets; the virgin's sigh, Rosy with youth, are turbulent and rude, To Sappho's plaint, and Eloisa's moan.

Heav'ns what a flood of empyréal day

My aching eyes involves! A Temple soars,
Rising like exhalations, on a mount,
And, wide, its adamantine valves expands.

And roll'd the glad'ning news from sphere to sphere. Three monumental columns, bright in air,

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Of figur'd gold, the centre of the quire
With lustre fill. Pope on the midmost shines
Betwixt his Homer and his Horace plac'd,
Superior by the hand of Justice. Fame,
With all her mouths th' eternal trumpet swells,
Exulting at his name; and, grateful, pours
The lofty notes of never-dying praise,
Triumphant, floating on the wings of wind,
Sweet o'er the world: th' ambrosial spirit flies
Diffusive, in its progress wid'ning still,

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Dear to the Earth, and grateful to the sky." Fame owes him more than e'er she can repay: She owes her very temple to his hands; Like Ilium built; by hands no less divine!

Attention, rouse thyself! the master's hand,
(The master of our souls!) has chang'd the key,
And bids the thunder of the battle roar
Tumultuous S. Homer, Homer is our own!
And Grecian heroes flame in British lines.
What pomp of words! what nameless energy
Kindles the verse; invigours every line;
Astonishes, and overwhelms the soul

In transport tost! when fierce Achilles raves,
And flashes, like a comet, o'er the field,
To wither armies with his martial frown;
I see the battle rage; I hear the wheels
Careering with their brazen orbs! The shout
Of nations rolls (the labour of the winds)—
Full on my ear, and shakes my inmost soul.

5 Rape of the Lock.

6 Ovid's Sappho to Phaon. And Eloise to Abelard.

7 Temple of Fame. 8 Translation of Homer.

ON A PRESENT OF THREE ROSES FROM IANTHE.

Description never could so well deceive:
'Tis real! Troy is here, or I at Troy
Enjoy the war. My spirits, all on fire,
With unextinguish'd violence are borne
Above the world, and mingle with the gods.
Olympus rings with arms! the firmament,
Beneath the lightning of Minerva's shield,
Burns to the centre: rock the tow'rs of Heav'n.
All Nature trembles! save the throne of Jove!-
Have mercy, Pope, and kill me not with joy:
'Tis tenfold rage, an agony of bliss!
Be less a god, nor force me to adore.

To root excesses from the human-breast,
Behold a beauteous pile of Ethic rise9;
Sense, the foundation; harmony, the walls;
(The Doric grave, and gay Corinthian join'd)
Where Socrates and Horace jointly reign.
Best of philosophers; of poets too
The best! He teaches thee thyself to know:
That virtue is the noblest gift of Heav'n:
"And vindicates the ways of God to man."
O hearken to the moralist polite!
Enter his school of truth; where Plato's self
Might preach; and Tully deign to lend an ear.

Last see him waging with the fools of rhyme
A wanton, harmless war 10. Dunce after dunce,
Beaux, doctors, templars, courtiers, sophs and cits,
Condemn'd to suffer life. The motley crew,
Emerging from Oblivion's muddy pool,
Give the round face to view, and shameless front
Proudly expose; till Laughter have her fill.

Born to improve the age, and cheat mankind
Into the road of Honour!-Vice again
The gilded chariot drives:-for he is dead!

I saw the sable barge, along his Thames,

In slow solemnity beating the tide,
Convey his sacred dust!-Its swans expir'd,
Wither'd in Twit'nam bow'rs the laurel-bough;
Silent the Muses broke their idle lyres:

Th' attendant Graces check'd the sprightly dance,
Their arms unlock'd, 'nd catch'd the starting tear,
And Virtue for her lost defender mourn'd!

EPITAPH ON MY FATHER'.

IN THE

PARISH CHURCH OF BROUGH, WESTMORELAND.

DEAR to the wise and good by all approv'd,
The joy of Virtue, and Heaven's well-belov'd!
His life inspir'd with every better art,

A learned head, clear soul, and honest heart.
Each science chose his breast her favourite seat,
Each language, but the language of deceit.
Severe his virtues, yet his manners kind,
A mauly form, and a seraphic mind.
So long he walk'd in Virtue's even road,
In him at length, 'twas natural to do good.

Ethic Epistles. 10 Dunciad.

1 Francis Thompson, B. D. senior fellow of Queen's College, Oxford, and vicar of Brough thirty-two years. He departed this life Aug. 31, 1735, aged 70.

29

Like Eden2, his old age (a sabbath rest!)
Flow'd without noise, yet all around him blest!
His patron, Jesus! with no titles grac'd,
But that best title, a good parish priest.
Peace with his ashes dwell. And, mortals, know,
The saint's above; the dust alone below.
The wise and good shall pay their tribute here,
The modest tribute of one thought and tear;
Then pensive sigh, and say, " To me be given
By living thus on Earth, to reign in Heaven."

EPITAPH ON MY MOTHER'.
IN THE

PARISH CHURCH OF BROUGH, WESTMORELAND.
HERE rests a pattern of the female life,

The woman, friend, the mother, and the wife.
A woman form'd by Nature, more than art,
With smiling ease to gain upon the heart.
A friend as true as guardian-angels are,
Kindness her law, humanity her care.
A mother sweetly tender, justly dear,
Oh! never to be nam'd without a tear.
A wife of every social charm possest,
Blessing her husbands-in her husbands biest.
Love in her heart, compassion in her eye,
Her thoughts as humble, as her virtues high.
Her knowledge useful, nor too high, nor low,
To serve her Maker, and herself to know.
Born to relieve the poor, the rich to please,
To live with honour, and to die in peace.
So full her hope, her wishes so resign'd,
Her life so blameless, so unstain'd her mind,
Heav'n smil'd to see, and gave the gracious nod,
Nor longer wou'd detain her from her God.

WRITTEN IN THE HOLY BIBLE.
YE sacred tomes, be my unerring guide,
Dove-hearted saints, and prophets eagle-ey'd!
I scorn the moral-fop, and ethic-sage,
But drink in truth from your illumin'd page:
Like Moses-bush each leaf divinely bright,
Where God invests himself in milder light!
Taught by your doctrines we devoutly rise,
Faith points the way, and Hope unbars the skies.
You tune our passions, teach them how to roil,
And sink the body but to raise the soul;
To raise it, bear it to mysterious day,
Nor want an angel to direct the way!

ON A PRESENT OF
THREE ROSES FROM IANTHE.

THREE roses to her humble slave
The mistress of the Graces gave:

2 The river Eden runs near Brough.

1 She departed this life October 35, 1737, aged 65.

Her former husband was Jos. Fisher, M. A. fellow of Queen's College, Oxford, vicar of Brough and arch-deacon of Carlisle; by whom she had no children.

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