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Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds,
As Fame reports it, with the gods,
Him frantic hunger wildly drives
Against a thoufand authors' lives:
Tarorgh all the fields of wit he flies;
Dreadful his wit-with cluft'ring eyes,
With horns without, and tulks within,
And scales to ferve him for a skin.
Oberve him nearly, left he climb
To wound the bards of ancient time,
O: down the vale of Fancy go,
To tear fome modern wretch below.
On ev'ry corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he flips thee by.
See where his teeth a paffage eat:
We'll rouse him from the deep retreat.
But who the shelter's forc'd to give?
Tis facred Virgil, as I live;
For leaf to leaf, from fong to fong1
E: draws the tadpole form along;
he mounts the gilded edge before;
He's up, he feuds the cover o'er;
Fetas, he doubles, there he pass 'd;
And here we have him, caught at last,
letate brute, whofe teeth abuse
The teft fervants of the Muse!
Ny, never offer to deny,
I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His roues nipt in ev'ry page,

My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;
By thee my Ovid wounded lies;
By thee my Lefbia's fparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd;
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And fail'd the Blouzelind of Gay,
For all, for ev'ry fingle deed,
Relentless Juftice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myself the priest, my desk the fhrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Tafso near,
To pile a facred altar here:

Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,
You've reach'd the plays that Dennis writ:
You've reach'd me Philips' ruftic ftrain;
Pray take your mortal Bards again.

Come, bind the victim-there he lies,
And here between his num'rous eyes
Ths venerable duft I lay,
From manufcripts just swept away,
The goblet in my hand I take
(For the libation's yet to make)
A health to poets all their days,
May they have bread, as well as praise ;
bene may they feek, and lefs engage
In papers fill'd with party rage:
Ber, if their riches spoil their vein,
Ye Mufes, make them poor again.

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
Itrike the scales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The facred altar floats with red,
And now he dies, and now he's dead.

How like the son of Jove I ftand,
This Hydra ftretch'd beneath my hand I
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To fee what dangers threat the year:
Ye gods! what fonnets on a wench 1
What lean tranflations out of French!
'Tis plain this lobe is fo unfound,
Sprints before the months go round.
But hold-before I close the scene,
The facred altar fhould be clean.
Oh had I Shadwell's fecond bays,
Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never mifs'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the fhrine
(That only way you please the Nine ;)
But fince I chance to want these two,
I'll make the fongs of Durfey do.

Rent from the corpfe, on yonder pin
I hang the fcales that brac'd it in;
I hang my ftudious morning gown,
And write my own infcription down:

"This trophy from the Python won, "This robe in which the deed was done "Thefe, Parnell, glorying in the feat, "Hung on thefe fhelves, the Mufes' feat. "Here ignorance and hunger found "Large realms of wit to ravage round: "Here ignorance and hunger fell, "Two foes in one I fent to hell. "Ye poets, who my labours fee, "Come fhare the triumph all with me! "Ye critics! born to vex the Muse, "To mourn the grand ally you lose.".

$43. An Imitation of fome French Verfes Parnell,

RELENTLESS Time! deftroying power,
Whom tone and brafs obey,
Who giv't to ev'ry flying hour
To work fome new decay;
Unheard, unheeded, and unseen,
Thy fecret faps prevail,

And ruín man, a nice machine,
By nature form'd to fail.

My change arrives; the change I meet
Before I thought it nigh:
My fpring, my years of pleafure, fleet,
And all their beauties die.

In age I fearch, and only find

A poor unfruitful gain-
Grave wisdom ftalking flow behind,
Opprefs'd with loads of pain.
My ignorance could once beguile,
And fancied joys infpire;
My errors cherish'd hope to fmile

On newly-born defire.

But now experience fhews the bifs,
For which I fondly fought,

Not worth the long impatient with.
And ardour of the thought,
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My

My youth met Fortune fair array'd;

In all her pomp the fhone,
And might perhaps have well effay'd
To make her gifts my own;
But when I faw the bleffings fhow'r
On fome unworthy mind,

I left the chace, and own'd the pow'r
Was justly painted blind.

I pafs'd the glories which adorn

The fplendid courts of kings;
And, while the perfons mov'd my scorn,
I rose to scorn the things.
My manhood felt a vig'rous fire,

By love increas'd the more;
But years with coming years confpire
To break the chains I wore.

In weakness fafe, the fex I fee

With idle luftre shine;

For what are all their joys to me,

Which cannot now be mine!

But hold-I feel my gout decrease

My troubles laid to rest ;

And truths which would disturb my peace
Are painful truths at best.

Vainly the time I have to roll
In fad reflection flies!

Ye fondling passions of my foul!
Ye fweet deceits! arise.

I wifely change the scene within
To things that us'd to please ;
In pain, philofophy is spleen;
In health, 'tis only eafe.

§ 44. Ad Amicos*. R. Weft.
YES, happy youths, on Camus' fedgy fide,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide ;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raise the genius, or the heart to mend ;
Now pleas'd along the cloister'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where focial oft, and oft alone, you choose
To catch the zephyr, and to court the Mufe.
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art

Thefe lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the pow`r, that comes or foon or late,
Or aims, or feems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks, alone I stand,
Like fome fad exile in a defert land:
Around no friends their lenient care to join
In mutual warmth, and mix their beart with

mine.

Or real pains, or thofe which fancy raife, For ever blot the funfhine of my days; To fickness ftill, and still to grief a prey, Health turns from me her rofy face away.

Juft Heav'n! what fin, ere life begins to bloom,

Devotes my head untimely to the tomb?
Did e'er this hand against a brother's life
Drug thedire bowl,or point the murd`rous knife?
Did e'er this tongue the flanderer'stale proclaim,
Or madly violate my Maker's name?
Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the worldmight know?
As yet, just started from the lifts of time,
My growing years have scarcely told their prime;
Ufelefs, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tafted, and few duties done.
Ah who, ere autumn's mellowing funs appear,
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude clutter from the mourning fpray?
Stern pow'r of Fate, whose ebon fceptre rules
The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rafhly fmite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;
Ah, ftay till age fhall blaft my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the fhaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing fhade shall go.

How weak is Man to Reafon's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire,
In vain our plans of happiness we raile,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise;
Wealth, lineage, honours, conqueft, or a throne,
Are what the wife would fear to call their own,
Health is at beft a vain precarious thing,
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing;
'Tis like the ftream befide whofe wat'ry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head;
Nurs'd by the wave the spreading branches rife,
Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in fecret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below:
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey;
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And finks, untimely, in the whelming tide.
But why repine? Does life deferve my figh?
Few will lament my lofs whene'er I die.
For thofe, the wretches I defpife or hate,
I neither envy nor regard their fate.
[Spread
For me, whene'er all-conquering Death fhall
His wings around my unrepining head,
I care not: tho' this face be feen no more,
The world will pafs as cheerful as before;
Bright as before the day-ftar will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor ftorms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor figns on earth, nor portents in the air;
Unknown and filent will depart my breath,
Nor nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet fome there are (ere fpent my vital days)
Within whofe breasts my tomb I wish to raife.

Lov'd

• Almost all Tibullus's Elegy is imitated in this little Piece, from whence his tranfition to Mr. Pope's letter is very artfully contrived, and befpeaks a degree of judgment much beyond Mr. Weft's years.

Then while the gardens take my fight, With all the colours of delight; [dear; While filver waters glide along,

Lov'd in my life, lamented in my end, Their praife would crown me, as their precepts mend :

To them may these fond lines my name enNot from the poet but the friend fincere.

45. Hymn to Contentment. Parnell. LOVELY, lafting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human kind! Heavenly born, and bred on high, To crown the fav'rites of the sky, With more of happiness below The victors in a triumph know! Whither, oh whither art thou fled, To by thy meek contented head? What happy region doft thou please To make the feat of calms and ease? Ambition fearches all its sphere Of pomp and ftate, to meet thee there: cafing avarice would find Tay prefence in its gold enshrin'd: The bold advent'rer ploughs his way Tough rocks, amidst the foaming fea, Tan thy love; and then perceives Tvert not in the rocks and waves: Teat heart which grief affails, Infoft and lonesome o'er the vales, Se cafies open, rivers run, And feeks (as I have vainly done) Adding thought; but learns to know That folitude's the nurse of woe. No real happiness is found

a trading purple o'er the ground; Orina foul exalted high, Tonge the circuit of the sky, Convert with ftars above, and know Al Nature in its forms below; The rent it feeks, in seeking dies; And doubts at laft for knowledge rise. Lovely, lafting Peace, appear; The world itself, if thou art here, a once again with Eden bleft, And man contains it in his breast. Twas thus, as under shade I stood, Ing my wishes to the wood, And loft in thought, no more perceiv'd The branches whisper as they wav'd: feem'd as all the quiet place Confefs'd the prefence of his When thus the fpoke: Go rule thy will, thy wild paffions all be still; Know God, and bring thy heart to know The joys which from religion flow; Then ev'ry grace fhall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the reft. Oh! by yonder mossy seat, In my hours of sweet retreat, Might I thus my foul employ, With fenfe of gratitude and joy: Rais'd, as ancient prophets were, a beavenly vifion, praise, and pray'r; Fing all men, hurting none, F'd and bleft with God alone ;

grace,

To please my ear, and court my fong;
I'll lift my voice and tune my ftring,
And thee, Great Source of Nature, fing.
The fun that walks his airy way,
To light the world and give the day;
The moon that thines with borrow'd light;
The ftars that gild the gloomy night;
The feas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its fhady leaves;
The field whofe ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treafure of the plain:
All of thefe, and all I fee,
Should be fung, and fung by me:
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and afk the tongue of man.
Go fearch among your idle dreams,
Your bufy or your vain extremes;
And find a life of equal blifs,

Or own the next begun in this.

.

§ 46. An Addrefs to Winter. Cowper.
OH Winter! ruler of th' inverted year,
Thy fcatter'd hair with fleet like afhes fill'd,
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fring'd with a beardmade white with other fnows
Than thofe of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds;
A leaflefs branch thy fceptre; and thy throne
A fliding car indebted to no wheels,
But urg'd by storms along its flippery way;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou feem'it,
And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'ft the fun
A pris'ner in the yet undawning east,
Short'ning his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him impatient of his stay
Down to the rofy weft: But kindly still
Compenfating his lofs with added bours
Of focial converfe and inftructive ease,
And gathering at fhort notice in one group
The family difpers'd, and fixing thought,
Not lefs difpers'd by day-light and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-fide enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.
No rattling wheels ftop fhort before these gates 3
No powder'd pert, proficient in the art
Of founding an alarm, affaults these doors
Till the ftreet rings. No ftationary steeds
Coughtheir own knell, whileheedless of thefound
The filent circle fan themfelves, and quake ;
But here the needle plies its bufy task,
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r
Wrought patiently into the fnowy lawn
Unfolds its bofom, buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully difpos'd,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair,

A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow
With most fuccefs when all befides decay.
The poet's or historian's page, by one

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Made vocal for th' amufement of the reft; Thefprightlylyre, whosetrcafure of sweet founds The touch from many a trembling chord fhakes

out;

And the clear voice fymphonious, yet diftinct,
And in the charming ftrife triumphant til,
Beguile the night, and fet a keener edge
On female industry; the threaded steel
Flies fwiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The volume clos'd, the customary rites
Of the laft meal commence.' A Roman meal,
Such as the mistress of the world once found
Delicious, when her patriots of high note,
Perhaps by moon-light, at their humble doors,
And under an old oak's domestic fhade,
Enjoy'd, fpare feast, a radish and an egg.
Difcourfe enfues, not trivial, yet not dull,
Nor fuch as with a frown forbids the play
Of fancy, or prefcribes the found of mirth.
Nor do we madly, like an impious world,
Who deem religion phrenfy, and the God
That made them an intruder on their joys,
Start at his awful hame, or deem his praife
A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone
Exciting oft our gratitude and love,
While we retrace with memory's pointing wand,
That calls the paft to our exact review,
The dangers we have 'fcap'd, the broken fnare,
The difappointed foe, deliv'rance found
Unlook'd for, life preferv'd and peace reftor'd,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.

Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd
The Sabine bard. Oh, evenings! I reply,
More to be priz'd and coveted than yours,
As more illumin'd and with nobler truths,
That I, and Mine, and thofe we love, enjoy,

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To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore, ftill, blame-worthy as thou art,
With all thy lofs of empire, and though fqueez'd
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account ftill happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free!
My native nook of earth thy clime is rude,
Replete with vapours, and difpofes much
All hearts to fadness, and none more than mine;
Thine unadult rate manners are less foft
And plaufible than focial life requires,
And tacu haft need of discipline and art
To give thee what politer Fiance receives

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From Nature's bounty-that humane address
And fweetnefs, without which no pleasure is
In converfe, either ftarv'd by cold referve,
Or fuf'd with fierce difpute, a fenfeless brawl;
Yet, being free, I love thee: For the fake
Of that one feature, can be well content,
Difgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art,
To feek no fublunary reft befide.

But, once enflav'd, farewel! I could endure
Chains no where patiently; and chains at home,
Where I am free by birthright, not at all.
Then what were left of roughness in the grain
Of British natures, wanting its excufe
That it belongs to freemen, would difguft
And shock me. I thould then with double pain
Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And if I muft bewail the bleffing loft
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,
I would at leaft bewail it under skies
Milder, among a people lefs auftere,
In fcenes which having never known me free,
Would not reproach me with the lofs I ftit.

§48. Defcription of a Poet. Cowper. KNOW the mind that feels indeed the fire Acts with a force and kindles with a zeal, The mufe imparts, and can command the lyre, If human woes her foft attention claim, Whate'er the theme, that others never feel, A tender fympathy pervades the frame; She pours a fenfibility divine Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line. But if a deed not tamely to be borne Fire indignation, and a sense of scorn, The ftrings are fwept with fuch a pow'r,fo loud, The ftorm of mufic thakes the aftonifh'd crowd. So when remote futurity is brought Before the keen enquiry of her thought, A terrible fagacity informs

The Poet's heart, he looks to diftant storms,
He hears the thunder ere the tempeft low'rs,
And, arm'd with strength furpaffing human
pow'rs,

Seizes events as yet unknown to man,
And darts his foul into the dawning plan.
Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name
Of Prophet and of Poet was the fame;
Hence British poets too the priesthood fhar'd,
And ev'ry hallow'd Druid was a bard.

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The favage race (fo heaven decrees)
No longer through the foreft rove;
All nature refts, and not a breeze,
Disturbs the ftillness of the grove.
All nature refts; in Sleep's foft arms
The village fwain forgets his care:
Step, that the fting of forrow charms,
And heals all fadnefs but defpair.
Defpair alone her pow'r denies;
And, when the fun withdraws his rays,
To the wild beach diftracted flies,

Cr cheerlefs through the defert ftrays;
Or, to the church-yard's horrors led,
While fearful echoes burft around,
Ca fome cold stone he leans his head,
Or throws his body on the ground:
To fome fuch drear and folemn fcene,
Same friendly pow'r direct my way,
Where pale misfortune's haggard train,
Sad luxury delight to stray.
Wrapp'd in the folitary gloom,
Retir'd from life's fantastic crew,
Riga'd I'll wait my final doom,
And bid the bufy world adieu.
Theld has now no joy for me,
Nor can life now one pleasure boast;
Since al my eyes defir'd to fee,

My with, my hope, my all, is loft;
Ence the, fo form'd to please and bless,
So wife, fo innocent, so fair,

Whole converfe fweet made forrow lefs, And brighten'd all the gloom of careSince he is loft. Ye pow'rs divine,

What have I done, or thought or faid? O fay, what horrid act of mine

Has drawn this vengeance on my head! Why should Heaven favour Lycon's claim? Why are my heart's best wishes crofs'd? What fairer deeds adorn his name? What nobler merit can he boast? What higher worth in him was found My true heart's fervice to outweigh? A senfelefs fop! a dull compound Of icarcely animated clay: He drefs'd indeed, he danc'd with ease, And charm'd her by repeating o'er Cameaning raptures in her praife, That twenty fools had told before: B Lalas! who thought all art

My paffion's force would meanly prove, Could only boaft an honest heart,

And claim'd no merit but my love. Hare I not fat-ye conscious hours, Be witnefs while my Stella fung From morn to eve, with all my pow'rs Kapt in th' enchantment of her tongue! Te confcious hours that faw me stand Eatranc'd in wonder and surprise, Lalent rapture press her hand, With pallion burting from my eyes

Have I not lov'd?. O earth and heaven! Where now is all my youthful boat; The dear exchange I hop'd was given

For flighted fame and fortune loft? Where now the joys that once were mine? Where all my hopes of future blifs? Muft I thofe joys, thofe hopes, refign? Is all her friendship come to this? Muft then each woman faithless prove, And each fond lover be undone ? Are vows no more? Almighty love, The fad remembrance let me fhun! It will not be: my honeft heart The dear fad image ftill retains; And, fpite of reafon, fpite of art, The dreadful memory remains. Ye Pow'rs divine, whofe wond'rous skill Deep in the womb of time can fee, Behold, I bend me to your will,

Nor dare arraign your high decree. Let her be bleft with health, with ease, With all your bounty has in store; Let forrow cloud my future days;

Be Stella bleft; I ask no more.

But, lo! where high in yonder east

The star of morning mounts apace Hence! let me fly th unwelcome guest And bid the Mufe's labour cease.

ELEGY II.

WHEN, young, life's journey I began,
The glittering profpect charm'd my eyes,
I faw along th' extended plan

Joy after joy fucceffive rife;

And Fame her golden trumpet blew ;

And Pow'r difplay'd her gorgeous charms;
And Wealth engag'd my wandering view;
And Pleasure woo'd me to her arms;
To each by turns my vows I paid,

As Folly led me to admire;
While Fancy magnified each shade,
And Hope increas'd each fond defire.
But foon I found 'twas all a dream;

And learn'd the fond pursuit to shun,
Where few can reach their purpos'd aim,
And thousands daily are undone :

And Fame, I found, was empty air;

And Wealth and Terror for her gueft; And Pleafure's path was ftrewn with Care; And Pow'r was vanity at best. Tir'd of the chace, I gave it o'er;

And, in a far fequefter'd shade, To Contemplation's fober pow'r

My youth's next fervices I paid.
There Health and Peace adorn'd the scene;
And oft, indulgent to my pray`r,

With mirthful eye and frolic mien,
The Mufe would deign to visit there,

There

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