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Soon as the Sun the face of Nature gilds, That moving shade, that pendant at liis ear,
For health and pleasure will we range the fields ; That two-legy'd doy, still pawing on the peer.
O'er her gay scenes and opening beauties run, Studying his looks, and watching at the board,
While all the vast creation is our own.

He gapes to catch the droppings of my lord;
But when his golden globe with faded light And, tickled to the soul at every joke,
Yields to the solemn empire of the night ;

Like a press'd watch, repeats what t'other spoke :
And in her sober majesty the Moon

Ecbo to nonsense! such a scene to hear! With milder glories mounts her silver throne; 'Tis just like Punch and his interpreter. Amidst ten thousand orbs with splendour crown'd, On trifles some are carnestly absurd, That pour their tributary beams around;

You'll think the world depends on ev'ry word. Through the long levell’d tube our strengthen'd sight Wbat, is not every mortal free to speak? Shall inark distinct the spangles of the night; I'll give my reasons, tho' I break iny neck.” From world to world shall dart the boundless eyc, And what's the question ?-if it shines or rains, And stretch from star to star, from sky to sky. Whether it is twelve or fifteen miles to Staines. The buzzing insect families appear,

The wretch reduc'd to rags by every vice, When suns unbind the rigour of the year;

Pride, projects, races, mistresses, and dice, Quick glance the niyriads round the evening bower, The rich rogue shuns, though full as bad as he, Hosts of a day, or nations of an bour.

And knows a quarrel is good husbandry. (pelf,
Astonish'd we shall see th' unfolding race,

“ 'This strange," cries Peter, “ you are out of
Stretch'd out in bulk, within the polish'd glass ; I'm sure I thought you wiser than myself;"
Through whose small convex a new world we spy, Yet gives him nothing-but advice too late,
Ne'er seen before, but by a seraph's eye!

Retrench, or rather mortgage your estate,
So long in darkness shut from human kind

I can advance the sum,-'tis best for both;
Lay half God's wonders to a point confiu'd ! But henceforth cut your coat to match your cloth.
But in one peopled drop we now survey

A minister, in mere revenge and sport,
In pride of power some little monster play ; Shall give his foc a paltry place at court.
O'er tribes invisible he reigns alone,

The dupe for every royal birth-day buys
And struts a tyrant of a world his own.

New horses, coaches, clothes, and liveries;
Now will we study Homer's awful page, Plies at the levee, and distinguish'd there
Now warın our souls with Pindar's noble rage : Lives on the royal wbisper for a year;
To English lays shall Flaccus' lyre be strung, Ilis wenches shine in Brussels and brocade!
And lofty Virgil speak the British tougue.

And now the wretch, ridiculously mad,
Immortal Virgil ! at thy sacred name

Draws on his banker, mortgages and fails, I tremble now, and now I pant for fame;

Then to the country runs away from jails : With eager hopes this moment I aspire

There, ruin'd by the court, he sells a vote
To catch or emulate thy glorious fire ;

To the next burgess, as of old he bought;
The next pursue the rash attempt no more, Rubs down the steeds which once his chariot bore,
But drop the quill, bow, wonder, and adore ; Or sweeps the town, which once he serv'd before.
By thy strong genius overcome and aw'd !

But, by this roving meteor led, I tend
That fire from Heaven ! that spirit of a god! Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend.
Pleas'd and transported with thy name I tend Then take advice; I preach not out of time,
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend ; When good lord Middlesex is bent on rhyme.
And from my first design by rapture led,

Their humour check’d, or inclination cross'd,
Neglect the living poet for the dead.

Sometimes the friendship of the great is lost.
Uniess call'd out to wench, be sure comply,
Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by :

For your reward you gain his love, and dine
EPISTLE TO MR. SPENCE.

On the best venison and the best French wine :

Nor to lord ****** make the observation,
LORD MIDDLESEX,

How the twelve peers have answer'd their creation,
IN IMITATION OP HORACE, BOOK I. EPIST. XVIII. Nor in your wine or wrath betray your trust,

Be silent still, and obstinately just : Spence, with a friend you pass the hours away Explore no secrets, draw no characters, In pointed jokes, yet innocently gay:

For Echo will repeat, and walls have ears: You ever differ'd from a flatterer more,

Nor let a busy fool a secret know, Than a chaste lady from a flaunting whore. i

A secret gripes him till he lets it go : 'Tis true you rallied every fault you found,

Words are like bullets, and we wish in vain, But gently tickled, while you cur'd the wound:

When once discharg'd, to call them back again. Unlike the paultry poets of the town,

* Rogues who expose themselves for half a crown: * * * * * And still impose on every soul they meet

Defend, dear Spence, the honest and the civil,
Rudeness for sense, and ribaldry for wit:

But to cry up a rascal that's the devil.
Who, though half-starv'd, in spite of time and place, Who guards a good man's character, 'tis knowa,
Repeat their rhymes, though dinner stays for grace: At the same time protects and guards his own.
And as their poverty their dresses fit,

For as with houses 'tis with people's names,
They think of course a sloven is a wit;

A shed may set a palace all on flames; But sense (a truth these coxcombs ne'er suspect) The fire neglected on the cottage preys, Lies just 'twixt affectation and neglect.

But mounts at last into a general blaze. One step still lower, if you can, descend,

'Tis a fine thing, some think, a ford to know ; To the mean wretch, the great man's humble friend ; | I wish his tradesmen could but think so too.

WHEN TUTOR

TO

a

a

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* *

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*

a

He gives his word--then all your hopes are gone : From hopes or fears your quiet to defend,
He gives his honour-then you're quite undone. To all mankind as to yourself a friend,
His and some women's love the same are found ; And, sacred from the world, retir'd, unknown,
You rashly board a fireship, and are drown'd. To lead a life with inortals like his own.

Most folks so partial to themselves are grown, When to delicious Pimperne I retire,
They hate a temper differing from their own. What greater bliss, my Spence, can I desire ?
The grave abhor the gay, the gay the sad, Contented there my easy hours I spend
And formalists pronounce the witty mad : With maps, globes, books, my bottle, and a friend.
The sot, who drinks six bottles in a place, There can I live upon my income still,
Swears at the flinchers who refuse their glass. E’en though the house should pass the Quakers' bill:
Would you not pass for an ill-natured man, Yet to my share should some good prebend fall,
Comply with every humour that you can. I think myself of size to fill a stall.

Pope will instruct you how to pass away For life or wealth let Heaven my lot assign, Your time like him, and never lose a day; A firm and even soul shall still be mine,

1

THE

POEMS

OF

JAMES THOMSON.