* ΤΟ Α

FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.

AN ODE.

AUSPICIOUS Sprung the morning into light,
By Love selected from the golden tide
Of Time, illustrious with peculiar white,
And mended from the blushes of the bride.

The Muse observ'd the fond approaching hour,
And thus her Philo's gentle ear addrest:
"Behold, descending from yon maiden tow'r
The beauteous object of thy eyes and breast.

"Fair issuing, down the hill I see her move,
Like the sweet morn, in dews and blushes gay:
You, like the bridegroom Sun, her charms ap-
And warm her dawning glories into day. [prove;

"I own the radiant magic of her eyes,
But more the graces of her soul admire;
Those may lay traps for lovers, fops and flies,
But these the husband and the Muse inspire.

"A husband is a venerable name!
O happy state, when heart is link'd to heart!
Nor less the honour of the wedded-dame:
Sweet interchange! which only Death can part.

"O blest with gentle manners, graceful ease;
Gay, yet not trifling; serious, yet not grave;
Skilful, to charm the wits; the wise to please;
Tho' beauteous, humble; and tho' tender, brave.

"Riches and honours wait on either name:
But they in life are but the last desert:
Your richer happiness and fairer fame,
Shall be the good behaviour of the heart.

"When such the wonders both of form and mind,
What rapture fancy'd, reason will approve;
By time your inclinations be refin'd;
And youth be spent in passion; age in love?"

Thus far the Muse, When Hymen, from the sky,
The lovers in the band of Concord ty'd;
The Virtues and the Graces too were by,
And Venus left her cestus with the bride,

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WEARING,

THE FAMOUS MUSICIAN AT OXFORD.

POOR Wearing to the shades is gone,
Like Orpheus, by mishap:

Not gone to seek his wife, but gone,
To leave her in-a scrape.

We find the Sisters three are deaf,

Since Wearing now is dead;

For had the Fates but heard his strings,

They wou'd have spar'd his thread.

Death heard his notes, and heard well-pleas'd, So drew his fatal lance;

Death will keep holyday; and he

Must play to Holben's dance,

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following tale is related by Pausanias, in Achaicis, Græciæ, lib. 7.; but instead of giving the original, or the Latin version by Romulus Amasæus (both which the learned reader may find in the edition published by Joach. Kuhnius in fol. Lipsia, 1696, pag. 575), I shall content myself with the translation of the story into English, as it is done from the Greek in the learned and ingenious travels of sir G. Wheeler : which book, upon many accounts, deserves to be reprinted and made more common.

"Coresus, the priest of Bacchus, fell in love with a fair virgin of Calydon, called Callirhoe; who the more she was courted, the more she despised the priest; so that neither his rich presents, vows, nor tears could move her to the

I live but on the thought of thee; my breast
Bleeds in ine, with distress to see thee frown.
O smile! by thy dead mother's reverend dust,
By all thy bowels are most fond of, smile,
And chase these heavy clouds of grief away.
I beg by Bacchus; for his sake be kind."

Here, interrupted by the swelling storm
Of passion labouring in his breast, his words
Gave way for sighs and tears to speak the rest.
She, in contempt'ous derision, smil'd,

To which her frowns were innocent; and thus:
"Thy staggering Pow'r, and thee I scorn alike;
Him I despise, for choosing thee his priest;
Thee, for thy arrogance and courtship vile."

Indignant he, in wrathful mood (alarm'd More at his god revil'd, than scorn for him) First casting on the ground his mitred-crown, With hands and eyes uplifted, ardent, pray'd:

"Offspring of Jove, Eva Lyæus, hear!
If e'er these hands with ivy wreaths thy brow
Circled, and twining tendrils of the vine:
If e'er my grateful tongue, big with thy praise,
Eve Lyæus! Io Bacchus! sung:

If e'er thy servant on thy altars pour'd,
Copious, the purple wave of offer'd wine,
And, busy, fed the consecrated fire
With fat of ass, or hog, or mountain-goat;
Devoutly lavish in the sacrifice:

Avenge thy priest; this cursed race destroy:
Thy honours violated thus, avow;

Till they confess this staggering pow'r a god."

The frantic crowd, as if with wine possest,
And the strong spirit of the flaming grape,
To and fro reel, and stagger to and fro,
In dithyrambic measures, wild, convolv'd.
They toss their cymbals, and their torches shake,
Shrieking, and tear their hair, and gash their flesh,
And howl, and foam, and wheel the rapid dance
In giddy maze: with fury then o'erborn,
Enthusiastic, whirling in despair,
Flat, drop down dead! and heaps on heaps expire.

Amaz'd, confounded at the raging pest,
The venerable fathers, in debate,
To speed inquiring deputies, resolv'd,
To high Dodona's grove; with vocal oaks
Umbrageous, aged, vast, the struggling day
Excluding: the prime oracle of Greece!

Obsequious, they haste: inquire: return: And thus the counsels of the god disclose:

"The rage of Bacchus for his injur'd priest,
Coresus, by Callirhoe's scorn repuls'd,
Your city wastes: and with funereal fires
Your streets shall redden, formidably bright,
Till by Coresus' hand the cruel maid

A sacrifice be offer'd up: or one,

Free, uncompell'd, embrace the destin'd steel,
Devoted in her stead; and bleed for her.

So you'll appease the god; the plague be stay'd."

They said. Staring affright, and dumb amaze The fathers seize: but chief, Æneùs, thee, Callirhoe's old miserable sire!

Tenfold affliction to the grave weighs down
Thy silver'd hairs. But Fate and Heav'n require.

Soon through the city spread the news, and soon Wounded Callirhoe's ear. Her spindle drops Neglected from her hand. Prone on the floor,

She falls, she faints; her breath, her colour fled:
Pale, cold and pale. Till, by assisting care,
The fragrant spirit hovers o'er her lips,
And life returning streams in rosy gales;
Rekindled only to despair. She knew
The virgins envy'd; and the injur'd youth
Stung with her scorn, would wanton in her wounds,
Nor one, one offer up the willing breast
A victim for her life. And now the crowd,
Impatient of their miseries, besiege
The marble portal; burst the bolted gates;
Demand Callirhoe; furious to obey
The oracle, and pacify the god.

What pangs, unhappy maid, thy bosom tear, Sleepless, and sad? relenting now too late, Thy stubborn cruelty. Coresus' charms Blaze on thy mind; his unexampled love, His every virtue rising to thy thought. Just in his fury, see the pointed steel

Waves, circling, o'er thy throbbing breast: he He riots in thy blood with dire delight; [strikes; Insatiate! He gluts his heart of rage

With thy warm gushing life; and death enjoys, Redoubling wound on wound, and blow on blow.

Thus pass'd her hours. And now the dewy morn The mountains tipp'd with gold, and threatened Without the city gates, a fountain wells [day. Its living waters, clear as shining glass: Haunt of the Nymphs! A cypress' aged arms Threw round a venerable gloom, and seem'd Itself a grove. An altar on the brink Convenient rose: for holy custom wills Each victim to be sprinkled with its streams, New from pollution, worthier of the god. Fierce for the sacrifice, Coresus here Waited; and, stimulated with revenge, He curs'd and chid the lazy-circling hours Too slow, as if injurious to his hate.

But soon the gath'ring crowd and shouts proCallirhoe near. Her weeping damsels lead [claim The destin'd offering, lovely in distress, And sparkling through her tears. A myrtle crown With roses glowing, and selected green, Th' ambrosial plenty of her golden hair Entwine: in looks, a Venus; and a Grace In motion. Scarce the flow'rs of sixteen springs The fields had painted, since Æneùs first Fondled his babe, and blest her on his knee. Ev'n mountain-clowns, who never pity knew, Relented, and the hardest heart wept blood, Subdu'd by beauty, tho' the fatal source Of all their misery. What tumults then Roll in thy breast, Coresus! while thy hands The purifying waters on her head Pour'd trembling; and the sacred knife unsheath'd!

Wiping the silver-streaming tears away, She with a look nor cheerful, nor dismay'd,

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 g'er her beauties, strangely wild,
With eyes wh, ch witness'd huge dismay and love,
"Thus, thus 1 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, whene'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.

[there?

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 forgot?"[S?" "Your pardon, my dear, is it you, Molly

more.

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