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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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From hence in vain shall Belzebub rebel. Anubis howls, and Moloch sinks to Hell.

MAG. I.

Here lows a bull; a golden gleam adorns The circling honours of his beamy horns. He safely lows, nor fears the holy knife, No sacrifice from hence shall drink his life.

MAG. II.

Ye gardens, blush with never-fading flow'rs,
For ever smile, ye meads, and blow, ye bow'rs:
Bleat, all ye hills, be whiten'd, all ye plains;
O Earth, rejoice! th' Eternal Shepherd reigns.

MAG. III.

Ye lilies, dip your leaves in falling snow,
Ye roses, with the eastern-scarlet glow,
To crown the God: ye angels, haste to pour
Your rain of nectar, and your starry show'r.

MAG. I. Offers gold.

The ore of India ripens into gold,

To gild thy courts, thy temple to infold. Accept thy emblematic gift; again Saturnian years revolve a golden reign!

MAG. II. Offers frankincense.

For thee Arabia's happy forests rise,
And clouds of odours sweetly stain the skies.
While fragrant wreaths of smoking incense roll,
Receive our pray'rs, the incense of the soul!

MAG. III. Offers myrrh.

The weeping myrrh with balmy sorrow flows,
Thy cup to sweeten and to sooth thy woes:
So prophets sing; for (human and divine)
The man was born to grieve, the God to shine.

MAG. I.

Smile, sacred Infant, smile: thy rosy breast
Excels the odours of the spicy East;
The burnish'd gold is dross before thy eye,
Thou God of Sweetness, God of Purity!

MAG. II.

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,
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,

Just, as the Stagyrite; as Horace, free;
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. [belles,
Tassoni, hiding his diminish'd head, [skulks,
Droops o'er the laughing page; while Boileau
With blushes cover'd, low beneath the desk.

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,

O listen to Alexis' tender plaint!

How gently rural! without coarseness, plain;
How simple in his elegance of grief!

A shepherd, but no clown. His every lay
Sweet as the early pipe along the dale,
When hawthorns bud, or on the thymy brow
When all the mountains bleat, and valleys sing.
Soft as the nightingale's harmonious woe,
In dewy even-tide, when cowslips drop
Their sleepy heads, and languish in the breeze.

Imperial Windsor3! on thy brow august,
Superbly gay, exalt thy tow'ry head;
(Much prouder of his verse than of thy stars)
And bid thy forests dance, and, nodding, wave
A verdant testimony of thy joy:
A native Orpheus warbling in thy shades.

Next, in the critic-chair4 survey him thron'd, Imperial in his art, prescribing laws Clear from the knitted brow, and squinted sneer: Learn'd, without pedantry; correctly bold, And regularly easy. Gentle, now, As rising incense, or descending dews, The variegated echo of his theme: Now, animated flame commands the soul To glow with sacred wonder. Pointed wit

And keen discernment form the certain page.

1 Translation of the first book of Statius's Thebais.

↑ Pastorals.

3 Windsor Forest. Mr. Pope born there. Essay on Criticism.

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,
"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 8. 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.

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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 Ethics 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, and 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 scat,
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 Eden', 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.
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 blest.
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 roll,
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.
She departed this life October 35, 1737,
aged 65.

2 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.

Three roses of an eastern hue,
Sweet-swelling with ambrosial dew.
How each, with glowing pride, displays
The riches of its circling rays!
How all, in sweet abundance, shed
Perfumes, that might revive the dead!
"Now tell me, fair one, if you know,
Whence these balmy spirits flow?
Whence springs this modest blush of light
Which charms at once and pains the sight?"
The fair one knew, but wou'd not say,
So blush'd and smiling went her way.
Impatient, next the Muse I call;
She comes, and thus would answer all.
"Fool," (and I sure deserv'd the name)
"Mark well the beauties of the dame,
And can you wonder why so fair,
And why so sweet the roses are?
Her cheek with living purple glows
Which blush'd its rays on every rose;
Her breath exhal'd a sweeter smell
Than fragrant fields of asphodel;
The sparkling spirit in her eyes
A kindlier influence supplies
Than genial suns and summer skies.
Now can you wonder why so fair,
And why so sweet the roses are?"
"Hold, tuneful trifler," I reply'd,
"The beauteous cause I now descry'd,
Hold, talk no more of summer skies,
Of genial suns and-splendid lies;
Of fragrant fields of asphodel,

And brightest rays and sweetest smell;
Whatever poetry can paint,
Or Muse can utter-all is faint:
Two words had better all exprest;-

" She took the roses from-her breast.""

CUPID MISTAKEN.

VENUS Whipt Cupid t' other day,

For having lost his bow and quiver:
For he had giv'n them both away
To Stella, queen of Isis river.

"Mamma! you wrong me while you strike," Cry'd weeping Cupid, " for 1 vow,

Stella and you are so alike,

I thought that I had lent them you."

CUPID IN LOVE;

OR STELLA AND THE WASP.
ANACREONTIC.

CUPID by a bee was stung,

Lately; since Anacreon sung:
Venus, with a smiling eye,

Laugh'd to hear him sob and sigh.

Angry Cupid in revenge,

(Gods their shapes at pleasure change) In the form of wasp or bee, Stella! fix'd his sting in thee:

Stella! fairest of the fair:

Stella, Venus' dearest care!

In revenge he dealt the blow
On her favourite below;
In revenge of smiling eyes,
Sweetest emblems of the skies!
"O my finger!" Stella cry'd:
Would for Stella I had dy'd!
"O my finger!" thrice she cry'd,
Thrice for Stella I'd have dy'd!
Stella! fairest of the fair,
Stella, Venus' dearest care!
Venus, red'ning dropp'd a tear:
-"Here, you sirrah, Cupid, here!
Dare you torture like a foc,
Stella, my belov❜d below?
Curst revenge on smiling eyes,
Sweetest emblems of the skies!"

Cupid, smit with Stella's eye,
Answer'd Venus with a sigh,
"Rather, mamma, pity me;

I am wounded more than she."

ON

WRITING LAURA'S NAME IN THE SNOW. THIRSIS AND DAMON.

THIRSIS.

WHY, Damon, write you Laura's name
In snowy letters? prithee, say:
Was it her coldness to express,
Or show thy love would melt away?'
Or, rather, was it this? Because
When she is nam'd you burn and glow,
Therefore in hopes to cool your breast
You writ the charmer's name in snow?

DAMON.

Thirsis, since ink would blot her charms,
In snow I chose her name to write;
Since only snow like her is pure,
Is soft alone, alone is white.
Perhaps the air her name may freeze,
And every letter grow a gem;
Fit characters to blaze her charms,
And owe their rays to Stella's name.
A monarch for the precious name
Might then with half his kingdom part,
Despise the jewels on his crown,
To wear my Laura near his heart.

THIRSIS.

In vain. Behold the noontide Sun
Dissolves it with his amorous flame:-
The liquid syllables are lost:
Now, Damon, where is Laura's name?

DAMON.

Too true: yet tho' her name dissolves,
The shining drops shall not be lost:
I'll drink them as they weep away,
And still her name shall be my toast,

EPILOGUE TO CATO.

Spoken by a young Gentleman in the Character of Marcia, before a private Audience. CRITICS affirm, a bookish, clownish race, (I wish they durst affirm it to my face)

That love in tragedies has nought to do:
Ladies, if so, what would they make of you?
Why, make you useless, nameless, harmless things:
How false their doctrine, I appeal to-kings;
Appeal to Afric, Asia, Greece, and Rome:
And, faith, we need not go-so far from home.
For us the lover burns and bleeds and dies,
I fancy we have comets in our eyes;
And they, you know, are-signs of tragedies.
Thanks to my stars, or, rather, to my face,
Sempronius perish'd for that very case. [der',
The boist'rous wretch bawl'd out for peals of thun-
Because he could not force me-to come under.
Lard! how I tremble at the narrow scape;
Which of you would not-tremble at a rape?
Howe'er that be, this play will plainly prove,
That liberty is not so sweet as love.
Think, ladies, think what fancies fill'd my head,
To find the living Juba for the dead!
Tho' much he suffer'd on my father's side,
I'll make him cry, ere long, "I'm satisfied!"
For I shall prove a mighty-loving bride.
But now, to make an end of female speeches,
I'll quit my petticoats to-wear the breeches.
[Runs out and comes in in his night gown.
We have chang'd the scene: for gravity becomes
A tragedy, as hearses sable plumes.
His country's father you have seen, to-night,
Unfortunately great, and sternly right.
Fair Liberty, by impious power opprest,
Found no asylum but her Cato's breast:
Thither, as to a temple, she retir'd,
And when he plung'd the dagger she expir'd.
If Liberty revive at Cato's name,

And British bosoms catch the Roman flame:
If hoary villains rouse your honest ire,
And patriot-youths with love of freedom fire,
If Lucia's grief your graceful pity move,
And Marcia teach the virgins virtuous love,
You'll own, ev'n in this methodizing age,
The mildest school of morals-is the stage.

To you, the polish'd judges of our cause,
Whose smiles are honour, and whose nods applause,
Humble we bend: encourage arts like these;
For tho' the actors fail'd-they strove to please.
Perhaps, in time, your favours of this night
May warm us like young Marcus self to fight,
Like Cato to defend, like Addison to write.

THE HAPPY LIFE.

A BOOK, a friend, a song, a glass,
A chaste, yet laughter-loving lass,
To mortals various joys impart,
Inform the sense, and warn the heart,

Thrice happy they, who, careless, laid,
Beneath a kind-embow'ring shade,
With rosy wreaths their temples crown,
In rosy wine their sorrows drown.

Mean while the Muses wake the lyre,
The Graces modest mirth inspire,
Good-natur'd humour, harmless wit;
Well-temper'd joys, nor grave, nor light,
Act 4, Scene 2.

Let sacred Venus with her heir,
And dear lanthe too be there.

Music and wine in concert move
With beauty, and refining love.

There Peace shall spread her dove-like wing,
And bid her olives round us spring.
There Truth shall reign, a sacred guest!
And Innocence, to crown the rest.

Begone, ambition, riches, toys,
And splendid cares, and guilty joys.-
Give me a book, a friend, a glass,
And a chaste, laughter-loving lass.

THE WEDDING MORN.

A DREAM.

"TWAS morn: but Theron still his pillow prest:
(His Annabella's charms improv'd his rest.)
An angel form, the daughter of the skies,
Descending blest, or seem'd to bless his eyes;
White from her breast a dazzling vestment roll'd,
With stars bespangled and celestial gold.
She mov'd, and odours, wide, the circuit fill'd;
She spake, and honey from her lips distill'd.
"Behold, illustrious comes, to bless thy arms,
Thy Annabella, breathing love and charms!
O melting mildness, undissembled truth!
Fair flow'r of age, yet blushing bloom of youth!
Fair without art, without design admir'd,
Prais'd by the good, and by the wise desir'd.
By Art and Nature taught and form'd to please,
With all the sweet simplicity of ease.

In public courteous-for no private end;
At home a servant; and abroad-a friend.
Her gentle manners, unaffected grace,
And animated sweetness of her face,
Her faultless form, by decency refin'd,
And bright, unsullied sanctity of mind,
The christian Graces breathing in her breast,
Her

whole shall teach thee to be more than blest.
"Tis Virtue's ray that points her sparkling eyes,
Her face is beauteous, for her soul is wise.
As from the Sun refulgent glories roll,
Which feed the starry host and fire the pole,
So stream upon her face the beauties of her soul.
Tho' the dove's languish melts upon her eye,
And her cheeks mantle with the eastern sky,
When seventy on her temples sheds its snow,
Dim grow her eyes and cheeks forget to glow,
Good-nature shall the purple loss supply,
Good-sense shine brighter than the sparkling eye:
In beauteous order round and round shall move,
Love cool'd by reason, reason warm'd by love.
"Receive Heaven's kindest blessing! And regard
This blessing as thy virtue's best reward.
When Beauty wakes her fairest forms to charm,
When Music all her pow'rs of sound to warm,
Her golden floods when wanton Freedom roils,
And Plenty pours herself into our bowls;
When with tumultuous throbs our pulses beat,
And dubious Reason totters on her seat,
The youth how steady, how resolv'd the guide
Which stems the full luxuriant, pleasing tide!
For these, and virtues such as these is given
Thy Annabella! O belov'd of Heav'n!-

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