From our cold climes to India's shore

With cruel haste she wings her way, To scorch their sultry plains still more, And rob us of our only day.

Whilst ev'ry streaming eye o'erflows

With tender floods of parting tears, Thy breast, dear cause of all our woes, Alone unmov'd and gay appears.

But still, if right the Muses tell,

The fated point of time is nigh, When grief shall that fair bosom swell, And trickle from thy lovely eye.

Though now, like Philip's son, whose arms Did once the vassal world command, You rove with unresisted charms,

And conquer both by sea and land;

Yet when (as soon they must) mankind Shall all be doom'd to wear your chain, You too, like him, will weep to find

No more unconquer'd worlds remain.

CHLOE ANGLING.

Ox yon fair brook's enamell'd side

Behold my Chloe stands! Her angle trembles o'er the tide, As conscious of her hands.

Calm as the gentle waves appear, Her thoughts serenely flow, Calm as the softly breathing air,

That curls the brook below.

Such charms her sparkling eyes disclose, With such soft pow'r endu'd,

She seems a new-born Venus rose

From the transparent flood.

From each green bank, and mossy cave,
The scaly race repair,

They sport beneath the crystal wave,
And kiss her image there.

Here the bright silver eel enroll'd

In shining volumes lies,

There basks the carp bedropt with gold In the sunshine of her eyes.

With hungry pikes in wanton play The tim'rous trouts appear; The hungry pikes forget to prey, The tim'rous trouts to fear.

With equal haste the thoughtless crew

To the fair tempter fly;

Nor grieve they, whilst her eyes they view,
That by her hand they die.

Thus I too view'd the nymph of late;
Ah simple fish, beware!

Soon will you find my wretched fate,
And struggle in the snare.

But, fair-one, though these toils succeed,
Of conquest be not vain;

Nor think o'er all the scaly breed
Unpunish'd thus to reign.

Remember, in a watʼry glass

His charms Narcissus spy'd, When for his own bewitching face The youth despair'd and dy'd.

No more then harmless fish insnare,
No more such wiles pursue;
Lest, whilst you baits for them prepare,
Love finds out one for you.

CHLOE HUNTING.

WHILST thousands court fair Chloe's love,
She fears the dang'rous joy,

But, Cynthia like, frequents the grove,
As lovely, and as coy.

With the same speed she seeks the hind,
Or hunts the flying hare,

She leaves pursuing swains behind,
To languish and despair.

Oh! strange caprice in thy dear breast,
Whence first this whim began;

To follow thus each worthless beast,
And shun their sov'reign, man!

Consider, fair, what 't is you do,

How thus they both must die, Not surer they, when you pursue, Than we whene'er you fly.

ON LUCINDA'S RECOVERY

FROM THE SMALL-POX.

BRIGHT Venus long with envious eyes

The fair Lucinda's charms had seen, "And shall she still," the goddess cries, "Thus dare to rival beauty's queen ?"

She spoke, and to th' infernal plains
With cruel haste indignant goes,
Where Death, the prince of terrours, reigns,
Amidst diseases, pains, and woes.

To him her pray'rs she thus applies:
"O sole, in whom my hopes confide
To blast my rival's potent eyes,
And in her fate all mortal pride!

"Let her but feel thy chilling dart,
I will forgive, tremendous god!
Ev'n that which pierc'd Adonis' heart."
He hears, and gives th' assenting nod.

Then calling forth a fierce disease,
Impatient for the beauteous prey,
Bids him the loveliest fabric seize,
The gods e'er form'd of human clay.

LONG had the mind of man with curious art
Search'd Nature's wondrous plan through ev'ry part,
Measur'd each tract of ocean, earth, and sky,
And number'd all the rolling orbs on high;
Yet still, so learn'd, herself she little knew,
Till Locke's unerring pen the portrait drew.

So beauteous Eve a while in Eden stray'd,
And all her great Creator's works survey'd ;
By Sun, and Moon, she knew to mark the hour,
She knew the genus of each plant and flow'r ;
She knew, when sporting on the verdant lawn,
The tender lambkin and the nimble fawn:
But still a stranger to her own bright face,
She guess'd not at its form, nor what she was;
Till led at length to some clear fountain's side,
She view'd her beauties in the crystal tide;
The shining mirror all her charms displays,
And her eyes catch their own rebounded rays.

THE WAY TO BE WISE.

IMITATED FROM LA FONTAINE

Poor Jenny, am'rous, young, and gay, Having by man been led astray,

To nunn'ry dark retir'd;

There liv'd, and look'd so like a maid, So seldom eat, so often pray'd,

She was by all admir'd.

The lady, abbess oft would cry,
If any sister trod awry,

Or prov'd an idle slattern;
"See wise and pious Mrs. Jane,
A life so strict, so grave a mien,
Is sure a worthy pattern."

A pert young slut at length replies, "Experience, madam, makes folks wise, 'Tis that has made her such; And we, poor souls, no doubt should be As pious, and as wise, as she,

If we had seen as much."

There rays reflected from all parts shall meet,
And paint their objects on the silver sheet;
A thousand forms shall in a moment rise,
And magic landscapes charm our wand'ring eyes;
"T is thus from ev'ry object that we view,
If Epicurus' doctrine teaches true,
The subtile parts upon our organs play,
And to our minds th' external forms convey.

But from what causes all these wonders flow,
"T is not permitted idle bards to know,
How through the centre of the convex glass
The piercing rays together twisted pass,
Or why revers'd the lovely scenes appear,
Or why the Sun's approaching light they fear;
Let grave philosophers the cause inquire,
Enough for us to see, and to admire.

See then what forms with various colours stain
The painted surface of the paper plain!
Now bright and gay, as shines the heav'nly bow,
So late, a wide unpeopled waste of snow:
Here verdant groves, there golden crops of corn
The new uncultivated fields adorn;
Here gardens deck'd with flow'rs of various dyes,
There slender tow'rs and little cities rise:
But all with tops inverted downward bend,
Earth mounts aloft, and skies and clouds descend:
Thus the wise vulgar on a pendent laud,
Imagine our antipodes to stand,
And wonder much, how they securely go,
And not fall headlong on the heav'ns below.
The charms of motion here exalt each part
Above the reach of great Apelles' art;
Zephyrs the waving harvest gently blow,
The waters curl, and brooks incessant flow;
Men, beasts, and birds in fair confusion stray,
Some rise to sight, whilst others pass away.

On all we seize that comes within our reach, The rolling coach we stop, the horseman catch; Compel the posting traveller to stay; But the short visit causes no delay.

Again, behold what lovely prospects rise! Now with the loveliest feast your longing eyes, Nor let strict modesty be here afraid, To view upon ber head a beauteous maid: See in small folds her waving garments flow, And all her slender limbs still slend'rer grow; Contracted in one little orb is found The spacious hoop, once five vast ells around; But think not to embrace the flying fair, Soon will she quit your arms unseen as air, In this resembling too a tender maid, Coy to the lover's touch, and of his hand afraid. Enough we've seen, now let th' intruding day Chase all the lovely magic scenes away; Again th' unpeopled snowy waste returns, And the lone plain its faded glories mourns, The bright creation in a moment flies, And all the pigmy generation dies.

Thus, when still night her gloomy mantle spreads, The fairies dance around the flow'ry meads! But when the day returns, they wing their flight To distant lands, and shun th' unwelcome light.

ON A NOSEGAY

IN THE COUNTESS OF COVENTRY'S BREAST 1.
IN IMITATION OF WALLER.

DELIGHTFUL scene! in which appear
At once all beauties of the year!
See how the zephyrs of her breath
Fan gently all the flow'rs beneath!
See the gay flow'rs, how bright they glow,
Though planted in a bed of snow!
Yet see how soon they fade and die,
Scorch'd by the sunshine of her eye!
Nor wonder if, o'ercome with bliss,
They droop their heads to steal a kiss;
Who would not die on that dear breast?
Who would not die to be so bless'd?

THE SQUIRE AND THE PARSON.

AN ECLOGUE.

WRITTEN ON THE CONCLUSION OF THE PEACE, 1748. By his hall chimney, where in rusty grate Green faggots wept their own untimely fate, In elbow chair the pensive 'Squire reclin'd, Revolving debts and taxes in his mind: A pipe just fill'd upon a table near Lay by the London Evening 2, stain'd with beer, With half a Bible, on whose remuants torn Each parish round was annually forsworn. The gate now claps, as ev'ning just grew dark, Tray starts, and with a growl prepares to bark; But soon discerning, with sagacious nose, The well-known savour of the Parson's toes, Lays down his head, and sinks in soft repose: The doctor ent'ring, to the tankard ran, Takes a good hearty pull, and thus began:

PARSON.

Why sits thou thus, forlorn and dull, my friend,
Now war's rapacious reign is at an end?
Hark, how the distant bells inspire delight!
See bonfires spangle o'er the veil of night!

'SQUIRE.

What 's peace, alas ! in foreign parts to me?
At home, nor peace nor plenty can I see;
Joyless I hear drums, bells, and fiddles sound,
'Tis all the same-four shillings in the pound.
My wheels, though old, are clogg'd with a new tax;
My oaks, though young, must groan beneath the axe:

'Maria, countess of Coventry, the eldest daughter of John Gunning, esq. by his wife Bridget, daughter of John Bourk, lord viscount Mayo, in Ireland. She was married to George William, the sixth earl of Coventry, March 5, 1752, and departed this life October 1, 1760. Her transcendent beauty was the admiration of all who beheld her.

2 The London Evening Post, the only paper at that time taken in and read by the enemies of the house of Hanover.

PARSON.

Have you not swore that I should Squab succeed?
Think how for this I taught your sons to read;
How oft discover'd puss on new-plough'd land,
How oft supported you with friendly hand;
When I could scarcely go, nor could your worship
stand.

'SQUIRE

'T was your's, had you been honest, wise, or civil; Now ev'n go court the bishops, or the Devil.

PARSON.

If I meant any thing, now let me die;
I'm blunt, and cannot fawn and cant, not I,
Like that old presbyterian rascal, Sly.
I am, you know, a right true-hearted Tory,
Love a good glass, a merry song, or story.

'SQUIRE.

Thou art an honest dog, that 's truth, indeed-
Talk no more nonsense then about the creed.
I can't, I think, deny thy first request;
'Tis thine; but first a bumper to the best.

PARSON.

Most noble 'Squire, more gen'rous than your wine,
How pleasing 's the condition you assign!
Give me the sparkling glass, and here, d' ye see,
With joy I drink it on my bended knee:—
Great queen! who governest this earthly ball,
And mak'st both kings and kingdoms rise and fall;
Whose wondrous power in secret all things rules,
Makes fools of mighty peers, and peers of fools;
Dispenses mitres, coronets, and stars;
Involves far distant realms in bloody wars,
Then bids war's snaky tresses cease to hiss,
And gives them peace again-3 nay, gave us this:
Whose health does health to all mankind impart,
Here's to thy much-lov'd health:

'SQUIRE, rubbing his hands.
-With all my heart.

GIVEN TO A LADY

WITH A WATCH WHICH SHE BORROWED TO HANG AT HER BED'S HEAD.

WHILST

HILST half asleep my Chloe lies,
And all her softest thoughts arise;
Whilst, tyrant Honour lay'd at rest,
Love steals to her unguarded breast;
Then whisper to the yielding fair,
Thou witness to the pains I bear,
How oft her slave with open eyes
All the long night despairing lies;
Impatient till the rosy day

Shall once again its beams display,
And with it he again may rise,
To greet with joy her dawning eyes.
Tell her, as all thy motions stand,
Unless recruited by her hand,

3 Madam de Pompadour.