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Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil,

But men of discerning And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill,

Have thought that in learning, Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,

To yield to a lady was hard. And latent metals innocently glow :

Impertinent schools, Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!

With musty dull rules, And eye the mine, without a wish for gold.

Have reading to females denied Approach; but awful! lo! the Ægerian grot,

So papists refuse Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought;

The Bible to use, Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, Lest flocks should be wise as their guide. And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's

"Twas a woman at first
Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor. (soul.
Who dare to love their country, and the poor,

(Indeed she was cursed)
In knowledge that tasted delight,

And sages agree

That laws should decree

To the first of possessors the right.
Oh, be thou bless'd with all that Heaven can send,

Then bravely, fair dame,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend!
Not with those toys the female world admire,

Resume the old claim,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.

Which to your whole sex does belong; With added years, if life bring nothing new,

And let men receive, But like a sieve let every blessing through,

From a second bright Eve, Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,

The knowledge of right and of wrong. And all we gain, some sad reflection more ;

But if the first Eve, Is that a birth day? 'tis, alas! 100 clear,

Hard doom did receive, "Tis but the funeral of the former year.

When only one apple had she, Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,

What a punishment new And the gay conscience of a life well spent,

Shall be found out for you, Calm every thought, inspirit every grace,

Who tasting, have robb'd the whole tree! Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face. Let day improve on day, and year on year, Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;

EPISTLE IV, OF BOOK I, OF HORACE'S Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,

In some soft dream, or ecstacy of joy.
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,

A modern Imitation.
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

Sayt St. John, who alone peruse

With candid eye, the mimic muse,

What schemes of politics, or laws,

In Gallic lands the patriot draws !
On his Birth-day, 1742.

Is then a greater work in hand,
RESIGN'D to live, prepared to die,

Than all the tomes of Haine's band ? With not one sin but poetry,

Or shoots he folly as it flies ? This day Tom's fair account has run

Or catches manners as they rise ?'I (Without a blot) to eighty-one.

Or, urged by unquench'd native heat, Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays

Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat? A table, with a cloth of bays;

Where (emulous of Chartres' fame) And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,

E'en Chartres' self is scarce a name. Presents her harp still to his fingers.

|| To you (the all-envied gift of heaven) The feast, his towering genius marks

The indulgent gods, unask'd, have given
In yonder wild-goose and the larks!

A form complete in every part,
The mushrooms show his wit was sudden! And, to enjoy that gift, the art.
And for his judgment, lo a pudden!
Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,

her having satirized him in her verses to the imitator of And grace, although a bard, devout.

Horace; which abuse he returned in the first satire of

the second book of Horace. May Tom, whom heaven sent down to raise

From furious Sappho, scarce a milder fate, The price of prologues and of plays,

P-'d by her love, or libell'd by her hate. Be every birth-day more a winner,

* This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise beDijest his thirty thousandth dinner;

stowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, where Mr. Walk to his grave without reproach,

Pope says, And scom a rascal and a coach.

The sons shall blush their fathers were his foes: being so contradictory, probably occasioned the former

to be suppressed. S. CO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.*

† Ad Albium Tibullum.

Albi, nostrorum sermonum, candide judex,
In beauty or wit,

Quid nunc te dicam facere in regione Pedana ?
No mortal as yet,

Scribere, quod Cassi Parmensis opuscula vincat ? To question your empire has dared,

1 The lines here quoted occur in the Essay on Man.

§ An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres ? * This panegyric on Lady Mary Wortley Montague !

Di tibi formam might have been suppressed by Mr. Pope, on account of

Di tibi divitas dederunt, artemque fruendi.

* What could a tender mother's care

A FAREWELL TO LONDON Wish better to her favourite heir, Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,

In the Year 1715. A stock of health, and golden showers,

DEAR, damn'd distracting town, farewell! And graceful fluency of speech,

Thy fools no more I'll tease: Precepts before unknown to teach?

This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, † Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,

Ye harlots, sleep at ease. And gleaming hope, and black despair;

Soft B*** and rough C*****, adieu ! Yet let thy friend this truth impart;

Earl Warwick make your moan, A truth I tell with bleeding heart

The lively H*****k and you (In justice for your labours past,)

May knock up whores alone. i That every day shall be your last; That every hour you life renew

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Is to your injured country due.

Till the third watchman toll;
In spite of tears, of mercy spite,

Let Jervis gratis paint, and Frowde
My genius still must rail, and write.

Save three-pence and his soul. Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,

Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery And mingle with the grumbling great:

On every learned sot, There, half devour'd by spleen, you 'll find

And Garth, the best good christian he, The rhyming bubbler of mankind;

Although he knows it not.
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state.

Lintot, farewell; thy bard must go!

Farewell, unhappy Tonson!

Heaven gives thee, for thy loss of Rowe, EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS,

Lean Philips, and fat Johnson. A handsome Woman with a fine Voice, but very

Why should I stay? Both parties rage; covetous and proud.

My vixen mistress squalls ; So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,

The wits in envious feuds engage; As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along;

And Homer (damn him!) calls. But such is thy avarice and such is thy pride,

The love of arts lies cold and dead That the beasts must have starved, and the poet

In Halifax's urn; have died.

And not one Muse of all he fed,

Has yet the grace to mourn.

My friends, by turns, my friends confound,

Betray, and are betray'd:
On one who made long Epitaphs.||

Poor Y***r's sold for fifty pound,
FRIEND, for your epitaphs I'm grieved;

And B******ll is a jade.
Where still so much is said,
One half will never be believed,

Why make I friendships with the great,

When I no favour seek ? The other never read.

Or follow girls seven hours in eight?

I need but once a week.

Still idle, with a busy air,

Deep whimsies to contrive;
On his painting for me the Statues of Apollo,

The gayest valetudinaire,
Venus, and Hercules.

Most thinking rake alive.
What god, what genius, did the pencil move
When Kneller painted these ?

Solicitous for others' ends, 'Twas Friendship—warm as Phæbus, kind as Love,

Though fond of dear repose; And strong as Hercules.

Careless or drowsy with my friends,

And frolic with my foes. * Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno, Qui sapere, et fari possit quæ sentiat, et cui

Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abunde,

For sober, studious days! non deficiente crumena? 1 Inter spem curamque, timores inter et iras..

And Burlington's delicious meal, 1 Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum.

For salads, tarts, and pease!
Me pinguem et nitidum hene curata cute vises,
Cum ridere voles Epicuri de grege porcum.

Adieu to all but Gay alone,
This epigram, first printed anonymously in Steele's

Whose soul sincere and free,
Collection, and copied in the Miscellanies of Swift and Loves all mankind, but flatters none,
Pope, is ascribed to Pope by sir John Hawkins, in his
History of Music-Mrs. Tofts, who was the daughter of

And so may starve with me.
a person in the family of Bishop Burnet, is celebrated
as a singer little inferior, either for her voice or manner,
to the best Italian women. She lived at the introduc-
tion of the opera into this kingdom, and sung in compa.

A DIALOGUE. ny with Nicolini; but, being ignorant of Italian, chant. ed her recitative in English, in answer to his Italian; Pope. Since my old friend is grown so great Yet the charms of their voices overcame the absurdity. As to be minister of state. It is not generally known that the person here meant was Dr. Robert Friend, head master of West.

I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope)
That Craggs will be ashamed of Popo.

minster school.

Craggs. Alas! if I am such a creature.

To grow the worse for growing greater,
Why, faith, in spite of all my brags,

St. James's Place, London, October 22. "Tis Pope must be ashamed of Craggs.

Few words are best; I wish you well;

Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here :
Some morning-walks along the Mall,

And evening friends, will end the year.

If, in this interval, between
Engraved on the Collar of a Dog, which I gave to

The falling leaf and coming frost,
Royal Highness

You please to see, on Twit'nam green,
I am his Highness' dog at Kew;

Your friend, your poet, and your host; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

For three whole days you here may rest,

From office, business, news, and strise ;

And (what most folks would think a jest)

Want nothing else, except your wife.
Occasioned by an Invitation to Court.
In the lines that you sent are the muses and graces:

You've the nine in your wit, and the three in your

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!



ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET, Erected in Chiswick Gardens.

In the Church of Withyam, in Susser. O GATE, how camest thou here?

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses pride, Gate. I was brought from Chelsea last year,

Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
Batter'd with wind and weather ;

The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,

Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Inigo Jones put me together;
Sir Hans Sloane

Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay;
Let me alone :

His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.

Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the means so true, Burlington brought me hither.

As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.

Bless'd courtier! who could king and country please
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.

Bless'd peer ! his great forefathers' every grace

Reflecting, and reflected in his race; What are the falling rills, the pendent shades,

Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
The morning bowers, the evening colonnades,

And patrons still, or poets, deck the line.
But soft recesses for the uneasy mind
To sigh unheard in, to the passing wind !
So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part,

Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart;)

One of the principal Secretaries of State to Kinz There hid in shades, and wasting day by day, William the Third, who, having resigned his place, Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.

died in his Retirement at Easthamstead, in Berlshire, 1716.

A PLEASING form ; a firm, yet cautious mind; VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE, Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd;

Honour unchanged, a principle profess’d,
On his lying in the same Bed which Wilmot the cele- Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest :

brated Earl of Rochester slept in, at Adderbury, An honest courtier, yet a patriot too ;
then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9th, Just to his prince, and to his country true:

Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
With no poetic ardour fired

A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth :
I press'd the bed where Wilmot lay;

A generous faith, from superstition free;
That here he loved, or here expired,

A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:
Begets no numbers grave or gay.

Such this man was; who now from earth removed

At length enjoys that liberty he loved. But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie Stretch'd out in honour's noble bed,

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.

Only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at the Such flames as high in patriots burn,

Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1781 Yet stoop to bless a child or wife; And such as wicked kings may mourn,

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; When freedom is more dear than life Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear;

Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide, Just of thy word, in every thought sincere,
Or gave his father grief but when he died. Who knew no wish but what the world might hear

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! Of softest manners, unaffected mind,
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Lover of peace, and friend of human-kind :
Oh let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone, Go, live! for heaven's eternal year is thine,
And with a father's sorrows mix his own! Go, and exalt thy moral to divine !

And thou, bless'd maid! attendant on his doom,

Pensive hast follow'd to the silent tomb,

Steer'd the same course to the same quiet shore,

Not parted long, and now to part no more!
In Westminster Abbey

Go then, where only bliss sincere is known!

Go, where to love and to enjoy are one !

Yet, take these tears, mortality's relief,

And till we share your joys, forgive our grief

These little rites, a stone, a verse, receive;

"Tis all a father, all a friend, can give !

STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,

In Westminster Abbey, 1723.
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promise, served no private end,

KNELLER, by Heaven, and not a master, taught, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend;

Whose art was nature, and whose pictures thought ; Ennobled by himself, by all approved,

Now for two ages having snatch'd from fate Praised, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he loved. Whate'er was beauteous, or whate’er was great,

Lies crown'd with princes' honours, poets' lays,
Due to his merit, and brave thirst of praise.

Living, great nature fear'd he might outvie

Her works; and, dying, fears herself may die.
In Westminster Abbey.
The reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust,

And, sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust :
Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies,

In Westminster Abbey, 1729.
To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes. HERE, Withers, rest! thou bravest, gentlest mind,
Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest! | Thy country's friend, but more of human-kind.
Bless'd in thy genius, in thy love too bless'd! O born to arms! O worth in youth approved !
One grateful woman to thy fame supplies

O soft humanity, in age beloved !
What a whole thankless land to his denies.

For thee the hardy veteran drops a tear,
And the gay courtier feels the sigh sincere.

Withers, adieu ! yet not with thee remove

Thy martial spirit, or thy social love !

Amidst corruption, luxury, and rage,
Who died of a Cancer in her Breast. Still leave some ancient virtues to our age :
HERE rests a woman, good without pretence,

Nor let us say (those English glories gone)

The last true Briton lies beneath this stone.
Bless'd with plain reason, and with sober sense;
No conquest she, but o'er herself, desired,
No arts essay'd, but not to be admired.
Passion and pride were to her soul unknown,

Convinced that virtue only is our own.

At Easthamstead, in Berks, 1730.
So unaffected, so composed a mind;
So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so refined ;

This modest stone, what few vain marbles can,
Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried ; May truly say, 'Here lies an honest man:'
The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.

A poet, bless'd beyond the poet's fate,
Whom Heaven kept sacred from the proud and great
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease,

Content with science in the vale of peace.

Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
HONOURABLE ROBERT DIGBY, Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;

From nature's temperate feast rose satisfied,

Thank'd Heaven that he had lived, and that he died. Erected by their Father, the Lord Digby, in the Church of Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, 1727.

Go! fair example of untainted youth,
Of modest wisdom, and pacific truth;

In Westminster Abbey, 1730.
Composed in sufferings, and in joy sedate,

Of manners gentle, of affections mild; Good without noise, without pretensions great: | In wit, a man; simplicity, a child.

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Who died in Erile in Paris, 1732.

ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT. [His only daughter having expired in his arms, imme

Perhaps by Mr. Pope.? diately after she arrived in France to see him.]

RESPECT to Dryden, Sheffield justly paid,

And noble Villers honour'd Cowley's shade': She. Yes, we have lived-one pang, and then we part; But whence this Barber ?--that a name so mean May Heaven, dear father! now have all thy heart.

Should, join'd with Butler's, on a tomb be seen:
Yet, ah! how once we loved, remember still, This pyramid would better far proclaim,
Till you are dust like me.

To future ages humbler Settle's name :
He. Dear shade! I will:

Poet and patron then had been well pair'd,
Then mix this dust with thine-O spotless ghost ! The city printer, and the city bard.
O more than fortune, friends, or country lost !
Is there on earth one care, one wish beside ?
Yes—Save my country, Heaven,'—He said, and died. 1 This Epitaph, originally written on Picus Mirandu-

la, is applied to F. Chartres, and printed among the works of Swift. See Hawkesworth's edition, vol. vi. S

2 Mr. Pope, in one of the prints from Scheemaker's

monument of Shakspeare in Westminster Abbey, has ON EDMUND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, sutticiently shown his contempt of Alderman Barber. by

the following couplet, which is substituted in the place Who died in the 19th year of his age, 1735. of · The cloud.capi towers,' &c. If modest youth with cool reflection crown'd,

*Thus Britain loved me; and preserved my fame,

Clear from a Barber's or a Benson's name.'-A. Pore. And every opening virtue blooming round,

Pope might probably have suppressed his satire on the Could save a parent's justest pride from fate, alderman, because he was one of Swift's acquamtances Or add one patriot to a sinking state;

and correspondents; though in the fourth book of the

Dunciad he has an anonymous stroke at him: This weeping marble had not ask'd thy tear,

• So by each bard an alderman shall sit, Or sadly told how many hopes lie here!

A heavy lord shall hang at every wit.'

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