Poems on Several Occasions

Front matter

POEMS

ON

SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

Dedication

To the Right Honourable

CHARLES

Lord Viscount

The Preface

THE

PREFACE.

I very sensible that many hard Circumstances attend all Authors: If they write ill, they are sure to be used with Contempt; if well, too often with Envy. Some Men, even while they improve themselves with the Sentiments of others, rail at their Benefactors, and while they gather the Fruit, tear the Tree that bore it, I must confess, that mere Idleness induced me to write; and the hopes of entertaining a few idle Men, to publish. I am not so vain as not to think there are many Faults in the ensuing Poems; all human Works must fall short of Perfection, and therefore to acknowledge it, is no humility: However, I am not like those Authors, who, out of a false Modesty, complain of the Imperfections of their own Works, yet would take it very ill, if the World should believe them: I will not add Hypocrisy to my other Faults, or act so absurdly as to invite the Reader to an Entertainment, and then tell him that there is nothing worth his eating; I have furnish'd out the Table according to my best abilities, if not with a splendid Elegance, yet at least with an innocent Variety.

But since this is the last time that I shall ever, perhaps, trouble the World in this kind, I will beg leave to speak something not as a Poet, but a Critic; that if my Credit should fail as a Poet, I may have recourse to my Remarks upon Homer, and be pardon'd for my Industry as the Annotator in part upon the Iliad, and entirely upon the Odyssey.

CriticismI will therefore offer a few things upon Criticism in general, a Study very necessary, but fal'n into contempt through the abuse of it. At the Restoration of Learning, it was particularly necessary; Authors had been long buried in obscurity, and consequently had contracted some rust through the Ignorance and Barbarism of preceding Ages: it was therefore very requisite that they should be polish'd by a Critical Hand, and restor'd to their original Purity: In this consists the Office of Critics; but instead of making Copies agreeable to the Manuscripts, they have long inserted their own conjectures; and from this licence arise most of the various readings, the burthens of modern Editions: whereas Books are like Pictures, they may be new varnish'd, but not a feature is to be alter'd, and every Stroke that is thus added, destroys in some degree the resemblance; and the Original is no longer an Homer or a Virgil, but a mere ideal Person, the Creature of the Editor's Fancy. Whoever deviates from this Rule, does not correct, but corrupt his Author: And therefore since most Books worth reading have now good Impressions, it is a folly to devote too much time to this branch of Criticism; it is ridiculous to make it the su- preme business of Life to repair the ruins of a decay'd Word, to trouble the World with vain Niceties about a Letter, or a Syllable, or the Transposition of a Phrase, when the present reading is sufficiently intelligible. These learned Triflers are mere Weeders of an Author, they collect the Weeds for their own use, and permit others to gather the Herbs and Flowers: It would be of more advantage to Mankind when once an Author is faithfully published, to turn our Thoughts from the Words to the Sentiments, and make them more easy and intelligible. A Skill in verbal Criticism is in reality but a Skill in guessing, and consequently he is the best Critic who guesses best: A mighty attainment! And yet with what Pomp is a trivial Alteration usher'd into the World? Such Writers are like Caligula, who raised a mighty Army, and alarm'd the whole World, and then led it to gather Cockle-shells. In short, the question is not what the Author might have said, but what he has actually said; it is not whether a different Word will agree with the sense, and turn of the Period, but whether it was used by the Author; If it was, it has a good Title still to maintain its post, and the authority of the Manuscript ought to be follow'd rather than the fancy of the Editor: for can a Modern be a better Judge of the Language of the purest of the Antients, than those Antients who wrote it in the greatest purity? or if he could, was ever any Author so happy, as always to choose the most proper Word? Experience shews the impossibility. Besides, of what use is verbal Criticism when once we have a faithful Edition? It embarrasses the Reader instead of giving new light, and hinders his Proficiency by engrossing his time, and calling off the attention from the Author to the Editor: it encreases the expence of Books, and makes us pay an high price for Trifles, and often for Absurdities. I will only add, with Sir Henry Saville, that various Lections are now grown so voluminous, that we begin to value the first Editions of Books as most correct, because least corrected.

PartialCriticsThere are other Critics who think them-selves obliged to see no Imperfections in their Author: from the moment they undertake his Cause, they look upon him, as a Lover upon his Mistress, he has no Faults, or his very Faults improve into Beauties: This, indeed, is a well-natur'd Error, but still blameable, because it misguides the Judgment: Such Critics act no less erroneously, than a Judge who should resolve to acquit a Person whether innocent or guilty, who comes before him upon his Trial. It is frequent for the partial Critic to praise the Work as he likes the Author; he admires a Book as an Antiquary a Medal, solely from the impression of the Name, and not from the intrinsic Value: the Copper of a favourite Writer shall be more esteem'd than the finest Gold of a less acceptable Author: for this reason many Persons have chosen to publish their Works without a Name, and by this Method, like Apelles, who stood unseen behind his own Venus, have receiv'd a praise, which perhaps might have been deny'd if the Author had been visible.

EnviousBut there are other Critics who act a contrary part, and condemn all as Criminals whom they try: they dwell only on the Faults of an Author, and endeavour to raise a Reputation by dispraising every thing that other Men praise; they have an antipathy to a shining Character, like some Animals, that hate the Sun only because of its brightness: it is a Crime with them to excel; they are a kind of Tartars in Learning, who seeing a Person of distinguish'd Qualifications, immediately endeavour to kill him, in hopes to attain just so much merit as they destroy in their Adversary. I never look into one of these Critics but he puts me in mind of a Giant in Romance: the Glory of the Giant consists in the number of the Limbs of Men whom he has destroy'd; that of the Critic in viewing

——Disjecti membra Poetæ. Hor.

If ever he accidentally deviates into praise, he does it that his ensuing blame may fall with the greater weight; he adorns an Author with a few flowers, as the Antients those Victims which they were ready to sacrifice: he studies Criticism as if it extended only to dispraise; a Practice, which when most successful, is least desirable. A Painter might justly be thought to have a perverse Imagination, who should delight only to draw the Deformities and Distortions of Human Nature, which when executed by the most masterly hand, strike the Beholder with most Horror. It is usual with envious Critics to attack the Writings of others, because they are good; they constantly prey upon the fariest Fruits, and hope to spread their own Works by uniting them to those of their Adversary. But this is like Me- zentius in Virgil, to join a dead Carcass to a living Body; and the only effect of it, to fill every well-natur'd Mind with Detestation: their Malice becomes impotent, and, contrary to their Design, they give a testimony of their Enemy's Merit, and shew him to be an Heroe by turning all their Weapons against him: Such Critics are like dead Coals, they may blacken, but cannot burn. These Writers bring to my memory a Passage in the Iliad, where all the inferior Powers, the Plebs Supersûm, or Rabble of the Sky, are fancy'd to unite their Endeavours to pull Jupiter down to the Earth: but by the Attempt they only betray their own Inability; Jupiter is still Jupiter, and by their unavailing Efforts they manifest his Superiority.

Modesty is essential to true Criticism: no Man has a title to be a Dictator in Knowledge, and the sense of our own Infirmities ought to teach us to treat others with humanity. The envious Critic ought to consider, that if the Authors be dead whom he censures, it is Inhumanity to trample upon their Ashes with Insolence; that it is Cruelty to summon, implead and condemn them with Rigour and Animosity, when they are not in a capacity to answer his unjust Allegations: If the Authors be alive, the common Laws of Society oblige us not to commit any outrage against another's Reputation; we ought modestly to convince, not injuriously insult; and contend for Truth, not Victory: and yet the envious Critic is like the Tyrants of old, who thought it not enough to conquer, unless their Enemies were made a public Spectacle, and dragg'd in triumph at their Chariot-Wheels: But what is such a Triumph but a barbarous insult over the Calamities of their Fellow-Creatures? the Noise of a Day, purchased with the Misery of Nations? However, I would not be thought to be pleading for an exemption from Criticism; I would only have it circumscrib'd within the Rules of Candour and Humanity: Writers may be told of their Errors, provided it be with the Decency and Tenderness of a Friend, not the Malice and Passion of an Enemy; Boys may be whip'd into sense, but Men are to be guided with reason.

If we grant the malicious Critic all that he claims, and allow him to have prov'd his Adversary's Dulness, and his own Acuteness, yet as long as there is Virtue in the World, modest Dulness will be preferable to learned Arrogance: Dulness may be a Misfortune, but Arrogance is a Crime; and where is the mighty Advantage, if while he discovers more Learning, he is found to have less Virtue than his Adversary? and tho' he be a better Critic, yet proves himself to be a worse Man? Besides, no one is to be envy'd the Skill in finding such Faults as others are so dull as to mistake for Beauties: What Advantage is such a quicksightedness even to the Possessors of it? It makes them difficult to be pleased, and gives them pain, while others receive a pleasure: they resemble the second-sighted People in Scotland, who are fabled to see more than other Persons; but all the Benefit they reap from this Privilege, is to discover Objects of Horror, Ghosts and Apparitions.

But it is time to end, though I have too much reason to enlarge the Argument for Candour in Criticism, through a consciousness of my own Deficiency: I have in reality been pleading my own Cause, that if I appear too guilty to obtain a Pardon, I may find so much mercy from my Judges, as to be condemn'd to suffer without Inhumanity: But whatever be the fate of these Works, they have prov'd of use to me, and been an agreeable Amusement in a constant Solitude; Providence has been pleased to lead me out of the great Roads of Life, into a private Path; where, tho' we have leisure to chuse the smoothest Way, yet we are all sure to meet many Obstacles in the Journey: I have found Poetry an innocent Companion, and Support from the Fatigues of it; how long, or how short the future Stages of it are to be, as it is uncertain, so it is a Folly to be over-sollicitous about it: he that lives the longest, has but the small Privilege of creeping more leisurely than others to his Grave; what we call Living, is in reality but a longer Time of Dying: And if these Verses prove as short-liv'd as their Author, it is a Loss not worth regretting: They only die, as they were born, in Obscurity.

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T Author has not inserted into this Collection any part of his Translation of the eight Books of the Odyssey, published by Mr. Pope: he thought it an Imposition on the Public to swell this Volume with Verses taken from a Work that is in the Hands of almost every Reader.

ERRATA.

The Third Chapter of Habbakkuk paraphrased

The THIRD CHAPTER of

HABBAKKUK

PARAPHRASED.

An ODE.

Written in 1710, as an Exercise at St. JOHNs College in Cambridge.

<>I.

When in a glorious terrible Array, From Parans tow'ring height th' Almighty took his way; Born on a Cherub's Wings he rode, Intolerable Day proclaim'd the God;

No earthly Cloud Could his effulgent Brightness shroud: Glory, and Majesty, and Pow'r, March'd in a dreadful Pomp before; Behind, a grim, and meagre Train, Pining Sickness, frantic Pain, Stalk'd wildly on! with all the dismal Band, Which Heav'n in Anger sends to scourge a guilty Land.

<>II. With Terror cloath'd, he downward flew, And wither'd half the Nations with a View; Thro' half the Nations of th' astonish'd Earth He scatter'd War, and Plagues, and Dearth! And when he spoke, The everlasting Hills from their Foundations shook; The trembling Mountains, by a lowly Nod, With Rev'rence struck, confess'd the God:

On Sions holy Hill he took his Stand, Grasping Omnipotence in his right Hand; Then mighty Earthquakes rock'd the Ground, And the Sun darken'd as he frown'd: He dealt Affliction from his Van, And wild Confusion from his Rear; They thro' the Tents of Cushan ran, The Tents of Cushan quak'd with Fear, And Midian trembled with Despair. I see! his Sword wave naked in the Air; It sheds around a baleful Ray, The Rains pour down, the Lightnings play, And on their Wings vindictive Thunders bear.

<>III. When thro' the mighty Flood, He led the murmuring Croud, What ail'd the Rivers that they backward fled? Why was the mighty Flood afraid?

March'd He against the Rivers? or was He, Thou mighty Flood! displeas'd at thee? The Flood beheld from far, The Deity in all his Equipage of War; And lo! at once it bursts! in diverse falls On either hand! it swells in Crystal Walls! Th' eternal Rocks disclose! the tossing Waves Rush in loud Thunder from a thousand Caves! Why tremble ye, O! faithless, to behold The op'ning Deeps their Gulphs unfold? Enter the dreadful Chasms! 'tis God, who guides Your wondrous Way! the God, who rules the Tides! And lo! they march amid the deaf'ning Roar Of tumbling Seas! they mount the adverse Shore! Advance, ye chosen Tribes!—Arabias Sands Lonely, uncomfortable Lands! Void of Fountain, void of Rain, Oppose their burning Coasts in vain!

See! the great Prophet stand, Waving his Wonder-working Wand! He strikes the stubborn Rock, and lo! The stubborn Rock feels the Almighty Blow; His stony Entrails burst, and rushing Torrents flow.

<>IV. Then did the Sun his fiery Coursers stay, And backward held the falling Day; The nimble-footed Minutes ceas'd to run, And urge the lazy Hours on. Time hung his unexpanded Wings, And all the secret Springs That carry on the Year, Stopp'd in their full Career: Then the astonish'd Moon, Forgot her going down; And paler grew, The dismal Scene to view,

How thro' the trembling Pagan Nation, Th' Almighty Ruin dealt, and ghastly Desolation.

<>V. But why, ah! why, O Sion, reigns Wide-wasting Havoc o'er thy Plains? Ah! me, Destruction is abroad! Vengeance is loose, and Wrath from God! See! Hosts of Spoilers seize their Prey! See! Slaughter marks in Blood his Way! See! how embattled Babylon Like an unruly Deluge rushes on! Lo! the Field with Millions swarms! I hear their Shouts! their clashing Arms! Now the conflicting Hosts engage, With more than morta! Rage!—— Oh! Heav'n! I faint——I die!—— The yielding Pow'is of Israel fly!——

Now banner'd Hosts surround the Walls Of Sion! now she sinks, she falls!— Ah! Sion, how for thee I mourn! What Pangs for thee I feel! Ah! how art thou become the Pagans Scorn, Lovely, unhappy Israel? A shivering Damp invades my Heart, A trembling Horror shoots thro' every Part; My nodding Frame can scarce sustain Th' oppressive Load I undergo: Speechless I sigh! the envious Woe Forbids the very Pleasure to complain: Forbids my fault'ring Tongue to tell What Pangs for thee I feel, Lovely, unhappy Israel!

<>VI. Yet tho' the Fig-Tree should no Burthen bear, Tho' Vines delude the Promise of the Year;

Yet tho' the Olive should not yield her Oil, Nor the parch'd Glebe reward the Peasant's Toil, Tho' the tir'd Ox beneath his Labours fall, And Herds in Millions perish from the Stall; Yet shall my grateful Strings For ever praise thy Name, For ever thee proclaim, Thee everlasting God, the mighty King of Kings.

To Belinda, on her Sickness, and Recovery

To Belinda,

On her Sickness, and Recovery.

Sure never Pain such Beauty wore, Or look'd so amiable before! You Graces give to a Disease, Adorn the Pain, and make it please; Thus burning Incense sheds Perfumes, Still fragrant as it still consumes.

Nor can ev'n Sickness, which disarms All other Nymphs, destroy your Charms;

A thousand Beauties you can spare, And still be fairest of the Fair.

But see! the Pain begins to fly, Tho' Venus bled, she could not die; See! the new Phœnix point her Eyes, And lovelier from her Ashes rise; Thus Roses when the Storm is o'er, Draw Beauties from th' inclement Show'r.

Welcome ye Hours! which thus repay What envious Sickness stole away! Welcome as those which kindly bring, And usher in the joyous Spring; That to the smiling Earth restore The beauteous Herb, and blooming Flow'r, And give her all the Charms she lost By wintry Storms, and hoary Frost!

And yet how well did she sustain, And greatly triumph o'er her Pain? So Flow'rs, when blasting Winds invade, Breathe sweet, and beautifully fade.

Now in her Cheeks, and radiant Eyes, New Blushes glow, new Lightnings rise; Behold a thousand Charms succeed, For which a thousand Hearts must bleed! Brighter from her Disease she shines, As Fire the precious Gold refines.

Thus when the silent Grave becomes Pregnant with Life, as fruitful Wombs, When the wide Seas, and spacious Earth, Resign us to our second Birth;

Our moulder'd Frame rebuilt assumes New Beauty, and for ever blooms; And crown'd with Youth's immortal Pride, We Angels rise, who Mortals dy'd.

To Belinda, on her Apron embroider'd with Arms and Flowers

To Belinda,

On her Apron embroider'd with Arms and Flowers.

<>1. The list'ning Trees Amphion drew To dance from Hills, where once they grew; But you express a Pow'r more great, The Flow'rs you draw not, but create.

<>2. Behold your own Creation rise, And smile beneath your radiant Eyes! 'Tis beauteous all! and yet receives From you more Graces than it gives.

<>3. But say, amid the softer Charms Of blooming Flow'rs, what mean these Arms? So round the Fragrance of the Rose, The pointed Thorn, to guard it, grows.

<>4. But cruel you, who thus employ Both Arms and Beauty to destroy! So Venus marches to the Fray In Armour, formidably gay.

<>5. It is a dreadful pleasing Sight! The Flow'rs attract, the Arms affright; The Flow'rs with lively Beauty bloom, The Arms denounce an instant Doom.

<>6. Thus when the Britons in array Their Ensigns to the Sun display, In the same Flag are Lillies shown, And angry Lions sternly frown; On high the glitt'ring Standard flies, And conquers all Things—like your Eyes.

Part of the 38th and 39th Chapters of Job. A Paraphrase

Part of the 38th and 39th Chapters of Job.

A PARAPHRASE.

Now from the Splendors of his bright Abode >>> On Wings of all the Winds th' Almighty rode, And the loud Voice of Thunder spoke the God. Cherubs, and Seraphs from cœlestial Bow'rs, Ten thousand thousand! bright, ethereal Pow'rs! Ministrant round, their radiant Files unfold, Arm'd in eternal Adamant, and Gold! Whirlwinds, and thundrous Storms his Chariot drew 'Tween Worlds and Worlds, triumphant as it flew:

He stretch'd his dark Pavilion o'er the Floods, Bade Hills subside, and rein'd th' obedient Clouds, Then from his awful Gloom the Godhead spoke, And at his Voice affrighted Nature shook.

Vain Man! who boldly with dim Reason's Ray Vies with his God, and rivals his full Day! But tell me now, say how this beauteous Frame Of all Things, from the Womb of Nothing came; When Nature's Lord with one Almighty Call From no where rais'd the World's capacious Ball? Say if thy Hand directs the various Rounds Of the vast Earth, and circumscribes the Bounds? How Orbs oppos'd to Orbs amid the Sky, In Consort move, and dance in Harmony? What wondrous Pillars their Foundations bear When hung self-ballanc'd in the fluid Air?

Why the vast Tydes sometimes with wanton Play In shining Mazes gently glide away; Anon, why swelling with impetuous Stores Tumultuous tumbling, thunder to the Shores? By thy Command does fair Aurora rise, And gild with purple Beams the blushing Skies? The warbling Lark salutes her chearful Ray, And welcomes with his Song the rising Day; The rising Day ambrosial Dew distils, Th' ambrosial Dew with balmy Odour fills The Flow'rs, the Flow'rs rejoice, and Nature smiles. Why Night, in Sable rob'd, as Day-light fades, O'er half the Nations draws her awful Shades? Now peaceful Nature lies diffus'd in Ease; A solemn Stillness reigns o'er Land and Seas. Sleep sheds o'er all his Balm! to Sleep resign'd, Birds, Beasts lie hush'd, and busy Human Kind.

No Air of Breath disturbs the drowzy Woods, No Whispers murmur from the silent Floods! The Moon sheds down a silver-streaming Light, And glads the melancholic Face of Night: Now Clouds swift-skimming veil her sullied Ray, Now bright she blazes with a fuller Day: The Stars in Order twinkle in the Skies, And fall in Silence, and in Silence rise: Till as a Giant strong, a Bridegroom gay, The Sun springs dancing thro' the Gates of Day: He shakes his dewy Locks, and hurls his Beams O'er the proud Hills, and down the glowing Streams: His fiery Coursers bound above the Main, And whirl the Car along th' ethereal Plain: The fiery Coursers and the Car display A Stream of Glory, and a Flood of Day. Did e'er thy Eye descend into the Deep, Or hast thou seen where Infant Tempests sleep?

Was e'er the Grave or Regions of the Night, Yet trod by thee, or open'd to thy Sight? Has Death disclos'd to thee her gloomy State, >>> The Ghastly Forms, the various Woes that wait In terrible array before her awful Gate? Know'st thou where Darkness bears eternal Sway, Or where the Source of everlasting Day? Say, why the driving Hail with rushing Sound Pours from on high, and rattles on the ground? Why hover Snows, down-wav'ring by degrees, Shine from the Hills, or glitter from the Trees? Say, why in lucid Drops, the balmy Rain With sparkling Gems impearls the spangled Plain? Or gath'ring in the Vale, a Current flows, And on each Flow'r a sudden Spring bestows? Say, why with gentle Sighs the Evening Breeze Salutes the Flow'rs, or murmurs thro' the Trees!

Or why loud Winds in Storms of Vengeance fly, Howl o'er the Main, and thunder in the Sky? Say, to what wondrous Magazines repair The viewless Beings, when serene the Air? Till from their Dungeons loos'd, they roar aloud, Upturn whole Oceans, and toss Cloud on Cloud, While Waves encountring Waves in Mountains driv'n, Swell to the starry Vault, and dash the Heav'n. Knowst thou, why Comets threaten in the Air, >>> Heralds of Woe, Destruction, and Despair, The Plague, the Sword, and all the Forms of War? On ruddy Wings why forky Lightning flies, And rouling Thunder grumbles in the Skies? Say, Can thy Voice when sultry Sirius reigns, And Suns intensely glowing cleave the Plains, Th' exhausted Urns of thirsty Springs supply, And mitigate the Fever of the Sky?

Or when the Heav'ns are charg'd with gloomy Clouds, And half the Skies precipitate in Floods, Chase the dark Horror of the Storm away, Restrain the Deluge, and restore the Day? By thee does Summer deck herself with Charms, Or hoary Winter lock his frozen Arms; Say, if thy Hand instruct the Rose to glow, Or to the Lilly give unsullied Snow? Teach Fruits to knit from Blossoms by degrees, Swell into Orbs, and load the bending Trees, Whose various Kinds, a various Hue unfold, With crimson Blush, or burnish into Gold? Say, why the Sun arrays with shining Dyes The gaudy Bow that gilds the gloomy Skies? He from his Urn pours forth his golden Streams, And humid Clouds imbibe the glittring Beams; Sweetly the varying Colours fade or rise, And the vast Arch embraces half the Skies.

Say, did it thou give the mighty Seas their Bars, Fill Air with Fowl, or light up Heav'n with Stars, Whose thousand times ten thousand Lamps display A friendly Radiance, mingling Ray with Ray? Say, canst thou rule the Coursers of the Sun, Or lash the lazy Sign, Boötes on? Dost thou instruct the Eagle how to fly, To mount the viewless Winds, and tow'r the Sky? On sounding Pinions born, he soars, and shrouds His proud aspiring Head among the Clouds; Strong-pounc'd, and fierce, he darts upon his Prey, >>> He fails in triumph thro' th' ethereal Way, Bears on the Sun, and basks in open Day. Does the dread King, and Terror of the Wood, The Lion, from thy Hand expect his Food? Stung with keen Hunger from his Den he comes, Ranges the Plains, and o'er the Forest roams;

He snuffs the Track of Beasts, he fiercely roars, Doubling the Horrors of the midnight Hours; With sullen Majesty he stalks away, And the Rocks tremble while he seeks his Prey: Dreadful he grins, he rends the savage Brood With unsheath'd Paws, and churns the spouting Blood. Dost thou with Thunder arm the generous Horse, Add nervous Limbs, or Swiftness for the Course? Fleet as the Wind, he shoots along the Plain, And knows no Check, nor hears the curbing Rein; His fiery Eye-balls formidably bright, Dart a fierce Glory, and a dreadful Light, Pleas'd with the Clank of Arms, and Trumpets Sound, He bounds, and prancing paws the trembling Ground; He snuffs the promis'd Battle from afar, Neighs at the Captains Shouts, and Thunder of the War: Rous'd with the noble Din and martial Sight, He pants with Tumults of severe Delight;

His sprightly Blood an even Course disdains, Pours from his Heart, and charges in his Veins; He braves the Spear, and mocks the twanging Bow, Demands the Fight, and rushes on the Foe.

Melancholy: An Ode, occasion'd by the Death of a beloved Daughter, 1723

<>I.

Adieu vain Mirth, and noisy Joys! Ye gay Desires, deluding Toys! Thou thoughtful Melancholy deign To hide me in thy pensive Train!

<>II. If by the Fall of murmuring Floods, Where awful Shades embrown the Woods, Or if where Winds in Caverns groan, Thou wand'rest silent and alone;

<>III. Come, blissful Mourner, wisely sad, In Sorrow's Garb, in Sable clad, Henceforth, thou Care, my Hours employ! Sorrow, be thou henceforth my Joy!

<>IV. By Tombs where sullen Spirits stalk, Familiar with the Dead I walk; While to my Sighs and Groans by turns, From Graves the midnight Echo mourns.

<>V. Open thy marble Jaws, O Tomb, Thou Earth conceal me in thy Womb! And you, ye Worms, this Frame confound, Ye Brother Reptiles of the Ground.

<>VI. O Life, frail Offspring of a Day! 'Tis puff'd with one short Gasp away! Swift as the short-liv'd Flow'r it flies, It springs, it blooms, it fades, it dies.

<>VII. With Cries we usher in our Birth, With Groans resign our transient Breath: While round, stern Ministers of Fate, Pain, and Disease, and Sorrow wait.

<>VIII. While Childhood reigns, the sportive Boy Learns only prettily to toy; And while he roves from Play to Play, The Wanton trifles Life away.

<>IX. When to the Noon of Life we rise, The Man grows elegant in Vice; To glorious Guilt in Courts he climbs, Vilely judicious in his Crimes.

<>X. When Youth and Strength in Age are lost, Man seems already half a Ghost; Wither'd, and wan, to Earth he bows, A walking Hospital of Woes.

<>XI. O! Happiness, thou empty Name! Say, art thou bought by Gold or Fame? What art thou Gold, but shining Earth? Thou common Fame, but common Breath?

<>XII. If Virtue contradict the Voice Of publick Fame, Applause is Noise; Ev'n Victors are by Conquest curst, The bravest Warrior is the worst.

<>XIII. Look round on all that Man below Idly calls Great, and all is Show! All, to the Coffin from our Birth, In this vast Toy-shop of the Earth.

<>XIV. Come then, O Friend of virtuous Woe, With solemn Pace, demure, and slow: Lo! sad and serious, I pursue Thy Steps—adieu, vain World, adieu!

Daphnis and Lycidas. A Pastoral

Daphnis and Lycidas.

A

PASTORAL.

They sing the different Success and Absence of their Loves.

To the Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Townshend, of Rainham in Norfolk.

-Sylvæ sunt Consule dignæ. Virg.

<>Daphnis.

How calm the Evening! see the falling Day Gilds every Mountain with a ruddy Ray! In gentle Sighs the softly whisp'ring Breeze Salutes the Flow'rs, and waves the trembling Trees;

Hark! the Night Warbler from yon vocal Boughs, Glads every Valley with melodious Woes! Swift thro' the Air her Rounds the Swallow takes, Or sportive skims the Level of the Lakes. The tim'rous Deer, swift-starting as they graze, Bound off in Crouds, then turn again, and gaze. See! how yon Swans, with snowy Pride elate, Arch their high Necks, and sail along in State! Thy frisking Flocks safe-wand'ring crop the Plain, And the glad Season claims a gladsome Strain. Begin——Ye Echoes listen to the Song, And with its sweetness pleas'd, each Note prolong!