ZEPHYR:

OR, THE STRATAGEM.

THE god, in whose gay train appear
Those gales that wake the purple year;
Who lights up health, and bloom, and grace
In Nature's, and in Mira's face;

To speak more plain, the western wind,
Had seen this brightest of her kind:
Had seen her oft with fresh surprise!
And ever with desiring eyes!

Much, by her shape, her look, her air,
Distinguish'd from the vulgar fair;
More, by the meaning soul that shines
Through all her charms, and all refines.
Born to command, yet turn'd to please,
Her form is dignity, with ease;
Then-such a hand, and such an arm,
As age or impotence might warm!
Just such a leg too, Zephyr knows,
The Medicéan Venus shows!

So far he sees; so far admires.
Each charm is fuel to his fires:
But other charms, and those of price,
That form the bounds of Paradise,
Can those an equal praise command;
All turn'd by Nature's finest hand?
Is all the consecrated ground

With plumpness, firm, with smoothness, round?
The world, but once, one Zeuxis saw,

A faultless form who dar'd to draw:
And then, that all might perfect be,
All rounded off in due degree,
To furnish out the matchless piece,
Were rifled half the toasts of Greece.
'Twas Pitt's white neck; 'twas Delia's thigh;
'Twas Waldegrave's sweetly-brilliant eye;
"Twas gentle Pembroke's ease and grace,
And Hervey lent her maiden-face.
But dares he hope, on British ground,
That these may all, in one, be found?
These chiefly that still shun his eye?
He knows not; but he means to try.
Aurora rising, fresh and gay,
Gave promise of a golden day.
Up, with her sister, Mira rose,

Four hours before our London beaux;
For these are still asleep and dead,
Save Arthur's sons-not yet in bed.
A rose, impearl'd with orient dew,
Had caught the passing fair-one's view;
To pluck the bud he saw her stoop,
And try'd, behind, to heave her hoop:
Then, while across the daisy'd lawn
She turn'd, to feed her milk-white fawn,
Due westward as her steps she bore,
Would swell her petticoat, before;
Would subtly steal his face between,
To see what never yet was seen!
"And sure, to fan it with his wing,
No nine-month symptom e'er can bring:
His aim is but the nymph to please,
Who daily courts his cooling breeze."

But listen, fond believing maid!
When Love, soft traitor, would persuade,
With all the moving skill and grace
Of practis'd passion in his face,

Dread his approach, distrust your power-
For oh! there is one shepherd's hour:
And though he long, his aim to cover,
May, with the friend, disguise the lover,
The sense, or nonsense, of his wooing
Will but adore you into ruin.
But, for those butterflies, the beaux,
Who buz around in tinsel-rows,
Shake, shake them off, with quick disdain:
Where insects settle, they will stain.

Thus, Zephyr oft the nymph assail'd:
As oft his little arts had fail'd:
The folds of silk, the ribs of whale,
Resisted still his feeble gale.
With these repulses vex'd at heart,
Poor Zephyr has recourse to art:
And his own weakness to supply,
Calls in a brother of the sky,

The rude South-west; whose mildest play
Is war, mere war, the Russian way:
A tempest-maker by his trade,
Who knows to ravish, not persuade.

The terms of their aërial league,
How first to harass and fatigue,
Then, found on some remoter plain,
To ply her close with wind and rain;
These terms, writ fair, and seal'd and sign'd,
Should Webbe or Stukely wish to find,
Wise antiquaries, who explore

All that has ever pass'd-and more;
Though here too tedious to be told,
Are yonder in some cloud enroll'd,
Those floating registers in air:

So let them mount, and lead them there
The grand alliance thus agreed,
To instant action they proceed;
For 'tis in war a maxim known,
As Prussia's monarch well has shown,
To break, at once, upon your foe,
And strike the first preventive blow.
With Toro's lungs, in Toro's form,
Whose very how d' ye is a storm,
The dread South-West his part begun,
Thick clouds, extinguishing the Sun,
At his command, from pole to pole
Dark spreading, o'er the fair-one roll;
Who, pressing now her favourite steed,
Adorn'd the pomp she deigns to lead.
O Mira! to the future blind,

Th' insidious foe is close behind:
Guard, guard your treasure, while you can;
Unless this god should be the man.
For lo! the clouds, at his known call,
Are closing round-they burst! they fall!
While at the charmer all aghast,
He pours whole winter in a blast:
Nor cares, in his impetuous mood,
If natives founder on the flood;
If Britain's coast be left as bare1
As he resolves to leave the fair.
Here, gods resemble human breed;
The world be damn'd-so they succeed.
Pale, trembling, from her steed she fled,
With silk, lawn, linen, round her head;
And, to the fawns who fed above,
Unveil'd the last recess of love.

The very day on which the flcet under admiral Hawke was blown into Torbay. Mallet.

Each wondering fawn was seen to bound',
Each branchy deer o'erleap'd his mound,
At sight of that sequester'd glade,
In all its light, in all its shade,
Which rises there for wisest ends,
To deck the temple it defends.

Lo! gentle tenants of the grove,
For what a thousand heroes strove,
When Europe, Asia, both in arms,
Disputed one fair lady's charms.
The war pretended Helen's eyes 3;
But this, believe it, was the prize.
This rous'd Achilles' mortal ire,
This strung his Homer's epic lyre;
Gave to the world La Mancha's knight,
And still makes bulls and heroes fight.

Yet, though the distant conscious Muse
This airy rape delighted views;
Yet she, for honour guides her lays,
Enjoying yet, disdains to praise.
If Frenchmen always fight with odds,
Are they a pattern for the gods?

Can Russia, can th' Hungarian vampire 4,
With whom cast in the Swedes and empire,
Can four such powers, who one assail,
Deserve our praise, should they prevail?
O mighty triumph! high renown!
Two gods have brought one mortal down;
Have clubb'd their forces in a storm,
To strip one helpless female form!
Strip her stark naked; yet confess,
Such charms are Beauty's fairest dress!
But, all-insensible to blame,
The sky-born ravishers on flame
Enchanted at the prospect stood,
And kiss'd with rapture what they view'd.
Sleek Sr too had done no less;
Would parsons here the truth confess :
Nay, one brisk peer, yet all-alive,
Would do the same, at eighty-fives.

But how, in colours softly-bright,
Where strength and harmony unite,
To paint the limbs, that fairer show
Than Massalina's borrow'd snow;
To paint the rose, that, through its shade,
With theirs, one human eye survey'd ;
Would gracious Phoebus tell me how,
Would be the genuine draught avow,
The Muse, a second Titian then,
To Fame might consecrate her pen!
That Titian, Nature gave of old
The queen of beauty to behold,
Like Mira, unadorn'd by dress,
But all complete in nakedness:
Then bade his emulating art
Those wonders to the world impart.
Around the ready Graces stand,
"With each a pencil in her hand";"

Each heightening stroke, each happy line,
Awakes to life the form divine;

Till, rais'd and rounded every charm,
And all with youth immortal warm,
He sees, scarce crediting his eyes,
He sees a brighter Venus rise!
But, to the gentle reader's cost,
His pencil, with his life, was lost:
And Mira must contented be,
To live by Ramsay and by me.

EDWIN AND EMMA.

Mark it, Cesario, it is true and plain.

The spinsters and the knitters in the Sun, [bones,
And the free maids that weave their thread with
Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.

Shaksp. Twelfth Night.

FAR in the windings of a vale,

Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of Health and Peace,
An humble cottage stood.

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath a mother's eye;
Whose only wish on Earth was now

To see her blest, and die.

The softest blush that Nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek:

Such orient colour smiles through Heaven,
When vernal mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains:

That Sun, who bids their diamonds blaze,
To paint our lily deigns.

Long had she fill'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair;

And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not she was fair.

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul devoid of art;
And from whose eye, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught:
Was quickly too reveal'd:
For neither bosom lodg'd a wish,
That Virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of home-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow !

But bliss too mighty long to last,
Where Fortune proves a foe.

His sister, who, like Envy form'd,
Like her in mischief joy'd,

To work them harm, with wicked skill,
Each darker art employ'd.

The father too, a sordid man,

Who love nor pity knew,
Was all-unfeeling as the clod,
From whence his riches grew.

Long had he seen their secret flame,
And seen it long unmov'd:
Then with a father's frown at last
Had sternly disapprov'd.

In Edwin's gentle heart, a war
Of differing passions strove:
His heart, that durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.

Deny'd her sight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthorn crept,

To snatch a glance, to mark the spot Where Emma walk'd and wept,

Oft too on Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moon-light shade,
In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,

The midnight-mourner stray'd.

His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd,
A deadly pale o'ercast:

So fades the fresh rose in its prime,
Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed;

And weary'd Heaven with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrows shed.

"'Tis past" he cry'd-" but if your souls
Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold,
What they must ever love!"

She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear:
Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care,

A cruel sister she!

Forbade what Emma came to say; "My Edwin, live for me!"

Now homeward as she hopeless wept
The church-yard path along,

The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found

In every bush his hovering shade, His groan in every sound.

Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd

The visionary vale

When lo! the death-bell smote her ear,
Sad sounding in the gale!

Just then she reach'd, with trembling stop,
Her aged mother's door-

"He's gone!" she cry'd; " and I shall see That angel-face no more.

"I feel, I feel this breaking heart Beat high against my side"

From her white arm down sunk her head; She shivering sigh'd, and dy'd.

EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM THE CURATE OF BOWES, IN YORKSHIRE, ON THE SUBJECT OF THE PRECEDING POEM.

TO MR. COPPERTH WAITE, AT MARRICK.
WORTHY SIR,

***As to the affair mentioned in yours, it happened long before my time. I have therefore been obliged to consult my clerk, and another person in the neighbourhood, for the truth of that melancholy event. The history of it is as follows:

THE family-name of the young man was Wrightson; of the young maiden Railton. They were both much of the same age; that is, growing up to twenty. In their birth was no disparity: but in fortune, alas! she was his inferior. His father, a hard old man, who had by his toil acquired a handsome competency, expected and required that his son should marry suitably. But, as amor vincit omnia, his heart was unalterably fixed on the pretty young creature already named. courtship, which was all by stealth, unknown to the family, continued about a year. When it was found out, old Wrightson, his wife, and particularly their crooked daughter Hannah, flouted at the maiden, and treated her with notable contempt. For they held it as a maxim, and a rustic one it is, "that blood was nothing without groats."

Their

The young lover sickened, and took to his bed about Shrove Tuesday, and died the Sunday sevennight after.

On the last day of his illness, he desired to see his mistress. She was civilly received by the mother, who bid her welcome-when it was too late. But her daughter Hannah lay at his back; to cut them off from all opportunity of exchanging their thoughts.

At her return home, on hearing the bell toll out for his departure, she screamed aloud that her heart was burst, and expired some moments after.

The then curate of Bowes inserted it in his register, that they both died of love, and were buried in the same grave, March 15, 1714. I am, DEAR SIR,

Yours, &c.

ON THE DEATH OF LADY ANSON,

ADDRESSED TO HER FATHER, 1761.

O CROWN'D with honour, blest with length of days,
Thou whom the wise revere, the worthy praise;
Just guardian of those laws thy voice explain'd,
And meriting all titles thou hast gain'd--
Though still the fairest from Heaven's bounty flow;
For good and great no monarch can bestow:
Yet thus, of health, of fame, of friends possest,
No fortune, Hardwicke, is sincerely blest.

I Bowes is a small village in Yorkshire, where in former times the earls of Richmond had a castle. It stands on the edge of that vast and mountainous tract, named by the neighbouring people, Stanemore; which is always exposed to wind and weaCamd. ther, desolate and solitary throughout. Brit.

All human-kind are sons of sorrow born:
The great must suffer, and the good must mourn.
For say, can Wisdom's self, what late was thine,
Can Fortitude, without a sigh, resign?

Ah, no! when Love, when Reason, hand in hand,
O'er the cold urn consenting mourners stand,
The firmest heart dissolves to soften here:
And Piety applauds the falling tear.

Those sacred drops, by virtuous weakness shed,
Adorn the living, while they grace the dead:
From tender thought their source unblam'd they
draw,

By Heaven approv'd, and true to Nature's law.
When his lov'd child the Roman could not save,
Immortal Tully, from an early grave',
No common forms his home-felt passion kept:
The sage, the patriot, in the parent, wept.
And O by grief ally'd, as join'd in fame,
The same thy loss, thy sorrows are the same.
She whom the Muses, whom the Loves deplore,
Er'n she, thy pride and pleasure, is no more:
In bloom of years, in all her virtue's bloom,
Lost to thy hopes, and silent in the tomb.

O season mark'd by mourning and despair,
Thy blasts, how fatal to the young and fair?
For vernal freshness, for the balmy breeze,
Thy tainted winds come pregnant with disease:
Sick Nature sunk before the mortal breath,
That scatter'd fever, agony, and death!
What funerals has thy cruel ravage spread!
What eyes have flow'd! what noble bosoms bled!
Here let Reflection fix her sober view:

O think, who suffer, and who sigh with you.
See, rudely snatch'd, in all her pride of charms,
Bright Granby from a youthful husband's arms!
In climes far distant, see that husband mourn;
His arms revers'd, his recent laurel torn!
Behold again, at Fate's imperious call,
In one dread instant blooming Lincoln fall!
See her lov'd lord with speechless anguish bend!
And, mixing tears with his, thy noblest friend,
Thy Pelham, turn on Heaven his streaming eye:
Again in her, he sees a brother die!

And he, who long, unshaken and serene,
Had death, in each dire form of terrour, seen,
Through worlds unknown o'er unknown oceans

tost,

By love subdued, now weeps a consort lost:
Now, sunk to fondness, all the man appears,
His front dejected, and his soul in tears!

Yet more: nor thou the Muse's voice disdain,
Who fondly tries to soothe a father's pain-
Let thy calm eye survey the suffering ball:
See kingdoms round thee verging to their fall!
What spring had promis'd and what autumn yields,
The bread of thousands, ravish'd from their fields!
See youth and age, th' ignoble and the great,
Swept to one grave, in one promiscuous fate!
Hear Europe groan! hear all her nations mourn!
And be a private wound with patience borne.

Think too: and reason will confirm the thought: Thy cares, for her, are to their period brought. Yes, she, fair pattern to a failing age, With wit, chastis'd, with sprightly temper, sage:

Tullia died about the age of two and thirty. She is celebrated for her filial piety; and for having added, to the usual graces of her sex, the more

Nor is one breath of air awake to blow.