some beauty in it; and indeed the beauty of it is what I have before observed to be frequently met with in Virgil, the delivering the precept so indirectly, and singling out the particular circumstance of sowing and ploughing naked, to suggest to us that these employments are proper only in the hot season of the year.

I shall not here comparethe style of the Georgics with that of Lucretius, which the reader may see already done in the preface to the second volume of Miscellany Poems'; but shall conclude this poem to be the most complete, elaborate, and finished piece of all antiquity. The Eneis indeed is of a nobler kind, but the Georgic is more perfect in its kind. The Aneis has a greater variety of beauties in it, but those of the Georgic are more exquisite. In short, the Georgic has all the perfection that can be expected in a poem written by the greatest post in the flower of his age, when his invention was ready, his imagination warm, his judgment settled, and all his faculties in their full vigour and maturity.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER, ON HIS
PICTURE OF THE KING.

KNELLER, with silence and surprise
We se Britannia's monarch rise,
A godlike forin, by thee display'd
In all the force of light and shade;
And, aw'd by thy delusive hand,
As in the presence-chamber stand.
The magic of thy art calls forth
His secret soul and hidden worth,
His probity and mildness shows,
His care of friends, and scorn of foes:
In every stroke, in every line,
Does some exalted virtue shine,
And Albion's happiness we trace
Through all the features of his face.

O may I live to hail the day,
When the glad nation shall survey
Their sovereign, through his wide command,
Passing in progress o'er the land!
Each heart shall bend, and every voice
In loud applauding shouts rejoice,
Whilst all his gracious aspect praise,
And crowds grow loyal as they gaze.
The image on the medal plac'd,
With its bright round of titles grac'd,
And stampt on British coins shall live,
To richest ores the value give,

Or, wrought within the curious mold,
Shape and adorn the running gold.
To bear this form, the genial Sun
Has daily since his course begun
Rejoic'd the metal to refine,
And ripen'd the Peruvian mine.

Thou, Kneller, long with noble pride,
The foremost of thy art, hast vy'd
With nature in a generous strife,
And touch'd the canvas into life.

Thy pencil has, by monarchs sought,
From reign to reign in ermine wrought,

The collection published by Mr. Dryden.

And, in the robes of state array'd,
The kings of half an age display'd.
Here swarthy Charles appears, and there
His brother with dejected air:
Triumphant Nassau here we find,
And with him bright Maria join'd;
There Anna, great as when she sent
Her armies through the continent,
Ere yet her hero was disgrac'd:

O may fam'd Brunswick be the last,
(Though Heaven should with my wish agree,
And long preserve thy art in thee)
The last, the happiest British king,
Whom thou shalt paint, or I shall sing!
Wise Phidias thus, his skill to prove,
Through many a god advanc'd to Jove,
And taught the polish'd rocks to shine
With airs and lineaments divine;
Til: Greece, amaz'd, and half-afraid,
Th' assembled deities survey'd.

Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair,
And lov'd the spreading oak, was there;
Old Saturn too with upcast eyes
Beheld his abdicated skies;

And mighty Mars, for war renown'd,
In adamantine armour frown'd;
By him the childless goddess rose,
Minerva, studious to compose

Her twisted threads; the web she strung,
́And o'er a loom of marble hung:
Thetis, the troubled ocean's queen,
Match'd with a mortal, next was seen,
Reclining on a funeral urn,

Her short-liv'd darling son to mourn.
The last was he, whose thunder slew
The Titan-race, a rebel crew,
That from a hundred hills ally'd
In impious leagues their king defy'd.
This wonder of the sculptor's hand
Produc'd, his art was at a stand:
For who would hope new fame to raise,
Or risk his well-establish'd praise,
That, his high genius to approve,
Had drawn a George, or carv'd a Jove?

PROLOGUE

TO SMITH'S PHÆDRA AND HIPPOLITUS. SPOKEN
BY MR. WILKS.

LONG has a race of heroes fill'd the stage,
That rant by note, and through the gamut rage;
In songs and airs express their martial fire,
Combat in trills, and in a fugue expire:
While, luli'd by sound, and undisturb'd by wit,
Calm and serene you indolently sit,
And, from the dull fatigue of thinking free,
Hear the facetious fiddle's repartee:
Our home-spun authors must forsake the field,
And Shakspeare to the soft Scarletti yield.

Γίον,

To your new taste the poet of this day Was by a friend advis'd to form his play. Had Valentini, musically coy, Shunn'd Phædra's arms, and scorn'd the proffer'd It had not mov'd your wonder to have seen An eunuch fly from an enamour'd queen: How would it pleas", should she in English speak, Andcoald Hippolitus reply in Greek!

But he, a stranger to your modish way,
By your old rules must stand or fall to day,
And hopes you will your foreigu taste command,
To bear, for once, with what you understand.

PROLOGUE

TO STEELE'S TENDER HUSBAND.

In the first rise and infancy of farce,

When fools were many, and when plays were

scarce,

The raw unpractis'd authors could with ease
A young and unexperienc'd audience please:
No single character had e'er been shown,
But the whole herd of fops was all their own;
Rich in originals, they set to view,
In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.

But now our British theatre can boast
Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host!
Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows [beaux;
Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and
Rough country knights are found of every shire;
Of every fashion gentle fops appear;
And punks of different characters we meet,
As frequent on the stage as in the pit.
Our modern wits are forc'd to pick and cull,
And here and there by chance glean up a fool:
Long ere they find the necessary spark,
They search the town, and beat about the park,
To all his most frequented haunts resort,
Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court,
As love of pleasure or of place invites;
And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's.
Howe'er, to do you right, the present age
Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage;
That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod,
And won't be blockheads in the common road.
Do but survey this crowded house to night:

Here's still encouragement for those that write. Our author, to divert his friends to day, Stocks with variety of fools his play; And that there may be something gay and new, Two ladies-errant has expos'd to view; The first a damsel travell'd in romance; The other more refin'd, she comes from France: Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger,

And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger.

EPILOGUE

TO LANSDOWNE'S BRITISH ENCHANTERS.

WHEN Orpheus tun'd his lyre with pleasing woè,
Rivers forgot to run, and winds to blow,
While listening forests cover'd, as he play'd,
The soft musician in a moving shade.
That this night's strains the same success may find,
The force of magic is to music join'd:
Where sounding strings and artful voices fail,
The charming rod and mutter'd spells prevail.
Let sage Uganda wave the circling wand
On barren mountains, or a waste of sand;
The desert smiles; the woods begin to grow,
The birds to warble, and the springs to flow.

The same dull sights in the same landscape mixt, Scenes of still life, and points for ever fix'd,

A tedious pleasure on the mind bestow,
And pall the sense with one continued show:
But, as our two magicians try their skill,
The vision varies, though the place stands still;
While the same spot its gaudy form renews,
Shifting the prospect to a thousand views.
Thus (without unity of place transgrest)
Th' enchanter turns the critic to a jest.

But howsoe'er, to please your wandering eyes, Bright objects disappear and brighter rise: There's none can make amends for lost delight, While from that circle we divert your sight.

AN ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

PER

SET TO MUSIC BY MR. DANIEL PURCELL.
FORMED AT OXFORD 1699.
PREPARE the hallow'd strain, my Muse,
Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbers choose;
The bright Cecilia's praise rehearse,
In warbling words, and gliding verse,
That smoothly run into a song,

And gently die away, and melt upon the tongue.

First let the sprightly violin

The joyful melody begin,

And none of all her strings be mute;
While the sharp sound and shriller lay
In sweet harmonious notes decay,

Soften'd and mellow'd by the flute.
"The flute that sweetly can complain,
Dissolve the frozen nymph's disdain;
Panting sympathy impart,

Till she partake her lover's smart 1."

CRORUS.

Next, let the solemn organ join
Religious airs, and strains divine,
Such as may lift us to the skies,
And set all Heaven before our eyes:

"Such as may lift us to the skies;
So far at least till they
Descend with kind surprise,
And meet our pious harmony half-way."

Let then the trumpet's piercing sound
Our ravish'd ears with pleasure wound:
The soul o'erpowering with delight,
As, with a quick uncommon ray,
A streak of lightning clears the day,
And flashes on the sight.
Let Echo too perform her part,
Prolonging every note with art,
And in a low expiring strain
Play all the concert o'er again.

Such were the tuneful notes that hung
On bright Cecilia's charming tongue:
Notes that sacred heats inspir'd,
And with religious ardour fir'd:
The love sick youth, that long suppress'd
His smother'd passion in his breast,
No sooner heard the warbling dame,
But, by the secret influence turn'd,
He felt a new diviner flame,

And with devotion burn'd.

'The four last lines of the second and third stanzas were added by Mr. Tate.

With ravish'd soul, and looks amaz'd, Upon her beauteous face he gaz'd;

Nor made his amorous complaint: In vain her eyes his heart had charm'd, Her heavenly voice her eyes disarm'd, And chang'd the lover to a saint.

GRAND CHORUS.

And now the choir complete rejoices,
With trembling strings and melting voices.
The tuneful ferment rises high,
And works with mingled melody:
Quick divisions run their rounds,

A thousand trills and quivering sounds
In airy circles o'er us fly,

Till, wafted by a gentle breeze,
They faint and languish by degrees,
And at a distance die:

AN ODE.

THE spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,

And span led Heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.

Th' unweary'd Sun from day to day
Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes, to every land,
The work of an almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wonderous tale;
And nightly, to the listening Earth,
Repeats the story of her birth:

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though, no real voice, nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found:
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine:
"The hand that made us is divine."

AN HYM N.

WHEN all thy mercies, O my God,

My rising soul surveys; Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise.

O how shall words with equal warmth The gratitude declare,

That glows within my ravish'd heart! But thou canst read it there.

Thy providence my life sustain'd,
And all my wants redrest,
When in the silent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breast.

To all my weak complaints and cries
Thy mercy lent an ear,

Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt To form themselves in prayer. Unnumber'd comforts to my soul

Thy tender care bestow'd, Before my infant heart conceiv'd From whence these comforts flow'd.

When in the slippery paths of youth
With heedless steps I ran,
Thine arm unseen convey'd me safe,
And led me up to man.

Through hidden dangers, toils, and death,
It gently clear'd my way;

And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be fear'd than they.

When worn with sickness, oft hast thou
With health renew'd my face;
And when in sins and sorrow sunk,
Reviv'd my soul with grace.

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made my cup run o'er,

And in a kind and faithful friend
Has doubled all my store.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a cheerful heart,
That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life,
Thy goodness I'll pursue;

And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.

When nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,
My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore.

Through all eternity, to thee

A joyful song I'll raise; For, oh! eternity's too short To utter all thy praise.

AN ODE.

How are thy servants blest, O Lord!
How sure is their defence!
Eternal wisdom is their guide,

Their help Omnipotence.

In foreign realis, and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,
Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt,
And breath'd in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil,

Made every region please;
The hoary Alpine bills it warm'd,
And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas.
Think, O my soul, devoutly think,
How, with affrighted eyes,
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep

In all its horrours rise.

Confusion dwelt in every face,
And fear in every heart;

When waves on waves, and gulphs on gulphs,
O'ercame the pilot's art.

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free;
Whilst, in the confidence of prayer,
My soul took hold on thee.

For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,

I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retir'd,
Obedient to thy will;

The sea that roar'd at thy command,
At thy command was still.

In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore;

And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preserv'st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall join my soul to thee.

AN HYMN.

WHEN rising from the bed of death,
O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear,
I see my Maker face to face;
O how shall I appear!

If yet, while pardon may be found,
And mercy may be sought,

My heart with inward horrour shrinks,
And trembles at the thought:

When thou, O Lord, shalt stand disclos'd In majesty severe,

And sit in judgment on my soul;

O how shall I appear!

But thou hast told the troubled soul,
Who does her sins lament,

The timely tribute of her tears
Shall endless woe prevent.

Then see the sorrows of my heart,
Ere yet it be too late;

And add my Saviour's dying groans,
To give those sorrows weight.

For never shall my soul despair

Her pardon to procure,
Who knows thy only Son has dy'd
To make that pardon sure.

PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.

THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye: My noon-day walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe Í faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering steps he leads:
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrours overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile:
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and berbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.

THE PLAY-HOUSE'.

WHERE gentle Thames through stately channels glides,

And England's proud metropolis divides;
A lofty fabric does the sight invade,

And stretches o'er the waves a pompous shade;
Whence sudden shouts the neighbourhood sur-

prise,

And thundering claps and dreadful hissings rise.
Here thrifty Rhires monarchs by the day,
And keeps his mercenary kings in pay;
With deep-mouth'd actors fills the vacant scenes,
And rakes the stews for goddesses and queens:
Here the lewd punk, with crowns and sceptres
Teaches her eyes a more majestic cast; [grac'd,
And hungry monarchs with a numerous train
Of suppliant slaves, like Sancho, starve and reign.
But enter in, my Muse; the stage survey,
And all its pomp and pageantry display;
Trap-doors and pit-falls, form th' unfaithful ground,
And magic walls encompass it around:

On either side maim'd temples fill our eyes,
And intermixt with brothel-houses rise;
Disjointed palaces in order stand,

And groves obedient to the mover's hand
O'ershade the stage, and flourish at command.
A stamp makes broken towns and trees entire:
So when Amphion struck the vocal lyre,
He saw the spacious circuit all around,
With crowding woods and rising cities crown'd.

But next the tiring-room survey, and see
False titles, and promiscuous quality,
Confus'dly swarm, from heroes and from queens,
To those that swing in clouds and fill machines.
Their various characters they choose with art,
The frowning bully fits the tyrant's part:
Swoln cheeks and swaggering belly make an host,
Pale meagre looks and hollow voice a ghost;
From careful brows and heavy downcast eyes,
Dull cits and thick-scull'd aldermen arise:
The comic tone, inspir'd by Congreve, draws
At every word, lou laughter and applause:
The whining dame continues as before,
Her character unchang'd, and acts a whore.

'See Sedley's Miscellanies, 8vo. p. 202.

Above the rest, the prince with haughty stalks
Magnificent in purple buskins walks:
The royal robes his awful shoulders grace,
Profuse of spangles and of copper-lace:
Officious rascals to his mighty thigh,
Guiltless of blood, the unpointed weapon tie:
Then the gay glittering diadem put on,
Ponderous with brass, and starr'd with Bristol-
stone.

His royal consort next consults her glass,
And out of twenty boxes culls a face;

The whitening first her ghastly looks besmears,
All pale and wan th' unfinish'd form appears;
Till on her cheeks the blushing purple glows,
And a false virgin-modesty bestows.
Her ruddy lips the deep verinilion dyes;
Length to her brows the pencil's art supplies,
And with black bending arches shades her eyes.
Well pleas'd at length the picture she beholds,
And spots it o'er with artificial molds;
Her countenance complete, the beaux she warms
With looks not hers: and, spite of nature, charms.
Thus artfully their persons they disguise,
Till the last flourish bids the curtain rise.
The prince then enters on the stage in state;
Behind, a guard of candle-snuffers wait:
There swoln with empire, terrible and fierce,
He shakes the dome, and tears his lungs with verse:
His subjects tremble; the submissive pit,
Wrapt up in silence and attention, sit;
Till, freed at length, he lays aside the weight
Of public business and affairs of state:
Forgets his pomp, dead to ambitious fires,
And to some peaceful brandy-shop retires;
Where in full gills his anxious thoughts he drowns,
And quaff's away the care that waits on crowns.

The princess next her painted charms displays,
Where every look the pencil's art betrays;
The callow squire at distance feeds his eyes,
And silently for paint and washes dies:
But if the youth behind the scenes retreat,
He sees the blended colours melt with heat,
And all the trickling beauty run in sweat.
The borrow'd visage he admires no more,
And nauseates every charm he lov'd before:
So the fam'd spear, for double force renown'd,
Apply'd the remedy that gave the wound.

In tedious lists 'twere endless to engage, And draw at length the rabble of the stage, Where one for twenty years bas giv'n alarms, And call'd contending monarchs to their arms; Another fills a more important post, And rises every other night a ghost; Through the cleft stage his mealy face he rears, Then stalks along, groans thrice, and disappears; Others, with swords and shields, the soldier's pride, More than a thousand times have chang'd their side,

And in a thousand fatal battles dy'd.

Thus several persons several parts perform; Soft lovers whine, and blustering heroes storm. The stern exasperated tyrants rage, Till the kind bowl of poison clears the stage. Then honours vanish, and distinctions cease; Then, with reluctance, haughty queens undress. Heroes no more their fading laure's boast, And mighty kings in private men are lost. He, whom such titles swell'd, such power made proud, [bow'd, To whom whole realms and vanquish'd nations

Throws off the gaudy plume, the purple train, And in his own vile tatters stinks again.

ON THE LADY MANCHESTER. WRITTEN ON THE TOASTING-GLASSES OF THE KIT-CAT CLUB.

WHILE haughty Gallia's dames, that spread
O'er their pale cheeks an artful red,
Beheld this beauteous stranger there,
In native charms divinely fair;
Confusion in their looks they show'd;
And with unborrow'd blushes glow'd.

CATO.

A TRAGEDY.

Ecce spectaculum dignum, ad quod respiciat, intentus operi suo, Deus! Ecce par Deo dignum, vir fortis cum malâ fortunâ compositus! Non video, inquam, quid habeat in terris Jupiter pulchrius, si convertere animum velit, quàm ut spectet Catonem, jam partibus non semel fractis, nihilominùs inter ruinas publicas erectum. Sen. de Divin. Prov.

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRIN CESS OF WALES.

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO, NOVEMBER 1714.

THE Muse that oft, with sacred rapture fir'd,
Has generous thoughts of liberty inspir'd,
And, boldly rising for Britannia's laws,
Engag'd great Cato in her country's cause,
On you submissive waits with hopes assur'd,
By whom the mighty blessings stand secur'd;
And all the glories, that our age adorn,
Are promis'd to a people yet unborn.

No longer shall the widow'd land bemoan
A broken lineage, and a doubtful throne;
But boast her royal progeny's increase,
And count the pledges of her future peace.
O born to strengthen and to grace our isle!
While you, fair princess, in your offspring smile,
Supplying charms to the succeeding age,
Each heavenly daughter's triumphs we presage;
Already see th' illustrious youths complain,
And pity monarchs doom'd to sigh in vain,

Thou too, the darling of our fond desires, Whom Albion, opening wide her arms, requires, With manly valour and attractive air, Shalt quell the fierce, and captivate the fair. O England's younger hope! in whom conspire The mother's sweetness, and the father's fire! For thee perhaps, ev'n now, of kingly race Some dawning beauty blooms in every grace; Some Carolina, to Heaven's dictates true, Who, while the scepter'd rivals vainly sue, Thy inborn worth with conscious eyes shall see, And slight th' imperial diadem for thee.

Pleas'd with the prospect of successive reigns, The tuneful tribe no more in daring strains