JOHN WHALEY.

1745.

From his collection of original Poems and Translations.

A Thought on Gaming.

To gild o'er avarice with a specious name,
To suffer torment while for sport you game,
Time to reverse, and order to defie,

To make your temper subject to a die,
To curse your fate for each unlucky throw,
Your reason, sense, and prudence to forego;
To call each power infernal to your part,
To sit with anxious eyes, and aching heart,
Your fortune, time, and health to throw away,
Is what our modern men of taste call play.

A SONG.

SWEET Solitude, that e'en despair canst charm, And of their force the sharpest ills disarm,

Oh! ease a while the anguish I endure.
Ye zephyrs still more gently whispering blow,
Ye streams, with still a softer murmuring flow,
And try at least to sooth what nought can cure.

Ye nightingales, whose melancholy song,
Rolls on with pleasing sadness all night long,

Lend me your notes to tell what I endure.
Ye zephyrs still more gently whispering blow,
Ye streams, with still a softer murmuring flow,
And try at least to sooth what nought can cure.

And thou, cold maid, if the dull winds that bear My dying sighs, convey them to thine ear,

Speaking the killing torments I endure;

Oh! say, tho' hopes of love from thee are vain, Say, thou canst pity an expiring swain,

And sooth at least the wounds you will not cure.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

Dublin, 1667, 1745.

Swift was born amid poverty and difficulties, seven months after the death of his father: under the protection of his uncle Godwin Swift, he was admitted a student of Trinity College Dublin, where, by his application to books of history and poetry, and neglect of academick studies, he lost his bachelor's degree, to which he was admitted at last speciali gratiâ. In 1688, he put himself under the protection of Sir William Temple, to whom his mother was related, and who became much attached to him, and introduced him to King William, who on the death of Sir William treated him with neglect. Swift was henceforward disappointed in various ways, and to that circumstance may be attributed the singularity of his temper. In 1713, he was made Dean of St. Patrick's, and though on first taking possession of his stall he received many mortifications, he continued to support his rank with elegance and decorum; his household being under the management of a person whose extraordinary history is interwoven with that of his own life, and whom he celebrates under the name of Stella. Her charms both of person and mind were extraordinary; but though after sixteen years of attachment, during which every sacrifice except that of virtue was made by the lady,

when he married her they continued to live separately. After her death the austerity of his temper increased, and frequent returns of a periodical illness undermined his health and faculties: for one whole year he continued in a state of silent idiotcy, and not more than two or three times afterwards, at different intervals, ever shewed any consciousness of impression from external objects. His political works are perspicuous, manly, and simple; as addresses to the people, his letters from the DRAPIER are models. His poetry was written only for the enter tainment of himself or his friends.

BAUCIS and PHILEMON,

Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.

In ancient times, as story tells,

The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,

Disguised in tattered habits, went

To a small village down in Kent;
Where in the stroller's canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Try'd every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,

Having through all the village pass'd,
To a small cottage came at last;
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,"
Called in the neighbourhood Philemon,
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fry'd;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch 'em drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found