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To the mind's ear, and inward sight, Their silence speaks, and shade gives light: While insects from the threshold preach, And minds dispos'd to musing teach: Proud of strong limbs and painted hues, They perish by the slightest bruise; Or maladies, begun within, Destroy more slow life's frail machine; From maggot-youth through change of state, They feel like us the turns of fate; Some born to creep have liv'd to fly, And change earth-cells for dwellings high; And some that did their six wings keep, Before they dy'd been forc'd to creep; They politics like ours profess, The greater prey upon the less: Some strain on foot huge loads to bring; Soune toil incessant on the wing, And in their different ways explore Wise sense of want by future store; Nor from their vigorous schemes desist Till death, and then are never miss'd. Some frolic, toil, marry, increase, Are sick and well, have war and peace, And, broke with age, in half a day Yield to successors, and away. Let not prophane this sacred place, Hypocrisy with Janus' face; Or Pomp, inixt state of pride and care; Court Kindness, Falsehood's polish'd ware; Scandal disguis'd in Friendship's veil, That tells, unask'd, th’ injurious tale; Or art politic, which allows The jesuit-remedy for vows; Or priest, perfuming crowned head, "Till in a swoon Truth lies for dead Or tawdry critic, who perceives No grace, which plain proportion gives, And more than lineaments divine Admires the gilding of the shrine; Or that self-haunting spectre Spleen, In thickest fog the clearest seen; Or Prophecy, which dreams a lie, That fools believe and knaves apply; Or frolic Mirth, prophanely loud, And happy only in a crowd; Or Melancholy's pensive gloom, Proxy in Contemplation's room. O Delia when I touch this string, To thee my Muse directs her wing. Unspotted fair with downcast look Mind not so much the murm'ring brook; Nor fixt in thought, with footsteps slow Through cypress alleys cherish woe: I see the soul in pensive fit, And moping like sick linnet sit. With dewy eye, and moulting wing, Unperch'd, averse to fly or sing; I see the favourite curls begin Bisus’d to toilet discipline) To quit their post, lose their smart air, *} grow again like common hair; And tears, which frequent kerchiefs dry, Raise ared circle round the eye; And by this bur about the Moon, Conjecture more ill weather soon. Love not so much the doleful knell: And news the boding night-birds tell; Nor watch the wainscot's hollow blow; And hensportentous when they crow;

Nor sleepless mind the death-watch beat; In taper find no winding-sheet: Nor in burnt coal a coffin see, Though thrown at others, meant for thee: Or when the coruscation gleams, Find out not first the bloody streams; Nor in imprest remembrance keep Grim tap'stry figures wrought in sleep; Nor rise to see in antique hall The moonlight monsters on the wall, And shadowy spectres darkly pass Trailing their sables o'er the grass, Let vice and guilt act how they please In souls, their conquer'd provinces; By Heaven's just charter it appears, Virtue's exempt from quartering fears, Shall then arm'd fancies fiercely drest, Live at discretion in your breast 2 Be wise, and panic fright disdain, As notions, meteors of the brain; And sights perform'd, illusive scenes By magic lanthorn of the spleen. Come here, from baleful cares releas'd, With Virtue's ticket, to a feast, Where decent Mirth and Wisdom join'd In stewardship, regale the mind. Call back the Cupids to your eyes, I see the godlings with surprise. Not knowing home in such a plight, Fly to and fro, afraid to light. — Far from my theme, from method far, Convey'd in Venus' flying car, I go compell'd by feather'd steeds, That scorn the rein, when Delia leads. No daub of elegiac strain These holy wars shall ever stain; As spiders Irish wainscot flee, Falsehood with them shall disagree; This floor let not the vulgar tread, Who worship only what they dread: Nor bigots who but one way see Through blinkers of authority. Nor they who its four saints defame By making virtue but a name; Nor abstract wit, (painful regale To hunt the pig with slippery tail') Artists, who richly chase their thought, Gaudy without, but hollow wrought; And beat too thin, and tool'd too much To bear the proof and standard touch: Norfops to guard this sylvan ark, With necklace bells in treble bark: Nor cynics growl and fiercely paw, The mastiffs of the moral law. Come, nymph, with rural honours drest, Virtue's exterior form confest, With charms untarnish'd, innocence Display, and Eden shall commence; When thus you come in sober fit, And wisdom is preferr'd to wit; And looks diviner graces tell, Which don't with giggling muscles dwell; And beauty like the ray-clipt Sun, With bolder eye we look upon; Learning shall with obsequious mien Tell all the wonders she has seen; Reason her logic armour quit, And proof to mild persuasion sit; Religion with free thought dispense, And cease crusading against sense;

Philosophy and she embrace,
And their first league again take place:
And Morals pure, in duty bound,
Nymph-like the sisters chief surround ;
Nature shall smile, and round this cell
The turf to your light pressure swell,
And knowing Beauty by her shoe,
Well air its carpet from the dew.
The Oak, while you his umbrage deck,
Lets fall his acorns in your neck;
Zephyr his civil kisses gives,
And plays with curls instead of leaves:
Birds, seeing you, believe it spring,
And during their vacation sing;
And flow'rs lean forward from their seats,
To traffic in exchange of sweets;
And angels bearing wreaths descend,
Preferr'd as vergers to attend
This fane, whose deity entreats
The fair to grace its upper seats.
O kindly view our letter'd strife,
And guard us through polemic life;
From poison vehicled in praise,
For Satire's shots but slightly graze;
We claim your zeal, and find within,
Philosophy and you are kin.
What virtue is we judge by you;
For actions right are beauteous too;
By tracing the sole female mind,
We best what is true nature find:
Your vapours bred from fumes declare,
How steams create tempestuous air,
Till gushing tears and hasty rain
Make Heav'n and you serene again.
Our travels through the starry skies
Were first suggested by your eyes;
We, by the interposing fan,
Learn how eclipses first began :
The vast ellipse from Scarbro's home,
Describes how blazing comets roam :
The glowing colours of the cheek
Their origin from Phoebus speak;
Our watch how Luna strays above
Feels like the care of jealous love;
And all things we in science know
From your known love for riddles flow.
Father forgive, thus far I stray,
Drawn by attraction from my way.
Mark next with awe the foundress well
Who on these banks delights to dwell;
You on the terrace see her plain,
Move like Diana with her train.
If you then fairly speak your mind,
In wedlock since with Isis join'd,
You'll own, you never yet did see,
At least in such a high degree,
Greatness delighted to undress;
Science a sceptr'd hand caress;
A queen the friends of freedom prize;
A woman wise men canonize.

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THOMAS TICKELL.

Towa, Tickell, a poet of considerable elegance, born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, in 1686, was the son of a clergyman in the county of Cumberland. He was entered of Queen's College, Oxford, in 1701, and having taken the degree of M.A. in 1708, was elected fellow of his college, first obtaining from the crown a dispensation from the statute requiring him to be in orders. He then came to the metropolis, where he made himself known to several persons distinguished in letters. When the negotiations were carrying on which brought on the peace of Utrecht, he published a poem entitled “ The Prospect of Peace,” which ran through six editions. Addison, with whom he had ingratiated himself by an elegant poem on his opera of Rosamond, speaks highly of “The Pro*Pect of Peace,” in a paper of the Spectator, in which he expresses himself as particularly pleased to find that the author had not amused himself with fables out of the Pagan theology. This commendation Tickell amply repaid by his lines on Addison's Cato, which are superior to all others on that sub*t, with the exception of Pope's Prologue. Tickell, being attached to the succession of the House of Hanover, presented George I. with a poem entitled “The Royal Progress;” and more effectually served the cause by two pieces, one called “An Imitation of the Prophecy of Nereus;” the other, “An Epistle from a Lady in England, to a

COLIN AND LUCY. A BALLAD,

O, Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nore'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so sweet a face:
Till luckless love, and pining care,
Impair'd her rosy hue,
Her coral lips, and damask cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh! have you seen a lily pale,
When beating rains descend?

So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end.

Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains

Take heed, ye easy fair:

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjur’d swains, beware.

Gentleman at Avignon.” Both these are selected for the purpose of the present volume. He was about this time taken to Ireland, by Addison, who went over as secretary to Lord Sunderland. When Pope published the first volume of his translation of the Iliad, Tickell gave a translation of the first book of that poem, which was patronized by Addison, and occasioned a breach between those eminent men. Tickell's composition, however, will bear no poetical comparison with that of Pope, and accordingly he did not proceed with the task. On the death of Addison, he was entrusted with the charge of publishing his works, a distinction which he repaid by prefixing a life of that celebrated man, with an elegy on his death, of which Dr. Johnson says, “That a more sublime or elegant funeral poem is not to be found in the whole compass of English literature.” Another piece, which might be justly placed at the head of sober lyrics, is his “Ode to the Earl of Sunderland,” on his installation as a knight of the Garter; which keeping within the limits of truth, consigns a favourite name to its real honours. Tickell is represented as a man of pleasing manners, fond of society, very agreeable in conversation, and upright and honourable in his conduct. He was married, and left a family. His death took place at Bath, in 1740, the 54th year of his age.

Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;
And shrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flap'd his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound:
And thus, in dying words, bespoke
The virgins weeping round:

“I hear a voice, you cannot hear,
Which says, I must not stay;
I see a hand, you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.
By a false heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die:
Was I to blame, because his bride
Was thrice as rich as I?

“Ah, Colin give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone:
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.
Y

To-morrow, in the church to wed,
Impatient, both prepare

But know, fond maid; and know, false man,
That Lucy will be there!

“Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,
This bridegroom blithe to meet,
He in his wedding-trim so gay,
I in my winding-sheet.”
She spoke, she dy'd, her corse was borne,
The bridegroom blithe to meet,
He in his wedding trim so gay,
She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur’d Colin's thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,
At once his bosom swell:
The damps of death bedev'd his brow,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, ah, bride no more
The varying crimson fled,
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,
She saw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,
For ever he remains.

Oft at this grave, the constant hind
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green:
But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

To THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON the DEAth of MR. Addison.

Ir, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.

Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave! How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of

kings!

What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
The duties by the lawn-rob’d prelate pay’d;
And the last words that dust to dust convey'd :
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.

Oh, gone for ever; take this long adieu ;
And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague.
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue,
My grief be doubled from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls where speaking marbles show
What worthies form the hallow'd mould below;
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumph'd; or in arts excell'd;
Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;
And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven;
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.
In what new region, to the just assign'd,
What new employments please th' unbody'd mind?
A winged Virtue, through th' etherial sky,
From world to world unweary'd does he fly?
Or curious trace the long laborious maze
Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell
How Michael battl’d, and the dragon fell;
Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below 2
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well suited to thy gentle mind?
Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend:
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill, a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree,
Must still be lov'd and still deplor’d by me;
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or, rous'd by Fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight;
If in the stage I seek to sooth my care,
I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
His shape o’ertakes me in the lonely grove;
'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious song:
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor, and a friend severe;
There taught us how to live; and (oh too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures
race,
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears,
O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears t
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;
No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.
From other hills, however Fortune frown'd ;
Some refuge in the Muse's art I found:
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him, who taught me how to sing;
And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.
O' must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)
The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong,
And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song !

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As Mar his round one morning took, (Whom some call earl, and some call duke,) And his new brethren of the blade, Shivering with fear and frost, survey'd, On Perth's bleak hills he chanc'd to spy An aged wizard six feet high, With bristled hair and visage blighted, Wall-ey'd, bare-haunch'd, and second-sighted. The grisly sage in thought profound Beheld the chief with back so round, Then roll'd his eye-balls to and fro O'er his paternal hills of snow, And into these tremendous speeches Broke forth the prophet without breeches. “Into what hills betray'd, by thee, This ancient kingdom do I see! Her realms unpeopled and forlorn Wae's me! that ever thou wert born 4 Proud English loons (our clans o'ercome) On Scottish pads shall amble home; I see them drest in bonnets blue (The spoils of thy rebellious crew); I see the target cast away, And chequer'd plaid become their prey, The chequer'd plaid to make a gown For many a lass in London town. “In vain thy hungry mountaineers Come forth in all thy warlike geers, The shield, the pistol, durk, and dagger, In which they daily wont to swagger,

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And of have sally'd out to pillage
The hen-roosts of some peaceful village,
Or, while their neighbours were asleep,
Have carry'd off a lowland sheep.
“What boots thy high-born host of beggers,
Mac-leans, Mac-kenzies, and Mac-gregors,
With popish cut-throats, perjur'd ruffians,
And Foster's troop of raggamuffins 2
“In vain thy lads around thee bandy,
Inflam'd with bag-pipe and with brandy.
Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty,
With heart so true, and voice so rusty,
(A loyal soul) thy troops affright,
While hoarsely he demands the fight?
Dost thou not generous Ilay dread,
The bravest hand, the wisest head 2
Undaunted dost thou hear th' alarms
Of hoary Athol sheath'd in arms?
“ Douglas, who draws his lineage down
From thanes and peers of high renown,
Fiery, and young, and uncontroll'd,
With knights, and squires, and barons bold,
(His noble household-band) advances,
And on the milk-white courser prances.
Thee Forfar to the combat dares,
Grown swarthy in Iberian wars;
And Monroe, kindled into rage,
Sourly defies thee to engage;
He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many,
And horse to boot —if thou hadst any.
“But see Argyll, with watchful eyes,
Lodg'd in his deep intrenchments lies,
Couch'd like a lion in thy way,
He waits to spring upon his prey;
While, like a herd of timorous deer,
Thy army shakes and pants with fear,
Led by their doughty general's skill,
From frith to frith, from hill to hill.
“Is thus thy haughty promise paid
That to the Chevalier was made,
When thou didst oaths and duty barter,
For dukedom, generalship, and garter?
Three moons thy Jemmy shall command,
With Highland sceptre in his hand,
Too good for his pretended birth,
... Then down shall fall the king of Perth.
“'Tis so decreed: for George shall reign,
And traitors be forsworn in vain.
Heaven shall for ever on him smile,
And bless him still with an Argyll.
While thou, pursued by vengeful foes,
Condemn'd to barren rocks and snows,
And hinder'd passing Inverlocky,
Shall burn the clan, and curse poor Jocky.”

AN EPISTLE

FROM A LADY IN ENGLAND TO A GENTLEMAN Air AVIG No N.

To thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends, The health, she wants, thy gentle Chloe sends. Though much you suffer, think I suffer more, Worse than an exile on my native shore. Companions in your master's flight you roam, Unenvy'd by your haughty foes at home; For ever near the royal outlaw's side You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide,

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