THE PETITION.

THE various suppliants which address

Their pray'rs to Heaven on bended knees,

All hope alike for happiness,

Yet each petition disagrees. Fancy, not judgment, constitutes their bliss; The wise, no doubt, will say the same of this.

Ye gods, if you remember right,

Some eighteen years ago,

A form was made divinely bright,

And sent for us t' admire below:

I first distinguish'd her from all the rest,

And hope you'll therefore think my title best.

I ask not heaps of shining gold,

No, if the gods vouchsafe
My longing arms may her infold,
I'm rich, I'm rich enough!
Riches at best can hardly give content;
But having her, what is there I can want?

I ask not, with a pompous train

Of honours, all th' world t' outbrave; The title I wou'd wish to gain,

Is,-Her most fav'rite slave:

To bow to her, a greater bliss wou'd be
Than kings and princes bowing down to me.

To rule the world with power supreme,
Let meaner souls aspire;,

To gain the sov❜reignty from them

I stoop not to desire:

Love commencing,

Joys dispensing;
Beauty smiling,
Wit beguiling;
Kindness charming,
Fancy warming;
Kissing, toying,
Melting, dying;

O the pleasing, pleasing raptures!

THE ADVICE.

DOST thou, my friend, desire to rise
To honour, wealth, and dignities?
Virtue's paths, though trod by few,
With constant steps do thou pursue.
For as the coward-soul admires
That courage which the brave inspires;
And his own quarrels to defend,
Gladly makes such a one his friend;
So in a world which rogues infest,
How is an honest man caress'd!
The villains from each other fly,
And on his virtue safe rely',

A LAMENTABLE CASE.
SUBMITTED TO THE BATH PHYSICIANS,

YE fam'd physicians of this place,
Hear Strephon's and poor Chloe's case,
Nor think that I am joking;
When she wou'd, he cannot comply,
When he wou'd drink, she's not a-dry;
And is not this provoking?

At night, when Strephon comes to rest,
Chloe receives him on her breast,

With fondly folding arms:

Down, down he hangs his drooping head,
Falls fast asleep, and lies as dead,
Neglecting all her charms.

Reviving when the morn returns,
With rising flames young Strephon burns,
And fain, wou'd fain be doing:
But Chloe now, asleep or sick,
Has no great relish for the trick,
And sadly baulks his wooing.

O cruel and disastrous case,
When in the critical embrace
That only one is burning!
Dear doctors, set this matter right,
Give Strephon spirits over night,
Or Chloe in the morning.

A LADY'S SALUTATION

TO HER GARDEN IN THE COUNTRY.

WELCOME, fair Scene; welcome, thou lov'd retreat, From the vain hurry of the bustling great.

1 This is only the first few verses of a very long and dull poem in The Muse in Livery, which the author did not think proper to republish.-C.

Here let me walk, or in this fragrant bower, Wrapp'd in calm thought improve each fleeting hour.

My soul, while Nature's beauties feast mine eyes, To Nature's God contemplative shall rise.

What are ye now, ye glittering, vain delights, Which waste our days, and rob us of our nights? What your allurements? what your fancy'd joys? Dress, equipage, and show, and pomp, and noise. Alas! how tasteless these, how low, how mean, To the calm pleasures of this rural scene?

Come then, ye shades, beneath your bending

arms

Enclose the fond admirer of your charms;
Come then, ye bowers, receive your joyful guest,
Glad to retire, and in retirement blest;
Come, ye fair flowers, and open ev'ry sweet;
Come, little birds, your warbling songs repeat,
And oh descend to sweeten all the rest,
Soft smiling peace, in white-rob'd virtue drest;
Content unenvious, ease with freedom join'd,
And contemplation calm, with truth refin'd:
Deign but in this fair scene with me to dwell,
All noise and nonsense, pomp and show, farewell.
And see! oh see! the heav'n-born train appear!
Fix then, my heart; thy happiness is here.

THE PROGRESS OF LOVE.

BENEATH the myrtle's secret shade,
When Delia blest my eyes;

At first I view'd the lovely maid

In silent soft surprise.

With trembling voice, and anxious mind,

I softly whisper'd love;

She blush'd a smile so sweetly kind,

Did all my fears remove.

Her lovely yielding form I prest,
Sweet maddening kisses stole;

And soon her swimming eyes confest
The wishes of her soul:

In wild tumultuous bliss, I cry,
"O Delia, now be kind!"

She press'd me close, and with a sigh,
To melting joys resign'd.

SONG.

MAN's a poor deluded bubble,
Wand'ring in a mist of lies,
Seeing false, or seeing double,

Who wou'd trust to such weak eyes?

Yet presuming on his senses,

On he goes most wond'rous wise: Doubts of truth, believes pretences; Lost in errour, lives and dies,

AN EPIGRAM,

OCCASIONED BY THE WORD "ONE PRIOR," IN
THE SECOND VOLUME OF BISHOP BURNET'S
HISTORY.

ONE Prior!-and is this, this all the fame
The poet from th' historian can claim!
No; Prior's verse posterity shall quote,
When 'tis forgot one Burnet ever wrote.

MELPOMENE;

OR THE REGIONS OF TERROUR AND PITY.
AN ODE.

QUEEN of the human heart! at whose command
The swelling tides of mighty passion rise;
Melpomene, support my vent'rous hand,
And aid thy suppliant in his bold emprise;
From the gay scenes of pride

Do thou his footsteps guide

To Nature's awful courts, where nurst of yore, Young Shakspeare, Fancy's child, was taught his various lore.

So may his favour'd eye explore the source, To few reveal'd, whence human sorrows charm:

So may his numbers, with pathetic force, Bid terrour shake us, or compassion warm, As different strains control The movements of the soul; Adjust its passions, harmonize its tone; To feel for other's woe, or nobly bear its own.

Deep in the covert of a shadowy grove, [play;
'Mid broken rocks where dashing currents
Dear to the pensive pleasures, dear to love,
And Damon's Muse, that breathes her melt.
This ardent prayer was made: [ing lay,
When lo! the secret shade,
As conscious of some heavenly presence, shook-
Strength, firmness, reason, all-m' astonished
soul forsook.

Ah! whither goddess! whither am I borne?
To what wild region's necromantic shore?
These panics whence? and why my bosom torn
With sudden terrours never felt before?
Darkness inwraps me round;
While from the vast profound

Emerging spectres dreadful shapes assume, And gleaming on my sight, add horrour to the gloom.

Ha! what is he whose fierce indignant eye, Denouncing vengeance, kindles into flame? Whose boisterous fury blows a storm so high, As with its thunder shakes his labʼring frame. What can such rage provoke

His words their passage choke: His eager steps nor time nor truce allow, And dreadful dangers wait the menace of his brow.

Protect me, goddess! whence that fearful shriek Of consternation? as grim Death had laid, His icy fingers on some guilty cheek, [may'd: And all the powers of manhood shrunk disAh see! besmear'd with gore Revenge stands threatening o'er A pale delinquent, whose retorted eyes In vain for pity call-the wretched victim dies.

Not long the space-abandon'd to despair,

With eyes aghast, or hopeless fix'd on earth, This slave of passion rends his scatter'd hair, Beats his sad breast, and execrates his birth: While torn within he feels

The pangs of whips and wheels; And secs, or fancies, all the fiends below, Beckoning his frighted soul to realms of endless

woe.

Before my wondering sense new phantoms dance, And stamp their horrid shapes upon my brain-A wretch with jealous brow, and eyes askance, Feeds all in secret on his bosom pain.

Fond love, fierce hate assail;
Alternate they prevail: [conspire,
While conscious pride and shame with rage
And urge the latent sparks to flames of torturing
fire.

The storm proceeds-his changeful visage trace:
From rage to inadness every feature breaks.
A growing phrenzy grins upon his face,
And in his frightful stare distraction speaks:
His straw-invested head

Proclaims all reason fled;

And not a tear bedews those vacant eyes— But songs and shouts succeed, and laughter-min

gled sighs.

Yet, yet again!-a murderer's hand appears Grasping a pointed dagger stain'd with blood! His look malignant chills with boding fears, That check the current of life's ebbing flood, In midnight's darkest clouds The dreary miscreant shrouds His felon step-as 'twere to darkness given To dim the watchful eye of all-pervading Heaven.

And hark! ah mercy! whence that hollow
sound?
[hair?
Why with strange horrour starts my bristling
Earth opens wide, and from `unhallow'd ground
A pallid ghost slow-rising steals on air.
To where a mangled corse
Expos'd without remorse

Lies shroudless, unentomb'd, he points the

away

Points to the prowling wolf exultant o'er his prey.

Behold that beauteous maid! her languid head

Bends like a drooping lily charg'd with rain: With floods of tears she bathes a lover dead, In brave assertion of her honour slain.

Her bosom heaves with sighs;

To Heaven she lifts her eyes,
With grief beyond the power of words opprest,
Sinks on the lifeless corse, and dies upon his breast.

How strong the bands of friendship? yet, alas!
Behind yon mouldering tower withivy crown'd,
Of two, the foremost in her sacred class,
One, from his friend, receives the fatal wound!
What could such fury move!

Ah what, but ill-starr'd love?
The same fair object each fond heart enthralls,
And he, the favour'd youth, her hapless victim
falls.

Ah! who to pomp or grandeur would aspire? Kins are not rais'd above misfortune's frown: That form so graceful even in mean attire, Sway'd once a sceptre, once sustain'd a crown. From filial rage and strife,

To screen his closing life, He quits his throne, a father's sorrow feels, And in the lap of want his patient head conceals. More yet remain'd-but lo! the pensive queen Appears confest before my dazzled sight; Grace in her steps, and softness in her mien, The face of sorrow mingled with delight. Not such her nobler frame, When kindling into flame, And bold in virtue's cause, her zeal aspires To waken guilty pangs, or breathe heroic fires. Aw'd into silence, my rapt soul attends— The power, with eyes complacent, saw my And, as with grief ineffable she bends, [fear; These accents vibrate on my listening ear. "Aspiring son of art,

Know, tho' thy feeling heart Glow with these wonders to thy fancy shown, Still may the Delian god thy powerless toils dis

own.

"A thousand tender scenes of soft distress May swell thy breast with sympathetic woes, A thousand such dread forms on fancy press, As from my dreary realms of darkness rose; Whence Shakspeare's chilling fears, Whence Otway's melting tearsThat awful gloom, this melancholy plain, The types of every theme that suits the tragic strain.

"But dost thou worship Nature night and morn, And all due honour to her precepts pay? Canst thou the lure of affectation scorn, Pleas'd in the simpler paths of truth to stray? Hast thou the Graces fair Invok'd with ardent prayer? 'Tis they attire, as Nature must impart, The sentiment sublime, the language of the heart. "Then, if creative Genius pour his ray, Warm with inspiring influence on thy breast; Taste, judgment, fancy, if thou canst display, And the deep source of passion stand confest: Then may the listening train, Affected, feel thy strain; Feel grief or terrour, rage or pity move; Change with the varying scenes, and every scene approve."

Humbled before her sight, and bending low,

I kiss'd the borders of her crimson vest;
Eager to speak, I felt my bosom glow,
But fear upon my lip her seal imprest.
While awe-struck thus I stood,
The bowers, the lawn, the wood,

The form celestial, fading on my sight, Dissolv'd in liquid air, and fleeting gleams of light.

ON HIS FIRST ARRIVAL AT THE
LEASOWS, 1754.

"How shall I fix my wand'ring eye? where find The source of this enchantment? Dwells it in

The woods? or waves there not à magic wand
O'er the translucent waters? Sure, unseen,
Some favouring power directs the happy lines
That sketch these beauties; swells the rising bills,
And scoops the dales to Nature's finest forins;
Vague, undetermin'd, infinite: untaught
By line or compass, yet supremely fair."
So spake Philemon, as with raptùr'd gaze
He traversed Damon's farm. From distant plains
He sought his friend's abode; nor had the fame
Of that new-form'd Arcadia reach'd his ear.

And thus the swain, as o'er each hill and dale,
Thro' lawn or thicket he pursued his way:
"What is it gilds the verdure of these meads
With lines more bright than fancy paints the flowers
Of Paradise? what Naiad's guiding hand
Leads, thro' the broider'd vale, these lucid rills,
That murmuring as they flow, bear melody
Along their banks; and thro' the vocal shades,
Improve the music of the woodland choir?
What pensive Dryad rais❜d yon solemn grove,
Where minds contemplative, at close of day
Retiring, muse o'er Nature's various works,
Her wonders venerate, or her sweets enjoy?
What room for doubt? some rural deity,
Presiding, scatters o'er th' unequal lawns,
In beauteous wildness, yon fair-spreading trees:
And mingling woods and waters, hills and dales,
And herds and bleating flocks, domestic fowl,
And those that swim the lake, sees rising round
More pleasing landscapes than in Tempe's vale
Penèus watered. Yes, some sylvan god
Spreads wide the varied prospect; waves the woods,
Lifts the proud hills, and clears the shining lakes:
While, from the congregated waters pour'd,
The bursting torrent tumbles down the steep
In foaming fury; fierce, irregular,
Wild, interrupted, cross'd with rocks and roots
And interwoven trees; till, soon absorb'd,
An open cavern all its rage entombs.
So vanish human glories! such the pomp
Of swelling warriors, of ambitious kings,
Who fret and strut their hour upon the stage
Of busy life, and then are heard no more!

"Yes, 'tis enchantment all-and see, the spells, The powerful incantations, magic verse, Inscrib'd on every tree, alcove, or urn.—

Spells!-incantations!-ah, my tuneful friend!
Thine are the numbers! thine the wond'rous work!
Yes, great magician! now I read thee right,
And lightly weigh all sorcery, but thine.
No Naiad's leading step conducts the rill:
Nor sylvan god presiding skirts the lawn
In beauteous wildness, with fair spreading trees;
Nor magic wand has circumscrib'd the scene.
'Tis thine own taste, thy genius, that presides,
Nor needs there other deity, nor needs [swain,
More potent spells than they."--No more the
For lo, his Damon, o'er the tufted lawn
Advancing, leads him to the social dome.

AGRICULTURE.

A POEM.

To his royal highness the prince of Wales, this attempt to delineate such objects of public