Alluding to the two olive-branches in Zecharia, c. iv. v. 11 and 12. which empty the golden oil out of themselves. Amongst other expositions of which words, Junius and Tarnovius interpret them, to mean the various gifts and effusions of the Holy Spirit, which are, by Christ, derived upon the church. For Christ is called the Messiah, on account of his being anointed with the oil of gladness; Ps. xiv. 8. And St. John speaketh thus, of the Holy Ghost: Ye have an unction from the Holy One. 1 John ii. 20. The anointing which ye received from him, abideth in you. John c. ii.

v. 27.

To conclude; a recovery from the small-pox a few years ago, gave occasion to the preceding poem. only at first (in gratitude to the Great Physician of souls and bodies) designed to have published this hymn to the Trinity upon a recovery from sickness. But the subject being very extensive, and capable of admitting serious reflections on the frail state of humanity, I expatiated farther upon it. It cannot be supposed that I should treat upon sickness in a medicinal, but only in a descriptive, a moral, and religious manner: the versification is varied accordingly: the descriptive parts being more poetical; the moral, more plain; and the religious, for the most part, drawn from the Holy Scriptures. I have just taken such notice of the progress of the smallpox, as may give the reader some small idea of it, without offending his imagination. These few

notes are not intended for the learned reader, but added to assist those who may not be so well acquainted with the classical and other allusions. I do not remember to have seen any other poem on the same subject to lead me on the way, and therefore, it is to be hoped, the good-natured reader will more readily excuse its blemishes.

I have here added, by way of conclusion to the

notes, a short hymn written (when very young) in

the great epidemical cold in 1732.

AN HYMN IN SICKNESS.

O LORD! to thee I lift my soul, To thee direct my eyes,

While fate in every vapour rolls, And sick'ning Nature sighs.

E'en air, the vehicle of life,

The soft recess of breath, Is made the harbinger of Fate, And poison'd dart of Death.

No gentle strains relieve my ears:
But hark! the passing-toll,
In a long, sadly-solemn knell,
Alarms anew my soul.

No lovely prospect meets my eye,
But melancholy fear,
Attended with the hollow pomp
Of sickness and despair.

My sins, wide-staring in my face In ghastly guise alarm;

The pleasing sins of wanton youth, In many a fatal charm.

SHALL foreign lands for Pomfret wake the lyre,
And Tyber's more than Isis' banks inspire?
Let Isis' groves with Pomfret's name resound;
Not Rome alone can boast of classic ground.
Ye sons of harmony, the wreath prepare,

The living laurel wreath, to bind her hair.

Hail, fair exemplar of the good and great,
The Muses hail thee to their honour'd seat;
And ne'er since Anna with her presence blest,
They sung a nobler, more auspicious guest.

Behold our youth, transported at the sight;
Behold our virgins, sparkling with delight:
E'en venerable age forgets its snow,
The splendour catches, and consents to glow.
Ye youths, with Pomfret's praises tune the shell:
Ye virgins, learn from Pomfret to excel:
For let her age, with fervent prayers and pure,
The blessings of all bounteous Heaven secure.
Their breathing inceuse let the Graces bring:
Their grateful pæans let the Muses sing.

If praise be guilt, ye laurels, cease to grow, Oxford to sing, and seraphims to glow. No altars to an idol-power we raise, Nor consecrate the worthless with our praise, To merit only and to goodness just, We rear the arch-triumphal and the bust. Sprung from the Pembroke1 race, their nation's Allied by science, as by blood allied,

[pride,

The Pembroke family have been remarkable for genius. Mary, countess of Pembroke, sister to sir Philip Sidney, for whose entertainment he wrote his Arcadia, published a tragedy called Antonius. Ann, countess of Pembroke, had Daniel for her tutor, and erected to Spenser the monument in Westminster Abbey. William, earl

Illustrious race! sure to protect or please
With patriot freedom, or with courtly ease;
Blest with the graceful form, and tuneful mind,
To Oxford dear, as to the Muses kind!
Thy gifts, O Pomfret, we with wonder view,
And while we praise their beauties, think of you.
Who but a Venus could a Cupid send,
And who a Tully, but Minerva's friend? `
A speechless Tully, lest he should commend
The praise you merit you refuse to hear;
No marble orator can wound your ear.
Mere statues, worse than statues we should be,
If Oxford's sons more silent were than he.
Scarce silent, and impatient of the stone,
He seems to thunder from his rostral throne:
He wakes the marble, by some Phidias taught,
And, eloquently dumb, he looks a thought.
With hopes and fears we tremble or rejoice,
Deceiv'd we listen, and expect a voice.
This station satisfies his noble pride,
Disdaining, but in Oxford, to reside.

Here safely we behold fierce Marius frown,
Glad that we have no Marius, save in stone.
So animated by the master's skill,
The Gaul, awe-stricken, dares not—cannot kill.
The sleeping Cupids happily exprest
The fiercer passions foreign to thy breast.
Long strangers to the laughter-loving dame,
They from Arcadia, not from Paphos, came.
Whene'er his lyre thy kindred Sidney strung,
The flocking Loves around their poet hung:
Whene'er he fought, they flutter'd by his side,
And stiffen'd into marble, when he died.
Half-dropt their quivers, and half-seal'd their eyes,
They only sleep:-for Cupid never dies.
"A sleeping Cupid!" cries some well-drest

smart.

"T is false! I feel his arrows in my heart."
I own, my friend, your argument is good,
And who denies, that's made of flesh and blood?
But yon bright circle, strong in native charms,
No Cupid's bow requires, nor borrow'd arms:
The radiant messenger of Conquest flies
Keen from each glance, and pointed from their
eyes.

of Pembroke, printed a volume of poems. Shakspeare's and Fletcher's works, in their first editions, are dedicated to the earl of Pembroke: and Thomas, who ought particularly to be mentioned on this occasion, made the largest and finest collection of statues of any nobleman in Europe.

His heart, whom such a prospect cannot move,
Is harder, colder, than the Marble-Love.
But Modesty rejects what Justice speaks:
-I see soft blushes stealing o'er their cheeks,
Not Phidian labours claim the verse alone,
The figur'd brass, or fine-proportion'd stone.
To make you theirs the sister Arts conspire,
You animate the canvas or the lyre:
A new creation on your canvas flows,
Life meets your hand, and from your pencil glows;
How swells your various lyre, or melts away,
While every Muse attends on every lay!

The bright contagion of Hesperian skies,
Burn'd in your soul, and lighten'd in your eyes,
To view what Raphael painted, Vinci plann'd,
And all the wonders of the classic land.
Proud of your charms, applauding Rome confest
Her own Cornelia's breathing in your breast.
The virtues, which each foreign realm renown,
You bore in triumph home, to grace your own
Appelles thus, to form his finish'd piece,
The beauteous Pomfret of adoring Greece,
In one united, with his happy care,
The fair perfections of a thousand fair.

Tho' Virtue may with moral lustre charm,
Religion only can the bosom warm.
In thee Religion wakens all her fires,
Perfumes thy heart, and spotless soul inspires.
A Cato's daughter might of virtue boast,
Nobly to vice, though not to glory, lost:
A Pomfret, taught by piety to rise,
Looks down on glory, while she hopes the skies,
Angels with joy prepare the starry crown,
And seraphs feed a flame, so like their own.
One statue more let Rhedicina raise

To charm the present, brighten future days;
The sculptur'd column grave with Pomfret's name,
A column worthy of thy temple, Fame!
Praxiteles might such a form commend,
And borrow graces which he us'd to lend:
Where ease with beauty, force with softness meet,
Though mild, majestic, and though awful, sweet.
Of gold and elephant, on either hand,
Let Piety and Bounty, graceful, stand:
With fillets this, with roses that entwin'd,
And breathe their virtues on the gazer's mind.
Low at her feet, the sleeping Cupids plac'd,
By Marius guarded, and with Tully grac'd:
A monument of gratitude remain,
The bright Palladium of Minerva's fane,

2.Oxford,