From twig to twig their tender wings they try,
Yet only flutter when they seem to fly.
But as their strength and feathers more increase,
Short flights thy take, and fly with greater ease:
Experienc'd soon, they boldly venture higher,
Forsake the hedge, to lofty trees aspire;
Transported thence, with strong and steady wing
They mount the skies, and soar aloft, and sing.
So you and I, just naked from the shell,
In chirping notes our future singing tell;
Unfeather'd yet, in judgment, thought, or skill,
Hop round the basis of Parnassus' hill:

Our flights are low, and want of art and strength
Forbids to carry us to the wish'd-for length.
But fledg'd, and cherish'd with a kindly spring,
We'll mount the summit, and melodious sing.

AN EPISTLE TO STEPHEN DUCK,

AT HIS FIRST COMING TO COURT.

FORGIVE me, Duck, that such a Muse as mine,
Brings her weak aid to the support of thine;
In lines, which if the world should chance to see,
They'd find I pleaded for myself-in thee.

Yet some indulgence sure they ought to shew
An infant poet, and unlearn'd as you;
Unskill'd in art, unexercis'd to sing;
I've just but tasted the Pierian spring:
But tho' my stock of learning yet is low;
Tho' yet my numbers don't harmonious flow,
1 fain wou'd hope it won't be always so.
The morning Sun emits a stronger ray,
Still as he rises tow'rds meridian day:
Large hills at first obstruct the oblique beam,
And dark'ning shadows shoot along the gleam;
Impending mists yet hover in the air,
And distant objects undistinct appear.
But as he rises in the eastern sky,
The shadows shrink, the conquer'd vapours fly;
Objects their proper forms and colours gain;
In all her various beauties shines th' enlighten'd
plain.

So when the dawn of thought peeps out in man,
Mountains of ign'rance shade at first his brain:
A gleam of reason by degrees appears,
Which brightens and increases with his years;
And as the rays of thought gain strength in youth,
Dark mists of errour melt and brighten into truth.
↑ Thus asking ign'rance will to knowledge grow;
Conceited fools alone continue so.

On then, my friend, nor doubt but that in time
Our tender Muses, learning now to climb,
May reach perfection's top, and grow sublime.
The Iliad scarce was Homer's first essay;
Virgil wrote not his neid in a day;
Nor is't impossible a time might be,
When Pope and Prior wrote like you and me.
'Tis true, more learning might their works adorn,
They wrote not from a pantry nor a barn:
Yet they, as well as we, by slow degrees
Must reach perfection, and to write with ease.
Have you not seen? yes, oft you must have seen,
When vernal suns adorn the woods with green,
And genial warmth, enkindling wanton love,
Fills with a various progeny the grove,
The tim❜rous young, just ventur'd from the nest,
First in low bushes hop, and often rest;

AN EPITAPH. HERE lie the remains of Caroline, Queen consort of Great Britain.

Whose virtues

Her friends, when living, knew and enjoy'd; Now dead, her foes confess and admire. Her ambition aspired to wisdom, And attain'd it; To knowledge,

And it fill'd her mind.

Patroness of the wise, And a friend of the good, She look'd, and modest merit rais'd its head; She smil'd, and weeping woe grew glad. Religion, plain and simple, Dignify'd her mind, Despising forms and useless pageantry. Morals, clear and refin'd,

Dwelt in her heart,

And guided all her actions. Virtue she lov'd, beneath her smile it flourish'd; She frown'd on vice, and it was put to shame. In fine,

Her life was a public blessing;

Her death is an universal loss.

O reader! if thou doubtest of these things,
Ask the cries of the fatherless, they shall tell thee,
And the tears of the widow shall confirm their truth:
The sons of wisdom shall testify of her,
And the daughters of virtue bear her witness;
The voice of the nation shall applaud her,
And the heart of the king shall sigh her praise.

ON RICHES.

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON.
To succour all whom grief or cares oppress,
To raise neglected merit from distress,
The dying arts t' encourage and revive,
And independent of mankind to live;
This, this is riches' grand prerogative.
These all the wise and good with joy pursue,
And thousands feel, and bless their power in you,
But stay, my Muse, nor rashly urge thy theme.
Examine well thy candidates for fame;
Thy verse is praise. Consider-very few
Can justly say one single line's their due:

Scorn thou with generous freedom to record,
Without his just credentials, duke or lord:
An honest line prefer to a polite,

So shail thy praise no conscious blush excite.
But as to paint a lovely female face,
With every charın adorn'd, and every grace,
Requires a finer hand, and greater care,
Than the rough features of a Hr;
So praise than satire asks a nicer touch;
But finisht well, there's nothing charms so much.
A shining character when drawn with art,
Like beauty, whilst it pleases, wins the heart,
Meranas first the noble list shall grace,
Learning's great patron merits the first place.
O dear to every muse! to every art!
Virtue's chief friend, supporter of desert!
Is there a man, tho' poor, despis'd, opprest,
Yet whose superior genius shines confest;
Whether the useful arts his soul inspire,
Or the politer Muse's sacred fire,
Learning and arts t'encourage and extend?
In thee he finds a patron and a friend.

Wealth thus bestow'd returns in lasting fame, A grateful tribute to the donor's name.

Next him from whom true virtue meets reward, Is he who shows to want a kind regard. Carus, tho' blest with plenty, ease, and health, His every want su ply'd from boundless wealth, Yet feels humanity: his soul o'erflows To see, or hear, or think on others woes. Is there a wretch with pinching want opprest? His pain, till eas'd, is felt in Carus' breast. Does any languish under dire di-ease? Carus prescribes, or pays the doctor's fees. Has sad misfortune fatal ruin thrown, And some expiring family undone? Carus repairs, and makes the loss his own. To hear the widow's or the orphan's cries, His soul in pity melts into his eyes: O manly tenderness! good-natur'd grief, To feel, to sympathize, and give resief.

Sure gods are Carus' debtors. Gold thus given, Lies out at interest in the bank of Heaven.

But where's th' advantage then, will Corvus say,
If wealth is only lent to give away?
Corvus, were that the sole prerogative,
How great, how godlike is the power to give!
Thou canst not feel it: True, 'tis too divine
For such a selfish narrow soul as thine.
Comes is rich, belov'd by all mankind,
To cheerful hospitality inclin'd;

His ponds with fish, with fowl his woods are stor❜d,
Inviting plenty smiles upon his board:
Easy and free, his friends his fortune share,
Ev'n travelling strangers find a welcome there;
Neighbours, domestics, all enjoy their parts,
He in return possesses all their hearts.

Who, foolish Corvus, who but thee will say,
That Comes idly throws his wealth away?
Is then the noble privilege to give,
The sole advantage we from wealth receive!
Whilst others' wants or merits we supply,
Have we ourselves no title to enjoy ?
Doubtless you have. A thousand different ways
Wealth may be self-enjoy'd, and all with praise.
Whom truth and reason guides, or genius fires,
Never need fear indulging his desires.

The Muse forbids. She only gives to sense
The dangerous province to contrive expense,
Marcus in sumptuous buildings takes delight,
His house, his gardens charm the ravish'd sight:
With beauty use, with grandeur neatness joins,
And order with magnificence combines.

'Tis costly: true, but who can blame the expense, "Where splendor borrows all her rays from sense?”

Sylvio retirement loves; smooth crystal floods, Green meadows, hil's and dales, and verdant woods Delight his eye; the warbling birds to hear, With rapture fills his soul, and charms his ear. In shady walks, in groves, in secret bowers, Plann'd by himself, he spends the peaceful hours: Here serious thought pursues her thread screne, No interrupting follies intervene; Propitious silence aids th' attentive mind, The God of Nature in his works to find.

If this t' enjoy affords him most delight, Who says that Sylvio is not in the right?

[ail.

Publius in curious paintings wealth consumes, The best, the finest hands adorn his rooms; Various designs, from each enliven'd wall, Meet the pleas'd eyes, and something charms in Here we'l-drawn landscapes to the mind convey A siniling country, or a stormy sca; Towns, honses, trees, diversify the plain, And ships in danger fright us from the main. There the past actions of illustrious men, In strong description charm the world agen: Love, anger, grief, in different scenes are wrought, All its just passions animate the draught. But see new charins break in a flood of day, See Loves and Graces on the canvass play; Beauty's imagin'd smiles our bosom warin, And light and shade retains the power to charm. Who censures Publius, or condemns his cost, Must wish the nobler art of painting lost.

Whilst Publius thus his taste in painting shews, Critus admires her sister art, the Muse. Homer and Virgil, Horace and Boileau Teach in his breast poetic warmth to glow. From these instructed, and from these inspir'd. Critus for taste and judgment is admir'd. Poets before him lay the work of years, And from his sentence draw their hopes and fears. Hail, judge impartial! noble critic, hail! In this thy day, good writing must prevail: Our bards from you will hence be what they shou'd,

Please and improve us, make us wise and good. Thus bless'd with wealth, his genius each

pursues,

rule,

Plead equal privilege to play the fool;

When right affections rule a generous heart, Gold may refine, but seldom will pervert,

THE PETITION.

THE Tarious 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:

Give me to reign sole monarch in her breast, Let petty princes for the world contest,

Let libertines, who take delight

In riot and excess,

Thus waste the day, thus spend the night,
Whilst I to joys sublimer press:

Clasp'd in her snowy arms such bliss I'd prove,
As never yet was found, or felt in love.

In short, I ask you not to live

A tedious length of days;

Old age can little pleasure give,

When health and strength decays:

Let but what time I have be spent with her's, Each moment will be worth a thousand years.

AN EPITHALAMIUM.

HENCE, hence all dull cares,

All quarrels and jars,

Ye factious disturbers of pleasure, avoid!
Content, love, and joy,
Shall their powers employ,

To bless the glad bridegroom and beautiful bride.
Anger shall ne'er presume

To come within this room; No doubt nor anxious fear, Nor jealous thought shall enter here. Ill-nature, ill-manners, contention, and pride, Shall never, shall never the union divide. O the pleasing, pleasing raptures, Read in Hymen's nuptial chapters!

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 rely1.

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 sce! oh see! the heav'n-born train appear!
Fix then, my heart; thy happiness is here.

AN EPIGRAM.

CRIES Sylvia to a reverend dean, "What reason can be given, Since marriage is a holy thing,

That there are none in Heaven?"

"There are no women," he reply'd; She quick returns the jest"Women there are, but I'm afraid They cannot find a priest."

THE KINGS OF EUROPE.

A JEST.

WHY of late, do Europe's kings pray, No jester in their courts admit? They're grown such stately solemn things, To bear a joke they think not fit. But tho' each court a jester lacks,

To laugh at monarchs to their face: All mankind behind their backs Supply the honest jester's place.

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.

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 lab'ring 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 sees, or fancies, all the fiends below,

"Was it for this," he cries, "with kindly shower Of daily gifts the traitor I caress'd?

For this, array'd him in the robe of power, And lodg'd my royal secrets in his breast? O kindness ill repaid!

To bare the murdering blade

Against my life!-may Heav'n his guilt explore, And to my suffering race their splendid rights restore."

He said, and stalk'd away.-Ah, goddess! cease
Thus with terrific forms to rack my brain;
These horrid phantoms shake the throne of
peace,

And reason calls her boasted powers in vain:
Then change thy magic wand,
Thy dreadful troops disband,

And gentler shapes, and softer scenes disclose, To melt the feeling heart, yet soothe its tenderest

woes.

The fervent prayer was heard.-With hideous
Her ebon gates of darkness open flew; [sound,
A dawning twilight cheers the dread profound;
The train of terrour vanishes from view.
More mild enchantments rise;
New scenes salute my eyes,
Groves, fountains, bowers, and temples grace
the plain,

[plain.

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

And every myrtle bower and cypress grove,

And every solemn temple teems with life; Here glows the scene with fond but hapless love, There with the deeper woes of human strife. In groups around the lawn,

By fresh disasters drawn,

The sad spectators seem transfix'd in woe; And pitying sighs are heard, and heart-felt sorrows flow.

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,

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.

How strong the bands of friendship? yet, alas!
Behind yon mouldering tower with ivy 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.

Can ought so deeply sway the generous mind To mutual truth, as female trust in love? Then what relief shall yon fair mourner find, Scorn'd by the man who should her plaints remove?

By fair, but false pretence,

She lost her innocence;

And that sweet babe, the fruit of treacherous art, Claspt in her arms expires, and breaks the pa

rent's heart.