AUTHOR Alexander Pope

TITLE Rape of the Lock

RHYME a a *

  What dire offence from amorous causes springs,
  What mighty contests rise from trivial things,
  I sing--This verse to CARYL, Muse! is due:
  This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view:
  Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,                 
  If She inspire, and He approve my lays.

RHYME a a *

  Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel
  A well-bred Lord t' assault a gentle Belle?
  O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,
  Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?                  
  In tasks so bold, can little men engage,
  And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty Rage?

RHYME a a *

  Sol thro' white curtains shot a timorous ray,
  And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day:
  Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake,           
  And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake:
  Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground,
  And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound.
  Belinda still her downy pillow prest,
  Her guardian SYLPH prolong'd the balmy rest:              
  'Twas He had summon'd to her silent bed
  The morning-dream that hover'd o'er her head;
  A Youth more glitt'ring than a Birth-night Beau,
  (That ev'n in slumber caus'd her cheek to glow)
  Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay,                
  And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say.

RHYME a a *

  Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care
  Of thousand bright Inhabitants of Air!
  If e'er one vision touch.'d thy infant thought,
  Of all the Nurse and all the Priest have taught;          
  Of airy Elves by moonlight shadows seen,
  The silver token, and the circled green,
  Or virgins visited by Angel-pow'rs,
  With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs;
  Hear and believe! thy own importance know,                
  Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.
  Some secret truths, from learned pride conceal'd,
  To Maids alone and Children are reveal'd:
  What tho' no credit doubting Wits may give?
  The Fair and Innocent shall still believe.                
  Know, then, unnumber'd Spirits round thee fly,
  The light Militia of the lower sky:
  These, tho' unseen, are ever on the wing,
  Hang o'er the Box, and hover round the Ring.
  Think what an equipage thou hast in Air,                  
  And view with scorn two Pages and a Chair.
  As now your own, our beings were of old,
  And once inclos'd in Woman's beauteous mould;
  Thence, by a soft transition, we repair
  From earthly Vehicles to these of air.                    
  Think not, when Woman's transient breath is fled
  That all her vanities at once are dead;
  Succeeding vanities she still regards,
  And tho' she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards.
  Her joy in gilded Chariots, when alive,                   
  And love of Ombre, after death survive.
  For when the Fair in all their pride expire,
  To their first Elements their Souls retire:
  The Sprites of fiery Termagants in Flame
  Mount up, and take a Salamander's name.                   
  Soft yielding minds to Water glide away,
  And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental Tea.
  The graver Prude sinks downward to a Gnome,
  In search of mischief still on Earth to roam.
  The light Coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair,               
  And sport and flutter in the fields of Air.

RHYME a a *

  "Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste
  Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embrac'd:
  For Spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease
  Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.            
  What guards the purity of melting Maids,
  In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades,
  Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark,
  The glance by day, the whisper in the dark,
  When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,            
  When music softens, and when dancing fires?
  'Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know,
  Tho' Honour is the word with Men below.

RHYME a a *

  Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face,
  For life predestin'd to the Gnomes' embrace.              
  These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,
  When offers are disdain'd, and love deny'd:
  Then gay Ideas crowd the vacant brain,
  While Peers, and Dukes, and all their sweeping train,
  And Garters, Stars, and Coronets appear,                  
  And in soft sounds, Your Grace salutes their ear.
  'T is these that early taint the female soul,
  Instruct the eyes of young Coquettes to roll,
  Teach Infant-cheeks a bidden blush to know,
  And little hearts to flutter at a Beau.                   

RHYME a a *

  Oft, when the world imagine women stray,
  The Sylphs thro' mystic mazes guide their way,
  Thro' all the giddy circle they pursue,
  And old impertinence expel by new.
  What tender maid but must a victim fall                   
  To one man's treat, but for another's ball?
  When Florio speaks what virgin could withstand,
  If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand?
  With varying vanities, from ev'ry part,
  They shift the moving Toyshop of their heart;         
  Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive,
  Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.
  This erring mortals Levity may call;
  Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all.

RHYME a a *

  Of these am I, who thy protection claim,              
  A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.
  Late, as I rang'd the crystal wilds of air,
  In the clear Mirror of thy ruling Star
  I saw, alas! some dread event impend,
  Ere to the main this morning sun descend,             
  But heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where:
  Warn'd by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware!
  This to disclose is all thy guardian can:
  Beware of all, but most beware of Man!"

RHYME a a *

  He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long,  
  Leap'd up, and wak'd his mistress with his tongue.
  'T was then, Belinda, if report say true,
  Thy eyes first open'd on a Billet-doux;
  Wounds, Charms, and Ardors were no sooner read,
  But all the Vision vanish'd from thy head.            

RHYME a a *

  And now, unveil'd, the Toilet stands display'd,
  Each silver Vase in mystic order laid.
  First, rob'd in white, the Nymph intent adores,
  With head uncover'd, the Cosmetic pow'rs.

RHYME a a *

  A heav'nly image in the glass appears,                
  To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;
  Th' inferior Priestess, at her altar's side,
  Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride.
  Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here
  The various off'rings of the world appear;            
  From each she nicely culls with curious toil,
  And decks the Goddess with the glitt'ring spoil.

RHYME a a *

  This casket India's glowing gems unlocks,
  And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
  The Tortoise here and Elephant unite,                 
  Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white.
  Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
  Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux.

RHYME a a *

  Now awful Beauty puts on all its arms;
  The fair each moment rises in her charms,             
  Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace,
  And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
  Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
  And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
  The busy Sylphs surround their darling care,          
  These set the head, and those divide the hair,
  Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown:
  And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own.

RHYME a a *

  Not with more glories, in th' etherial plain,
  The Sun first rises o'er the purpled main,
  Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams
  Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames.
  Fair Nymphs, and well-drest Youths around her shone.          
  But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone.
  On her white breast a sparkling Cross she wore,
  Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore.
  Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
  Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those:               
  Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;
  Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
  Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
  And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
  Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,           
  Might hide her faults, if Belles had faults to hide:
  If to her share some female errors fall,
  Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

RHYME a a *

  This Nymph, to the destruction of mankind,
  Nourish'd two Locks, which graceful hung behind           
  In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck
  With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck.
  Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,
  And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.
  With hairy springes we the birds betray,                  
  Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,
  Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,
  And beauty draws us with a single hair.

RHYME a a *

  Th' advent'rous Baron the bright locks admir'd;
  He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd.              
  Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way,
  By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;
  For when success a Lover's toil attends,
  Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends.

RHYME a a *

  For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implor'd               
  Propitious heav'n, and ev'ry pow'r ador'd,
  But chiefly Love--to Love an Altar built,
  Of twelve vast French Romances, neatly gilt.
  There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves;
  And all the trophies of his former loves;                 
  With tender Billet-doux he lights the pyre,
  And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire.
  Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes
  Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize:
  The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r,         
  The rest, the winds dispers'd in empty air.

RHYME a a *

  But now secure the painted vessel glides,
  The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides:
  While melting music steals upon the sky,
  And soften'd sounds along the waters die;                 
  Smooth flow the waves, the Zephyrs gently play,
  Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay.
  All but the Sylph--with careful thoughts opprest,
  Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast.
  He summons strait his Denizens of air;                    
  The lucid squadrons round the sails repair:
  Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe,
  That seem'd but Zephyrs to the train beneath.
  Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold,
  Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold;            
  Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight,
  Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light,
  Loose to the wind their airy garments flew,
  Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew,
  Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies,                
  Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes,
  While ev'ry beam new transient colours flings,
  Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings.
  Amid the circle, on the gilded mast,
  Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd;                   
  His purple pinions op'ning to the sun,
  He rais'd his azure wand, and thus begun.

RHYME a a *

  Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear!
  Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Daemons, hear!
  Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign'd            
  By laws eternal to th' aerial kind.
  Some in the fields of purest AEther play,
  And bask and whiten in the blaze of day.
  Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high,
  Or roll the planets thro' the boundless sky.              
  Some less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light
  Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night,
  Or suck the mists in grosser air below,
  Or dip their pinions in the painted bow,
  Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main,               
  Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain.
  Others on earth o'er human race preside,
  Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide:
  Of these the chief the care of Nations own,
  And guard with Arms divine the British Throne.            

RHYME a a *

  Our humbler province is to tend the Fair,
  Not a less pleasing, tho' less glorious care;
  To save the powder from too rude a gale,
  Nor let th' imprison'd-essences exhale;
  To draw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs;            
  To steal from rainbows e'er they drop in show'rs
  A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs,
  Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs;
  Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow,
  To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelow.               

RHYME a a *

  This day, black Omens threat the brightest Fair,
  That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care;
  Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight;
  But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night.
  Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law,            
  Or some frail China jar receive a flaw;
  Or stain her honour or her new brocade;
  Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade;
  Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;
  Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall.    
  Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair:
  The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care;
  The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign;
  And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;
  Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite Lock;           
  Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.

RHYME a a *

  To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note,
  We trust th' important charge, the Petticoat:
  Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail,
  Tho' stiff with hoops, and arm'd with ribs of whale;  
  Form a strong line about the silver bound,
  And guard the wide circumference around.

RHYME a a *

  Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,
  His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,
  Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins,    
  Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins;
  Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie,
  Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye:
  Gums and Pomatums shall his flight restrain,
  While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain;      
  Or Alum styptics with contracting pow'r
  Shrink his thin essence like a rivel'd flow'r:
  Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel
  The giddy motion of the whirling Mill,
  In fumes of burning Chocolate shall glow,             
  And tremble at the sea that froths below!

RHYME a a *

  He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend;
  Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;
  Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair;
  Some hang upon the pendants of her ear:               
  With beating hearts the dire event they wait,
  Anxious, and trembling for the birth of Fate.

RHYME a a *

  Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs,
  Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs,
  There stands a structure of majestic frame,
  Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name.
  Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom                
  Of foreign Tyrants and of Nymphs at home;
  Here thou, great ANNA! whom three realms obey.
  Dost sometimes counsel take--and sometimes Tea.

RHYME a a *

  Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,
  To taste awhile the pleasures of a Court;                 
  In various talk th' instructive hours they past,
  Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;
  One speaks the glory of the British Queen,
  And one describes a charming Indian screen;
  A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;              
  At ev'ry word a reputation dies.
  Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,
  With singing, laughing, ogling, and _all that_.

RHYME a a *

  Mean while, declining from the noon of day,
  The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray;                 
  The hungry Judges soon the sentence sign,
  And wretches hang that jury-men may dine;
  The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace,
  And the long labours of the Toilet cease.
  Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites,                 
  Burns to encounter two advent'rous Knights,
  At Ombre singly to decide their doom;
  And swells her breast with conquests yet to come.
  Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join,
  Each band the number of the sacred nine.                  

RHYME a a *

  Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard
  Descend, and sit on each important card:
  First Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore,
  Then each, according to the rank they bore;
  For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race,            
  Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place.
  Behold, four Kings in majesty rever'd,
  With hoary whiskers and a forky beard;
  And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flow'r,
  Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r;              
  Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band,
  Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;
  And particolour'd troops, a shining train,
  Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.

RHYME a a *

  The skilful Nymph reviews her force with care:            
  Let Spades be trumps! she said, and trumps they were.

RHYME a a *

  Now move to war her sable Matadores,
  In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.
  Spadillio first, unconquerable Lord!
  Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board.          
  As many more Manillio forc'd to yield,
  And march'd a victor from the verdant field.
  Him Basto follow'd, but his fate more hard
  Gain'd but one trump and one Plebeian card.
  With his broad sabre next, a chief in years,              
  The hoary Majesty of Spades appears,
  Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd,
  The rest, his many-colour'd robe conceal'd.
  The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage,
  Proves the just victim of his royal rage.                 
  Ev'n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o'erthrew
  And mow'd down armies in the fights of Lu,
  Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,
  Falls undistinguish'd by the victor spade!

RHYME a a *

  Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;                    
  Now to the Baron fate inclines the field.
  His warlike Amazon her host invades,
  Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades.
  The Club's black Tyrant first her victim dy'd,
  Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous pride:           
  What boots the regal circle on his head,
  His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread;
  That long behind he trails his pompous robe,
  And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe?

RHYME a a *

  The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace;                   
  Th' embroider'd King who shows but half his face,
  And his refulgent Queen, with pow'rs combin'd
  Of broken troops an easy conquest find.
  Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen,
  With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.           
  Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs,
  Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons,
  With like confusion different nations fly,
  Of various habit, and of various dye,
  The pierc'd battalions dis-united fall,                   
  In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all.

RHYME a a *

  The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts,
  And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.
  At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook,
  A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look;               
  She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill,
  Just in the jaws of ruin, and Codille.
  And now (as oft in some distemper'd State)
  On one nice Trick depends the gen'ral fate.
  An Ace of Hearts steps forth: The King unseen             
  Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen:
  He springs to Vengeance with an eager pace,
  And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace.
  The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky;
  The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.          

RHYME a a *

  Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate,
  Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.
  Sudden, these honours shall be snatch'd away,
  And curs'd for ever this victorious day.

RHYME a a *

  For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd,    
  The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;
  On shining Altars of Japan they raise
  The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze:
  From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
  While China's earth receives the smoking tide:        
  At once they gratify their scent and taste,
  And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.
  Straight hover round the Fair her airy band;
  Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd,
  Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd,     
  Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade.
  Coffee, (which makes the politician wise,
  And see thro' all things with his half-shut eyes)
  Sent up in vapours to the Baron's brain
  New Stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain.             
  Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere't is too late,
  Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla's Fate!
  Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air,
  She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair!

RHYME a a *

  But when to mischief mortals bend their will,         
  How soon they find fit instruments of ill!
  Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace
  A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case:
  So Ladies in Romance assist their Knight,
  Present the spear, and arm him for the fight.         
  He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends
  The little engine on his fingers' ends;
  This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,
  As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.
  Swift to the Lock a thousand Sprites repair,          
  A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair;
  And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear;
  Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near.
  Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought
  The close recesses of the Virgin's thought;           
  As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd,
  He watch'd th' Ideas rising in her mind,
  Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art,
  An earthly Lover lurking at her heart.
  Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his pow'r expir'd,         
  Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd.

RHYME a a *

  The Peer now spreads the glitt'ring Forfex wide,
  T' inclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide.
  Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd,
  A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd;               
  Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain,
  (But airy substance soon unites again)
  The meeting points the sacred hair dissever
  From the fair head, for ever, and for ever!

RHYME a a *

  Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes,      
  And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.
  Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast,
  When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last;
  Or when rich China vessels fall'n from high,
  In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie!         

RHYME a a *

  Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine
  (The victor cry'd) the glorious Prize is mine!
  While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,
  Or in a coach and six the British Fair,
  As long as Atalantis shall be read,                   
  Or the small pillow grace a Lady's bed,
  While visits shall be paid on solemn days,
  When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze,
  While nymphs take treats, or assignations give,
  So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!       
  What Time would spare, from Steel receives its date,
  And monuments, like men, submit to fate!
  Steel could the labour of the Gods destroy,
  And strike to dust th' imperial tow'rs of Troy;
  Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,       
  And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
  What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel,
  The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel?

RHYME a a *

  But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd,
  And secret passions labour'd in her breast.
  Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive,
  Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,
  Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss,                  
  Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss,
  Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
  Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry,
  E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,
  As thou, sad Virgin! for thy ravish'd Hair.               

RHYME a a *

  For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew
  And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,
  Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,
  As ever sully'd the fair face of light,
  Down to the central earth, his proper scene,              
  Repair'd to search the gloomy Cave of Spleen.

RHYME a a *

  Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome,
  And in a vapour reach'd the dismal dome.
  No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,
  The dreaded East is all the wind that blows.              
  Here in a grotto, shelter'd close from air,
  And screen'd in shades from day's detested glare,
  She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,
  Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head.

RHYME a a *

  Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place,            
  But diff'ring far in figure and in face.
  Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,
  Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd;
  With store of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and noons,
  Her hand is fill'd; her bosom with lampoons.              

RHYME a a *

  There Affectation, with a sickly mien,
  Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,
  Practis'd to lisp, and hang the head aside.
  Faints into airs, and languishes with pride,
  On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,                
  Wrapt in a gown, for sickness, and for show.
  The fair ones feel such maladies as these,
  When each new night-dress gives a new disease.

RHYME a a *

  A constant Vapour o'er the palace flies;
  Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise;               
  Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades,
  Or bright, as visions of expiring maids.
  Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,
  Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires:
  Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,                 
  And crystal domes, and angels in machines.

RHYME a a *

  Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen,
  Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen.
  Here living Tea-pots stand, one arm held out,
  One bent; the handle this, and that the spout:            
  A Pipkin there, like Homer's Tripod walks;
  Here sighs a Jar, and there a Goose-pie talks;
  Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works,
  And maids turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks.

RHYME a a *

  Safe past the Gnome thro' this fantastic band,            
  A branch of healing Spleenwort in his hand.
  Then thus address'd the pow'r: "Hail, wayward Queen!
  Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen:
  Parent of vapours and of female wit,
  Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit,                     
  On various tempers act by various ways,
  Make some take physic, others scribble plays;
  Who cause the proud their visits to delay,
  And send the godly in a pet to pray.
  A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains,            
  And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.
  But oh! if e'er thy Gnome could spoil a grace,
  Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,
  Like Citron-waters matrons cheeks inflame,
  Or change complexions at a losing game;                   
  If e'er with airy horns I planted heads,
  Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,
  Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude,
  Or discompos'd the head-dress of a Prude,
  Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease,                  
  Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease:
  Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin,
  That single act gives half the world the spleen."

RHYME a a *

  The Goddess with a discontented air
  Seems to reject him, tho' she grants his pray'r.          
  A wond'rous Bag with both her hands she binds,
  Like that where once Ulysses held the winds;
  There she collects the force of female lungs,
  Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues.
  A Vial next she fills with fainting fears,                
  Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.
  The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,
  Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.

RHYME a a *

  Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found,
  Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound.                   
  Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent,
  And all the Furies issu'd at the vent.
  Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,
  And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.
  "O wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cry'd,       
  (While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" reply'd)
  "Was it for this you took such constant care
  The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?
  For this your locks in paper durance bound,
  For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around?        
  For this with fillets strain'd your tender head,
  And bravely bore the double loads of lead?
  Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair,
  While the Fops envy, and the Ladies stare!
  Honour forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine             
  Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.
  Methinks already I your tears survey,
  Already hear the horrid things they say,
  Already see you a degraded toast,
  And all your honour in a whisper lost!                
  How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?
  'T will then be infamy to seem your friend!
  And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize,
  Expos'd thro' crystal to the gazing eyes,
  And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays,        
  On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?
  Sooner shall grass in Hyde-park Circus grow,
  And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;
  Sooner let earth, air, sea, to Chaos fall,
  Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!"         

RHYME a a *

  She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs,
  And bids her Beau demand the precious hairs;
  (Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain,
  And the nice conduct of a clouded cane)
  With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,         
  He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case,
  And thus broke out--"My Lord, why, what the devil?
  "Z--ds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil!
  Plague on't!'t is past a jest--nay prithee, pox!
  Give her the hair"--he spoke, and rapp'd his box.     

RHYME a a *

  "It grieves me much" (reply'd the Peer again)
  "Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain.
  But by this Lock, this sacred Lock I swear,
  (Which never more shall join its parted hair;
  Which never more its honours shall renew,             
  Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew)
  That while my nostrils draw the vital air,
  This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear."
  He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread
  The long-contended honours of her head.               

RHYME a a *

  But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so;
  He breaks the Vial whence the sorrows flow.
  Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears,
  Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears;
  On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head,           
  Which, with a sigh, she rais'd; and thus she said.
  "For ever curs'd be this detested day,
  Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite curl away!
  Happy! ah ten times happy had I been,
  If Hampton-Court these eyes had never seen!           
  Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,
  By love of Courts to num'rous ills betray'd.
  Oh had I rather un-admir'd remain'd
  In some lone isle, or distant Northern land;
  Where the gilt Chariot never marks the way,           
  Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taste Bohea!
  There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye,
  Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.
  What mov'd my mind with youthful Lords to roam?
  Oh had I stay'd, and said my pray'rs at home!         
  'T was this, the morning omens seem'd to tell,
  Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;
  The tott'ring China shook without a wind.
  Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!
  A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate,         
  In mystic visions, now believ'd too late!
  See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!
  My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares:
  These in two sable ringlets taught to break,
  Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;             
  The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone,
  And in its fellow's fate foresees its own;
  Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands,
  And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.
  Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize           
  Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!"

RHYME a a *

  She said: the pitying audience melt in tears.
  But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.
  In vain Thalestris with reproach assails,
  For who can move when fair Belinda fails?
  Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain,                    
  While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain.
  Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan;
  Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began.

RHYME a a *

  "Say why are Beauties prais'd and honour'd most,
  The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast?         
  Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford,
  Why Angels call'd, and Angel-like ador'd?
  Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd Beaux,
  Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows;
  How vain are all these glories, all our pains,            
  Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains:
  That men may say, when we the front-box grace:
  'Behold the first in virtue as in face!'
  Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,
  Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old-age away;            
  Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce,
  Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?
  To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint,
  Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
  But since, alas! frail beauty must decay,                 
  Curl'd or uncurl'd, since Locks will turn to grey;
  Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,
  And she who scorns a man, must die a maid;
  What then remains but well our pow'r to use,
  And keep good-humour still whate'er we lose?              
  And trust me, dear! good-humour can prevail,
  When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
  Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll;
  Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul."

RHYME a a *

  So spoke the Dame, but no applause ensu'd;                
  Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her Prude.
  "To arms, to arms!" the fierce Virago cries,
  And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
  All side in parties, and begin th' attack;
  Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack;      
  Heroes' and Heroines' shouts confus'dly rise,
  And bass, and treble voices strike the skies.
  No common weapons in their hands are found,
  Like Gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.

RHYME a a *

  So when bold Homer makes the Gods engage,                 
  And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage;
  'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms;
  And all Olympus rings with loud alarms:
  Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around,
  Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound:         
  Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way.
  And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day!

RHYME a a *

  Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height
  Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight:
  Propp'd on the bodkin spears, the Sprites survey          
  The growing combat, or assist the fray.

RHYME a a *

  While thro' the press enrag'd Thalestris flies,
  And scatters death around from both her eyes,
  A Beau and Witling perish'd in the throng,
  One died in metaphor, and one in song.                    
  "O cruel nymph! a living death I bear,"
  Cry'd Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.
  A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast,
  "Those eyes are made so killing"--was his last.
  Thus on Maeander's flow'ry margin lies                     
  Th' expiring Swan, and as he sings he dies.

RHYME a a *

  When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,
  Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown;
  She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain,
  But, at her smile, the Beau reviv'd again.                

RHYME a a *

  Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,
  Weighs the Men's wits against the Lady's hair;
  The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;
  At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.

RHYME a a *

  See, fierce Belinda on the Baron flies,                   
  With more than usual lightning in her eyes:
  Nor fear'd the Chief th' unequal fight to try,
  Who sought no more than on his foe to die.
  But this bold Lord with manly strength endu'd,
  She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd:                  
  Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,
  A charge of Snuff the wily virgin threw;
  The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just,
  The pungent grains of titillating dust.
  Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows,           
  And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.

RHYME a a *

  Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cry'd,
  And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.
  (The same, his ancient personage to deck,
  Her great great grandsire wore about his neck,            
  In three seal-rings; which after, melted down,
  Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown:
  Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew,
  The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew;
  Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs,               
  Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.)

RHYME a a *

  "Boast not my fall" (he cry'd) "insulting foe!
  Thou by some other shalt be laid as low,
  Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:
  All that I dread is leaving you behind!               
  Rather than so, ah let me still survive,
  And burn in Cupid's flames--but burn alive."

RHYME a a *

  "Restore the Lock!" she cries; and all around
  "Restore the Lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound.
  Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain                
  Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.
  But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd,
  And chiefs contend 'till all the prize is lost!
  The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain,
  In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain:         
  With such a prize no mortal must be blest,
  So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest?

RHYME a a *

  Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,
  Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd there.
  There Hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vases,        
  And beau's in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.
  There broken vows and death-bed alms are found,
  And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound,
  The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs,
  The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs,        
  Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea,
  Dry'd butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.

RHYME a a *

  But trust the Muse--she saw it upward rise,
  Tho' mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes:
  (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew,     
  To Proculus alone confess'd in view)
  A sudden Star, it shot thro' liquid air,
  And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
  Not Berenice's Locks first rose so bright,
  The heav'ns bespangling with dishevell'd light.       
  The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies,
  And pleas'd pursue its progress thro' the skies.

RHYME a a *

  This the Beau monde shall from the Mall survey,
  And hail with music its propitious ray.
  This the blest Lover shall for Venus take,            
  And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.
  This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies,
  When next he looks thro' Galileo's eyes;
  And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom
  The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.              

RHYME a a *

  Then cease, bright Nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair,
  Which adds new glory to the shining sphere!
  Not all the tresses that fair head can boast,
  Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost.
  For, after all the murders of your eye,               
  When, after millions slain, yourself shall die:
  When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
  And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
  This Lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame,
  And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.         

TITLE An Essay on Criticism

RHYME a a *

  'Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
  Appear in writing or in judging ill;
  But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' offence
  To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
  Some few in that, but numbers err in this,                      
  Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss;
  A fool might once himself alone expose,
  Now one in verse makes many more in prose.

RHYME a a *

  'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
  Go just alike, yet each believes his own.                   
  In Poets as true genius is but rare,
  True Taste as seldom is the Critic's share;
  Both must alike from Heav'n derive their light,
  These born to judge, as well as those to write.
  Let such teach others who themselves excel,                 
  And censure freely who have written well.
  Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true,
  But are not Critics to their judgment too?

RHYME a a *

  Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
  Most have the seeds of judgment in their mind:              
  Nature affords at least a glimm'ring light;
  The lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.

RHYME a a a

  But as the slightest sketch, if justly trac'd,  
  Is by ill-colouring but the more disgrac'd,     
  So by false learning is good sense defac'd:                
  
RHYME a a *

  Some are bewilder'd in the maze of schools,
  And some made coxcombs Nature meant but fools.

RHYME a a *

  In search of wit these lose their common sense,
  And then turn Critics in their own defence:
  Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,                 
  Or with a Rival's, or an Eunuch's spite.
  All fools have still an itching to deride,
  And fain would be upon the laughing side.
  If Maevius scribble in Apollo's spite,
  There are who judge still worse than he can write.          

RHYME a a *

  Some have at first for Wits, then Poets past,
  Turn'd Critics next, and prov'd plain fools at last.
  Some neither can for Wits nor Critics pass,
  As heavy mules are neither horse nor ass.
  Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle,          
  As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile;
  Unfinish'd things, one knows not what to call,
  Their generation's so equivocal:
  To tell 'em, would a hundred tongues require,
  Or one vain wit's, that might a hundred tire.               

RHYME a a *

  But you who seek to give and merit fame,
  And justly bear a Critic's noble name,
  Be sure yourself and your own reach to know,
  How far your genius, taste, and learning go;
  Launch not beyond your depth, but be discreet,              
  And mark that point where sense and dulness meet.

RHYME a a *

  Nature to all things fix'd the limits fit,
  And wisely curb'd proud man's pretending wit.
  As on the land while here the ocean gains,
  In other parts it leaves wide sandy plains;                 
  Thus in the soul while memory prevails,
  The solid pow'r of understanding fails;
  Where beams of warm imagination play,
  The memory's soft figures melt away.
  One science only will one genius fit;                       
  So vast is art, so narrow human wit:
  Not only bounded to peculiar arts,
  But oft in those confin'd to single parts.
  Like kings we lose the conquests gain'd before,
  By vain ambition still to make them more;                   
  Each might his sev'ral province well command,
  Would all but stoop to what they understand.

RHYME a a *

  First follow Nature, and your judgment frame
  By her just standard, which is still the same:
  Unerring NATURE, still divinely bright,                     
  One clear, unchang'd, and universal light,
  Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart,
  At once the source, and end, and test of Art.
  Art from that fund each just supply provides,
  Works without show, and without pomp presides:              
  In some fair body thus th' informing soul
  With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole,
  Each motion guides, and ev'ry nerve sustains;
  Itself unseen, but in th' effects, remains.
  Some, to whom Heav'n in wit has been profuse,               
  Want as much more, to turn it to its use;
  For wit and judgment often are at strife,
  Tho' meant each other's aid, like man and wife.
  'T is more to guide, than spur the Muse's steed;
  Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed;                  
  The winged courser, like a gen'rous horse,
  Shows most true mettle when you check his course.

RHYME a a *

  Those RULES of old discovered, not devis'd,
  Are Nature still, but Nature methodiz'd;
  Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd                     
  By the same laws which first herself ordain'd.

RHYME a a *

  Hear how learn'd Greece her useful rules indites,
  When to repress, and when indulge our flights:
  High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd,
  And pointed out those arduous paths they trod;              
  Held from afar, aloft, th' immortal prize,
  And urg'd the rest by equal steps to rise.
  Just precepts thus from great examples giv'n,
  She drew from them what they deriv'd from Heav'n.
  The gen'rous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire,             
  And taught the world with reason to admire.
  Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd,
  To dress her charms, and make her more belov'd:
  But following wits from that intention stray'd,
  Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid;         
  Against the Poets their own arms they turn'd,
  Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd.
  So modern 'Pothecaries, taught the art
  By Doctor's bills to play the Doctor's part,
  Bold in the practice of mistaken rules,                 
  Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools.
  Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey,
  Nor time nor moths e'er spoil'd so much as they.
  Some drily plain, without invention's aid,
  Write dull receipts how poems may be made.              
  These leave the sense, their learning to display,
  And those explain the meaning quite away.

RHYME a a *

  You then whose judgment the right course would steer,
  Know well each ANCIENT'S proper character;
  His fable, subject, scope in ev'ry page;                
  Religion, Country, genius of his Age:
  Without all these at once before your eyes,
  Cavil you may, but never criticize.
  Be Homer's works your study and delight,
  Read them by day, and meditate by night;                
  Thence form your judgment, thence your maxims bring,
  And trace the Muses upward to their spring.
  Still with itself compar'd, his text peruse;
  And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse.

RHYME a a *

  When first young Maro in his boundless mind             
  A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd,
  Perhaps he seem'd above the critic's law,
  And but from Nature's fountains scorn'd to draw:
  But when t' examine ev'ry part he came,
  Nature and Homer were, he found, the same.              

RHYME a a a

  Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold design;
  And rules as strict his labour'd work confine,
  As if the Stagirite o'erlook'd each line.

RHYME a a *

  Learn hence for ancient rules a just esteem;
  To copy nature is to copy them.                         
  Some beauties yet no Precepts can declare,
  For there's a happiness as well as care.

RHYME a a a

  Music resembles Poetry, in each
  Are nameless graces which no methods teach,
  And which a master-hand alone can reach.                

RHYME a a *

  If, where the rules not far enough extend,
  (Since rules were made but to promote their end)
  Some lucky Licence answer to the full
  Th' intent propos'd, that Licence is a rule.
  Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,                     
  May boldly deviate from the common track;
  From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,
  And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art,
  Which without passing thro' the judgment, gains
  The heart, and all its end at once attains.             

RHYME a a a

  In prospects thus, some objects please our eyes,
  Which out of nature's common order rise,
  The shapeless rock, or hanging precipice.

RHYME a a *

  Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
  And rise to faults true Critics dare not mend.         
  But tho' the Ancients thus their rules invade,
  (As Kings dispense with laws themselves have made)
  Moderns, beware! or if you must offend
  Against the precept, ne'er transgress its End;
  Let it be seldom, and compell'd by need;               
  And have, at least, their precedent to plead.
  The Critic else proceeds without remorse,
  Seizes your fame, and puts his laws in force.

RHYME a a *

  I know there are, to whose presumptuous thoughts
  Those freer beauties, ev'n in them, seem faults.       
  Some figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear,
  Consider'd singly, or beheld too near,
  Which, but proportion'd to their light, or place,
  Due distance reconciles to form and grace.
  A prudent chief not always must display                
  His pow'rs in equal ranks, and fair array.
  But with th' occasion and the place comply,
  Conceal his force, nay seem sometimes to fly.
  Those oft are stratagems which error seem,
  Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.               

RHYME a a *

  Still green with bays each ancient Altar stands,
  Above the reach of sacrilegious hands;
  Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer rage,
  Destructive War, and all-involving Age.
  See, from each clime the learn'd their incense bring!  
  Hear, in all tongues consenting Paeans ring!
  In praise so just let ev'ry voice be join'd,
  And fill the gen'ral chorus of mankind.
  Hail, Bards triumphant! born in happier days;
  Immortal heirs of universal praise!                    

RHYME a a *

  Whose honours with increase of ages grow,
  As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow;
  Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound,
  And worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
  Oh may some spark of your celestial fire,              
  The last, the meanest of your sons inspire,
  (That on weak wings, from far, pursues your flights;
  Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
  To teach vain Wits a science little known,
  T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own!         

RHYME a a *

  Of all the Causes which conspire to blind
  Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
  What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
  Is _Pride_, the never-failing voice of fools.
  Whatever nature has in worth denied,                   
  She gives in large recruits of needful pride;
  For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
  What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind:
  Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,
  And fills up all the mighty Void of sense.             

RHYME a a *

  If once right reason drives that cloud away,
  Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.
  Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
  Make use of ev'ry friend--and ev'ry foe.

RHYME a a *

  A _little learning_ is a dang'rous thing;              
  Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.
  There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
  And drinking largely sobers us again.
  Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts,
  In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts,        
  While from the bounded level of our mind
  Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind;
  But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise
  New distant scenes of endless science rise!
  So pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try,          
  Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky,
  Th' eternal snows appear already past,
  And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;
  But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey
  The growing labours of the lengthen'd way,             
  Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes,
  Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!

RHYME a a *

  A perfect Judge will read each work of Wit
  With the same spirit that its author writ:
  Survey the WHOLE, nor seek slight faults to find       
  Where nature moves, and rapture warms the mind;
  Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight,
  The gen'rous pleasure to be charm'd with Wit.
  But in such lays as neither ebb, nor flow,
  Correctly cold, and regularly low,                     
  That shunning faults, one quiet tenour keep,
  We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep.
  In wit, as nature, what affects our hearts
  Is not th' exactness of peculiar parts;
  'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call,                
  But the joint force and full result of all.
  Thus when we view some well-proportion'd dome,
  (The world's just wonder, and ev'n thine, O Rome!)
  No single parts unequally surprize,
  All comes united to th' admiring eyes;                 
  No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear;
  The Whole at once is bold, and regular.

RHYME a a *

  Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
  Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
  In every work regard the writer's End,                 
  Since none can compass more than they intend;
  And if the means be just, the conduct true,
  Applause, in spight of trivial faults, is due;
  As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit,
  T' avoid great errors, must the less commit:           
  Neglect the rules each verbal Critic lays,
  For not to know some trifles, is a praise.
  Most Critics, fond of some subservient art,
  Still make the Whole depend upon a Part:
  They talk of principles, but notions prize,            
  And all to one lov'd Folly sacrifice.

RHYME a a *

  Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they say,
  A certain bard encount'ring on the way,
  Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage,
  As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage;             
  Concluding all were desp'rate sots and fools,
  Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules.
  Our Author, happy in a judge so nice,
  Produc'd his Play, and begg'd the Knight's advice;
  Made him observe the subject, and the plot,            
  The manners, passions, unities; what not?
  All which, exact to rule, were brought about,
  Were but a Combat in the lists left out.
  "What! leave the Combat out?" exclaims the Knight;
  Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite.                
  "Not so, by Heav'n" (he answers in a rage),
  "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage."
  So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain.
  "Then build a new, or act it in a plain."

RHYME a a *

  Thus Critics, of less judgment than caprice,           
  Curious not knowing, not exact but nice,
  Form short Ideas; and offend in arts
  (As most in manners) by a love to parts.

RHYME a a *

  Some to _Conceit_ alone their taste confine,
  And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line;      
  Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit;
  One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit.
  Poets like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace
  The naked nature and the living grace,
  With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part,                 
  And hide with ornaments their want of art.
  True Wit is Nature to advantage dress'd,
  What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd;
  Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find,
  That gives us back the image of our mind.              
  As shades more sweetly recommend the light,
  So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.
  For works may have more wit than does 'em good,
  As bodies perish thro' excess of blood.

RHYME a a *

  Others for Language all their care express,            
  And value books, as women men, for Dress:
  Their praise is still--the Style is excellent:
  The Sense, they humbly take upon content.
  Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
  Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found,           
  False Eloquence, like the prismatic glass,
  Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place;
  The face of Nature we no more survey,
  All glares alike, without distinction gay:

RHYME a a a

  But true expression, like th' unchanging Sun,          
  Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon,
  It gilds all objects, but it alters none.

RHYME a a *

  Expression is the dress of thought, and still
  Appears more decent, as more suitable;
  A vile conceit in pompous words express'd,             
  Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd:
  For diff'rent styles with diff'rent subjects sort,
  As several garbs with country, town, and court.

  Some by old words to fame have made pretence,
  Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense;       
  Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style,
  Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile.

RHYME a a a

  Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play,          
  These sparks with awkward vanity display  
  What the fine gentleman wore yesterday;               

RHYME a a *

  And but so mimic ancient wits at best,
  As apes our grandsires, in their doublets drest.
  In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;
  Alike fantastic, if too new, or old:
  Be not the first by whom the new are try'd,            
  Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.

RHYME a a *

  But most by Numbers judge a Poet's song;
  And smooth or rough, with them is right or wrong:
  In the bright Muse though thousand charms conspire,
  Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire;           

RHYME a a a

  Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear,     
  Not mend their minds; as some to Church repair,  
  Not for the doctrine, but the music there.       
 
RHYME a a *

 These equal syllables alone require,
  Tho' oft the ear the open vowe's tire;                 
  While expletives their feeble aid do join;
  And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:
  While they ring round the same unvary'd chimes,
  With sure returns of still expected rhymes;
  Where-e'er you find "the cooling western breeze,"      
  In the next line, it "whispers through the trees:"
  If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep,"
  The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep:"
  Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
  With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,         
  A needless Alexandrine ends the song
  That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
  Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
  What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow;
  And praise the easy vigour of a line,                  
  Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.
  True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
  As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
  'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
  The sound must seem an Echo to the sense:              
  Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
  And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
  But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
  The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar:
  When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,    
  The line too labours, and the words move slow;
  Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
  Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
  Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprize,
  And bid alternate passions fall and rise!              
  While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
  Now burns with glory, and then melts with love,
  Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
  Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
  Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,        
  And the world's victor stood subdu'd by Sound!
  The pow'r of Music all our hearts allow,
  And what Timotheus was, is DRYDEN now.

RHYME a a *

  Avoid Extremes; and shun the fault of such,
  Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.          
  At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence,
  That always shows great pride, or little sense;
  Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best,
  Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
  Yet let not each gay Turn thy rapture move;            
  For fools admire, but men of sense approve:
  As things seem large which we thro' mists descry,
  Dulness is ever apt to magnify.

RHYME a a *

  Some foreign writers, some our own despise;
  The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize.               
  Thus Wit, like Faith, by each man is apply'd
  To one small sect, and all are damn'd beside.
  Meanly they seek the blessing to confine,
  And force that sun but on a part to shine,
  Which not alone the southern wit sublimes,             
  But ripens spirits in cold northern climes;
  Which from the first has shone on ages past,
  Enlights the present, and shall warm the last;
  Tho' each may feel increases and decays,
  And see now clearer and now darker days.               
  Regard not then if Wit be old or new,
  But blame the false, and value still the true.

RHYME a a *

  Some ne'er advance a Judgment of their own,
  But catch the spreading notion of the Town;
  They reason and conclude by precedent,                 
  And own stale nonsense which they ne'er invent.
  Some judge of author's names, not works, and then
  Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.
  Of all this servile herd the worst is he
  That in proud dulness joins with Quality,              
  A constant Critic at the great man's board,
  To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord.
  What woful stuff this madrigal would be,
  In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me?
  But let a Lord once own the happy lines,               
  How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
  Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault,
  And each exalted stanza teems with thought!

RHYME a a *

  The Vulgar thus through Imitation err;
  As oft the Learn'd by being singular;                  
  So much they scorn the crowd, that if the throng
  By chance go right, they purposely go wrong;
  So Schismatics the plain believers quit,
  And are but damn'd for having too much wit.
  Some praise at morning what they blame at night;       
  But always think the last opinion right.
  A Muse by these is like a mistress us'd,
  This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd;
  While their weak heads like towns unfortify'd,
  'Twixt sense and nonsense daily change their side.     
  Ask them the cause; they're wiser still, they say;
  And still to-morrow's wiser than to-day.
  We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow,
  Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so.
  Once School-divines this zealous isle o'er-spread;     
  Who knew most Sentences, was deepest read;
  Faith, Gospel, all, seem'd made to be disputed,
  And none had sense enough to be confuted:
  Scotists and Thomists, now, in peace remain,
  Amidst their kindred cobwebs in Duck-lane.             
  If Faith itself has diff'rent dresses worn,
  What wonder modes in Wit should take their turn?
  Oft', leaving what is natural and fit,
  The current folly proves the ready wit;
  And authors think their reputation safe,              
  Which lives as long as fools are pleas'd to laugh.
  Some valuing those of their own side or mind,
  Still make themselves the measure of mankind:
  Fondly we think we honour merit then,
  When we but praise ourselves in other men.            

RHYME a a *

  Parties in Wit attend on those of State,
  And public faction doubles private hate.
  Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose,
  In various shapes of Parsons, Critics, Beaus;
  But sense surviv'd, when merry jests were past;       
  For rising merit will buoy up at last.
  Might he return, and bless once more our eyes,
  New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise:
  Nay should great Homer lift his awful head,
  Zoilus again would start up from the dead.            
  Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue;
  But like a shadow, proves the substance true;
  For envy'd Wit, like Sol eclips'd, makes known
  Th' opposing body's grossness, not its own,
  When first that sun too pow'rful beams displays,      
  It draws up vapours which obscure its rays;
  But ev'n those clouds at last adorn its way,
  Reflect new glories, and augment the day.

RHYME a a *

  Be thou the first true merit to befriend;
  His praise is lost, who stays, till all commend.      
  Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes,
  And 'tis but just to let them live betimes.
  No longer now that golden age appears,
  When Patriarch-wits surviv'd a thousand years:
  Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost,         
  And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast;
  Our sons their fathers' failing language see,
  And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.
  So when the faithful pencil has design'd
  Some bright Idea of the master's mind,                
  Where a new world leaps out at his command,
  And ready Nature waits upon his hand;
  When the ripe colours soften and unite,
  And sweetly melt into just shade and light;
  When mellowing years their full perfection give,      
  And each bold figure just begins to live,
  The treach'rous colours the fair art betray,
  And all the bright creation fades away!

RHYME a a *

  Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken things,
  Atones not for that envy which it brings.             
  In youth alone its empty praise we boast,
  But soon the short-liv'd vanity is lost:
  Like some fair flow'r the early spring supplies.
  That gaily blooms, but ev'n in blooming dies.
  What is this Wit, which must our cares employ?        
  The owner's wife, that other men enjoy;
  Then most our trouble still when most admir'd,
  And still the more we give, the more requir'd;
  Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,
  Sure some to vex, but never all to please;            
  'Tis what the vicious fear, the virtuous shun,
  By fools't is hated, and by knaves undone!

RHYME a a *

  If Wit so much from Ign'rance undergo,
  Ah let not Learning too commence its foe!
  Of old, those met rewards who could excel,            
  And such were prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
  Tho' triumphs were to gen'rals only due,
  Crowns were reserv'd to grace the soldiers too,
  Now, they who reach Parnassus' lofty crown,
  Employ their pains to spurn some others down;         
  And while self-love each jealous writer rules,
  Contending wits become the sport of fools:
  But still the worst with most regret commend,
  For each ill Author is as bad a Friend.
  To what base ends, and by what abject ways,           
  Are mortals urg'd thro' sacred lust of praise!
  Ah ne'er so dire a thirst of glory boast,
  Nor in the Critic let the Man be lost.
  Good-nature and good-sense must ever join;
  To err is human, to forgive, divine.                  

RHYME a a *

  But if in noble minds some dregs remain
  Not yet purg'd off, of spleen and sour disdain;
  Discharge that rage on more provoking crimes,
  Nor fear a dearth in these flagitious times.
  No pardon vile Obscenity should find,                 
  Tho' wit and art conspire to move your mind;
  But Dulness with Obscenity must prove
  As shameful sure as Impotence in love.
  In the fat age of pleasure wealth and ease
  Sprung the rank weed, and thriv'd with large increase:
  When love was all an easy Monarch's care;
  Seldom at council, never in a war:
  Jilts rul'd the state, and statesmen farces writ;
  Nay wits had pensions, and young Lords had wit:
  The Fair sate panting at a Courtier's play,           
  And not a Mask went unimprov'd away:
  The modest fan was lifted up no more,
  And Virgins smil'd at what they blush'd before.
  The following licence of a Foreign reign
  Did all the dregs of bold Socinus drain;              
  Then unbelieving priests reform'd the nation,
  And taught more pleasant methods of salvation;
  Where Heav'n's free subjects might their rights dispute,
  Lest God himself should seem too absolute:
  Pulpits their sacred satire learn'd to spare,         
  And Vice admir'd to find a flatt'rer there!
  Encourag'd thus, Wit's Titans brav'd the skies,
  And the press groan'd with licens'd blasphemies.
  These monsters, Critics! with your darts engage,
  Here point your thunder, and exhaust your rage!       
  Yet shun their fault, who, scandalously nice,
  Will needs mistake an author into vice;
  All seems infected that th' infected spy,
  As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye.

RHYME a a *

  Learn then what MORALS Critics ought to show,         
  For't is but half a Judge's task, to know.
  'Tis not enough, taste, judgment, learning, join;
  In all you speak, let truth and candour shine:
  That not alone what to your sense is due
  All may allow; but seek your friendship too.          

RHYME a a *

  Be silent always when you doubt your sense;
  And speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence:
  Some positive, persisting fops we know,
  Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;
  But you, with pleasure own your errors past,          
  And make each day a Critic on the last.

RHYME a a *

  'T is not enough, your counsel still be true;
  Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do;
  Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
  And things unknown propos'd as things forgot.         
  Without Good Breeding, truth is disapprov'd;
  That only makes superior sense belov'd.

RHYME a a *

  Be niggards of advice on no pretence;
  For the worst avarice is that of sense.
  With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,        
  Nor be so civil as to prove unjust.
  Fear not the anger of the wise to raise;
  Those best can bear reproof, who merit praise.

RHYME a a *

  'T were well might critics still this freedom take,
  But Appius reddens at each word you speak,            
  And stares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye,
  Like some fierce Tyrant in old tapestry.
  Fear most to tax an Honourable fool,
  Whose right it is, uncensur'd, to be dull;
  Such, without wit, are Poets when they please,        
  As without learning they can take Degrees.
  Leave dang'rous truths to unsuccessful Satires,
  And flattery to fulsome Dedicators,
  Whom, when they praise, the world believes no more,
  Than when they promise to give scribbling o'er.       
  'T is best sometimes your censure to restrain,
  And charitably let the dull be vain:
  Your silence there is better than your spite,
  For who can rail so long as they can write?
  Still humming on, their drowsy course they keep,      
  And lash'd so long, like tops, are lash'd asleep.
  False steps but help them to renew the race,
  As, after stumbling, Jades will mend their pace.
  What crowds of these, impenitently bold,
  In sounds and jingling syllables grown old,           
  Still run on Poets, in a raging vein,
  Ev'n to the dregs and squeezings of the brain,
  Strain out the last dull droppings of their sense,
  And rhyme with all the rage of Impotence.

RHYME a a *

  Such shameless Bards we have; and yet't is true,      
  There are as mad abandon'd Critics too.
  The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read,
  With loads of learned lumber in his head,
  With his own tongue still edifies his ears,
  And always list'ning to himself appears.              
  All books he reads, and all he reads assails.
  From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales.
  With him, most authors steal their works, or buy;
  Garth did not write his own Dispensary.

RHYME a a *

  Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's friend,          
  Nay show'd his faults--but when would Poets mend?
  No place so sacred from such fops is barr'd,
  Nor is Paul's church more safe than Paul's churchyard:
  Nay, fly to Altars; there they'll talk you dead:
  For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread.         

RHYME a a a

 Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks,    
  It still looks home, and short excursions makes; 
  But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks,    

RHYME a a *

  And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside,
  Bursts out, resistless, with a thund'ring tide.       

RHYME a a *

  But where's the man, who counsel can bestow,
  Still pleas'd to teach, and yet not proud to know?
  Unbiass'd, or by favour, or by spite;
  Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right;
  Tho' learn'd, well-bred; and tho' well-bred, sincere, 
  Modestly bold, and humanly severe:
  Who to a friend his faults can freely show,
  And gladly praise the merit of a foe?
  Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfin'd;
  A knowledge both of books and human kind:             
  Gen'rous converse; a soul exempt from pride;
  And love to praise, with reason on his side?

RHYME a a *

  Such once were Critics; such the happy few,
  Athens and Rome in better ages knew.
  The mighty Stagirite first left the shore,            
  Spread all his sails, and durst the deeps explore:
  He steer'd securely, and discover'd far,
  Led by the light of the Maeonian Star.
  Poets, a race long unconfin'd, and free,
  Still fond and proud of savage liberty,               
  Receiv'd his laws; and stood convinc'd 't was fit,
  Who conquer'd Nature, should preside o'er Wit.

RHYME a a *

  Horace still charms with graceful negligence,
  And without method talks us into sense,
  Will, like a friend, familiarly convey                
  The truest notions in the easiest way.
  He, who supreme in judgment, as in wit,
  Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ,
  Yet judg'd with coolness, tho' he sung with fire;
  His Precepts teach but what his works inspire.        
  Our Critics take a contrary extreme,
  They judge with fury, but they write with fle'me:
  Nor suffers Horace more in wrong Translations
  By Wits, than Critics in as wrong Quotations.

RHYME a a *

    See Dionysius Homer's thoughts refine,              
  And call new beauties forth from ev'ry line!
    Fancy and art in gay Petronius please,
  The scholar's learning, with the courtier's ease.

RHYME a a *

  In grave Quintilian's copious work, we find
  The justest rules, and clearest method join'd:        
  Thus useful arms in magazines we place,
  All rang'd in order, and dispos'd with grace,
  But less to please the eye, than arm the hand,
  Still fit for use, and ready at command.

RHYME a a *

  Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,            
  And bless their Critic with a Poet's fire.
  An ardent Judge, who zealous in his trust,
  With warmth gives sentence, yet is always just;
  Whose own example strengthens all his laws;
  And is himself that great Sublime he draws.           

RHYME a a *

  Thus long succeeding Critics justly reign'd,
  Licence repress'd, and useful laws ordain'd.
  Learning and Rome alike in empire grew;
  And Arts still follow'd where her Eagles flew;
  From the same foes, at last, both felt their doom,    
  And the same age saw Learning fall, and Rome.
  With Tyranny, then Superstition join'd,
  As that the body, this enslav'd the mind;
  Much was believ'd, but little understood,
  And to be dull was constru'd to be good;              
  A second deluge Learning thus o'er-run,
  And the Monks finish'd what the Goths begun.

RHYME a a *

  At length Erasmus, that great injur'd name,
  (The glory of the Priesthood, and the shame!)
  Stemm'd the wild torrent of a barb'rous age,          
  And drove those holy Vandals off the stage.

RHYME a a *

  But see! each Muse, in LEO'S golden days,
  Starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays,
  Rome's ancient Genius, o'er its ruins spread,
  Shakes off the dust, and rears his rev'rend head.     
  Then Sculpture and her sister-arts revive;
  Stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live;
  With sweeter notes each rising Temple rung;
  A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung.
  Immortal Vida: on whose honour'd brow                 
  The Poet's bays and Critic's ivy grow:
  Cremona now shal ever boast thy name,
  As next in place to Mantua, next in fame!

RHYME a a *

  But soon by impious arms from Latium chas'd,
  Their ancient bounds the banish'd Muses pass'd;       
  Thence Arts o'er all the northern world advance,
  But Critic-learning flourish'd most in France:
  The rules a nation, born to serve, obeys;
  And Boileau still in right of Horace sways.
  But we, brave Britons, foreign laws despis'd,         
  And kept unconquer'd, and unciviliz'd;
  Fierce for the liberties of wit, and bold,
  We still defy'd the Romans, as of old.
  Yet some there were, among the sounder few
  Of those who less presum'd, and better knew,          
  Who durst assert the juster ancient cause,
  And here restor'd Wit's fundamental laws.
  Such was the Muse, whose rules and practice tell,
  "Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well."

RHYME a a *

  Such was Roscommon, not more learn'd than good,       
  With manners gen'rous as his noble blood;
  To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
  And ev'ry author's merit, but his own.
  Such late was Walsh--the Muse's judge and friend,
  Who justly knew to blame or to commend;               
  To failings mild, but zealous for desert;
  The clearest head, and the sincerest heart.
  This humble praise, lamented shade! receive,
  This praise at least a grateful Muse may give:
  The Muse, whose early voice you taught to sing,       
  Prescrib'd her heights, and prun'd her tender wing,
  (Her guide now lost) no more attempts to rise,
  But in low numbers short excursions tries:
  Content, if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view,
  The learn'd reflect on what before they knew:         
  Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame;
  Still pleas'd to praise, yet not afraid to blame,
  Averse alike to flatter, or offend;
  Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.

TITLE Essay on Man

RHYME a a *

        Awake, my ST. JOHN! leave all meaner things
        To low ambition, and the pride of Kings.
        Let us (since Life can little more supply
        Than just to look about us and to die)
        Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man;               
        A mighty maze! but not without a plan;
        A Wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot;
        Or Garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.
        Together let us beat this ample field,
        Try what the open, what the covert yield;            
        The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore
        Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;
        Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies,
        And catch the Manners living as they rise;
        Laugh where we must, be candid where we can;         
        But vindicate the ways of God to Man.

RHYME a a *

      Say first, of God above, or Man below,
        What can we reason, but from what we know?
        Of Man, what see we but his station here,
        From which to reason, or to which refer?             
        Thro' worlds unnumber'd tho' the God be known,
        'Tis ours to trace him only in our own.
        He, who thro' vast immensity can pierce,
        See worlds on worlds compose one universe,
        Observe how system into system runs,                 
        What other planets circle other suns,
        What vary'd Being peoples ev'ry star,
        May tell why Heav'n has made us as we are.
        But of this frame the bearings, and the ties,
        The strong connexions, nice dependencies,            
        Gradations just, has thy pervading soul
        Look'd thro'? or can a part contain the whole?

RHYME a a *

        Is the great chain, that draws all to agree,
        And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?

RHYME a a *

II.     Presumptuous Man! the reason wouldst thou find,      
        Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind?
        First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,
        Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less?
        Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made
        Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade?        
        Or ask of yonder argent fields above,
        Why JOVE'S satellites are less than JOVE?

RHYME a a *

        Of Systems possible, if 'tis confest
        That Wisdom infinite must form the best,
        Where all must full or not coherent be,              
        And all that rises, rise in due degree;
        Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain,
        There must be, somewhere, such a rank as Man:
        And all the question (wrangle e'er so long)
        Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong?           

RHYME a a *

        Respecting Man, whatever wrong we call,
        May, must be right, as relative to all.
        In human works, tho' labour'd on with pain,
        A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain;
        In God's, one single can its end produce;            
        Yet serves to second too some other use.
        So Man, who here seems principal alone,
        Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown,
        Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal;
        'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.             

RHYME a a *

        When the proud steed shall know why Man restrains
        His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains:
        When the dull Ox, why now he breaks the clod,
        Is now a victim, and now AEgypt's God:
        Then shall Man's pride and dulness comprehend        
        His actions', passions', being's, use and end;
        Why doing, suff'ring, check'd, impell'd; and why
        This hour a slave, the next a deity.

RHYME a a *

        Then say not Man's imperfect, Heav'n in fault;
        Say rather, Man's as perfect as he ought:            
        His knowledge measur'd to his state and place;
        His time a moment, and a point his space.
        If to be perfect in a certain sphere,
        What matter, soon or late, or here or there?
        The blest to day is as completely so,                
        As who began a thousand years ago.

RHYME a a *

III.    Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of Fate,
        All but the page prescrib'd, their present state:
        From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:
        Or who could suffer Being here below?                
        The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
        Had he thy Reason, would he skip and play?
        Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food,
        And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
        Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n,            
        That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n:
        Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
        A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
        Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
        And now a bubble burst, and now a world.             

RHYME a a *

        Hope humbly then: with trembling pinions soar;
        Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore.
        What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
        But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now.
        Hope springs eternal in the human breast:            
        Man never Is, but always To be blest:
        The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
        Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

RHYME a a *

        Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind
        Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind:    
        His soul, proud Science never taught to stray
        Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
        Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv'n,
        Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n;
        Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd,     
        Some happier island in the watry waste,
        Where slaves once more their native land behold,
        No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
        To Be, contents his natural desire,
        He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire;       
        But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
        His faithful dog shall bear him company.

RHYME a a *

IV.     Go, wiser thou! and, in thy scale of sense,
        Weight thy Opinion against Providence;
        Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such,       
        Say, here he gives too little, there too much:
        Destroy all Creatures for thy sport or gust,
        Yet cry, If Man's unhappy, God's unjust;
        If Man alone engross not Heav'n's high care,
        Alone made perfect here, immortal there:         

RHYME a a *

        Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
        Re-judge his justice, be the God of God.
        In Pride, in reas'ning Pride, our error lies;
        All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.

RHYME a a *

        Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes,       
        Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods.
        Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell,
        Aspiring to be Angels, Men rebel:
        And who but wishes to invert the laws
        Of ORDER, sins against th' Eternal Cause.        

RHYME a a *

V.      Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine,
        Earth for whose use? Pride answers, "'Tis for mine:
        For me kind Nature wakes her genial Pow'r,
        Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r;
        Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew         
        The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew;
        For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings;
        For me, health gushes from a thousand springs;
        Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise;
        My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies."       

RHYME a a *

        But errs not Nature from his gracious end,
        From burning suns when livid deaths descend,
        When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep
        Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep?
        "No, ('tis reply'd) the first Almighty Cause     
        Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws;
        Th' exceptions few; some change since all began:
        And what created perfect?"--Why then Man?
        If the great end be human Happiness,
        Then Nature deviates; and can Man do less?       
        As much that end a constant course requires
        Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of Man's desires;
        As much eternal springs and cloudless skies,
        As Men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise.
        If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design,
        Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline?
        Who knows but he, whose hand the lightning forms,
        Who heaves old Ocean, and who wings the storms;
        Pours fierce Ambition in a Caesar's mind,
        Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind?   
        From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs;
        Account for moral, as for nat'ral things:
        Why charge we Heav'n in those, in these acquit?
        In both, to reason right is to submit.

RHYME a a *

        Better for Us, perhaps, it might appear,         
        Were there all harmony, all virtue here;
        That never air or ocean felt the wind;
        That never passion discompos'd the mind.
        But ALL subsists by elemental strife;
        And Passions are the elements of Life.           
        The gen'ral ORDER, since the whole began,
        Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.

RHYME a a *

VI.     What would this Man? Now upward will he soar,
        And little less than Angel, would be more;
        Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears   
        To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears.
        Made for his use all creatures if he call,
        Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all?
        Nature to these, without profusion, kind,
        The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd;       
        Each seeming want compensated of course,
        Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force;
        All in exact proportion to the state;
        Nothing to add, and nothing to abate.
        Each beast, each insect, happy in its own:       
        Is Heav'n unkind to Man, and Man alone?
        Shall he alone, whom rational we call,
        Be pleas'd with nothing, if not bless'd with all?

RHYME a a *

        The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find)
        Is not to act or think beyond mankind;           
        No pow'rs of body or of soul to share,
        But what his nature and his state can bear.
        Why has not Man a microscopic eye?
        For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly.
        Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n,       
        T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n?
        Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er,
        To smart and agonize at every pore?
        Or quick effluvia darting thro' the brain,
        Die of a rose in aromatic pain?                  
        If Nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears,
        And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres,
        How would he wish that Heav'n had left him still
        The whisp'ring Zephyr, and the purling rill?
        Who finds not Providence all good and wise,      
        Alike in what it gives, and what denies?

RHYME a a *

VII.    Far as Creation's ample range extends,
        The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends:
        Mark how it mounts, to Man's imperial race,
        From the green myriads in the peopled grass:   
        What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme,
        The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam:
        Of smell, the headlong lioness between,
        And hound sagacious on the tainted green:
        Of hearing, from the life that fills the Flood, 
        To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood:
        The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
        Feels at each thread, and lives along the line:
        In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true
        From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?
        How Instinct varies in the grov'lling swine,
        Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine!
        'Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier,
        For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near!
        Remembrance and Reflection how ally'd;        
        What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide:
        And Middle natures, how they long to join,
        Yet never pass th' insuperable line!
        Without this just gradation, could they be
        Subjected, these to those, or all to thee?    
        The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone,
        Is not thy Reason all these pow'rs in one?

RHYME a a *

VIII.   See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth,
        All matter quick, and bursting into birth.
        Above, how high, progressive life may go!     
        Around, how wide! how deep extend below!
        Vast chain of Being! which from God began,
        Natures ethereal, human, angel, man,
        Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see,
        No glass can reach; from Infinite to thee,    
        From thee to Nothing.--On superior pow'rs
        Were we to press, inferior might on ours:
        Or in the full creation leave a void,
        Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd:
        From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
        Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.

RHYME a a *

        And, if each system in gradation roll
        Alike essential to th' amazing Whole,
        The least confusion but in one, not all
        That system only, but the Whole must fall.    
        Let Earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly,
        Planets and Suns run lawless thro' the sky;
        Let ruling Angels from their spheres be hurl'd,
        Being on Being wreck'd, and world on world;
        Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, 
        And Nature tremble to the throne of God.
        All this dread ORDER break--for whom? for thee?
        Vile worm!--Oh Madness! Pride! Impiety!

RHYME a a *

IX.     What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread,
        Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head?     
        What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd
        To serve mere engines to the ruling Mind?
        Just as absurd for any part to claim
        To be another, in this gen'ral frame:
        Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains,  
        The great directing MIND of ALL ordains.

RHYME a a *

        All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
        Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;
        That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same;
        Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame; 
        Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
        Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,
        Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent,
        Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
        Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
        As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart:
        As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns,
        As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns:
        To him no high, no low, no great, no small;
        He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.

RHYME a a *

X.      Cease then, nor ORDER Imperfection name:
        Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
        Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree
        Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee.
        Submit.--In this, or any other sphere,        
        Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:
        Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r,
        Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
        All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee;
        All Chance, Direction, which thou canst not see; 
        All Discord, Harmony not understood;
        All partial Evil, universal Good:
        And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite,
        One truth is clear, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT.

TITLE Epistle 

RHYME a a *

  P. shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,
  Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
  The Dog-star rages! nay't is past a doubt,
  All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
  Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,                     
  They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

RHYME a a *

  What walls can guard me, or what shade can hide?
  They pierce my thickets, thro' my Grot they glide;
  By land, by water, they renew the charge;
  They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.           
  No place is sacred, not the Church is free;
  Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me;
  Then from the Mint walks forth the Man of rhyme,
  Happy to catch me just at Dinner-time.

RHYME a a *

  Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer,                   
  A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
  A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
  Who pens a Stanza, when he should _engross_?
  Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
  With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?          
  All fly to TWIT'NAM, and in humble strain
  Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
  Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws,
  Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
  Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,                   
  And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.

RHYME a a *

  Friend to my Life! (which did not you prolong,
  The world had wanted many an idle song)
  What _Drop_ or _Nostrum_ can this plague remove?
  Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love?              
  A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,
  If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
  Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
  Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.
  To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,              
  And to be grave, exceeds all Pow'r of face.
  I sit with sad civility, I read
  With honest anguish, and an aching head;
  And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
  This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years."         

RHYME a a *

  "Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane,
  Lull'd by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
  Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before _Term_ ends,
  Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:
  "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it,         
  I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

RHYME a a *

  Three things another's modest wishes bound,
  My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.

RHYME a a *

  Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace
  I want a Patron; ask him for a Place."                     
  "Pitholeon libell'd me,"--"but here's a letter
  Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better.
  Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,"
  "He'll write a _Journal_, or he'll turn Divine."

RHYME a a *

  Bless me! a packet.--"'Tis a stranger sues,                
  A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse."
  If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!"
  If I approve, "Commend it to the Stage."
  There (thank my stars) my whole Commission ends,
  The Play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends,                
  Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it,
  And shame the fools--Your Int'rest, Sir, with Lintot!"
  'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:'
  "Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch."
  All my demurs but double his Attacks;                      
  At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."
  Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
  Sir, let me see your works and you no more.

RHYME a a *

  'Tis sung, when Midas' Ears began to spring,
  (Midas, a sacred person and a king)                        
  His very Minister who spy'd them first,
  (Some say his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.
  And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,
  When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?
  A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous things.     
  I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings;
  Keep close to Ears, and those let asses prick;
  'Tis nothing--P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
  Out with it, DUNCIAD! let the secret pass,
  That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass:                
  The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?)
  The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

RHYME a a *

  You think this cruel? take it for a rule,
  No creature smarts so little as a fool.
  Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,           
  Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack:
  Pit, Box, and gall'ry in convulsions hurl'd,
  Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.
  Who shames a Scribbler? break one cobweb thro',
  He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:            
  Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
  The creature's at his dirty work again,
  Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,
  Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
  Whom have I hurt? has Poet yet, or Peer,                   
  Lost the arch'd eye-brow, or Parnassian sneer?

RHYME a a *

  Does not one table Bavius still admit?
  Still to one Bishop Philips seem a wit?
  Still Sappho--A. Hold! for God's sake--you 'll offend,
  No Names!--be calm!--learn prudence of a friend!       
  I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
  But foes like these--P. One Flatt'rer's worse than all.
  Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
  It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
  A fool quite angry is quite innocent:                  
  Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they _repent_.

RHYME a a *

  One dedicates in high heroic prose,
  And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
  One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend,
  And more abusive, calls himself my friend.             
  This prints my _Letters_, that expects a bribe,
  And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe."

RHYME a a *

  There are, who to my person pay their court:
  I cough like _Horace_, and, tho' lean, am short,
  _Ammon's_ great son one shoulder had too high,         
  Such _Ovid's_ nose, and "Sir! you have an Eye"--
  Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
  All that disgrac'd my Betters, met in me.
  Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
  "Just so immortal _Maro_ held his head:"               
  And when I die, be sure you let me know
  Great _Homer_ died three thousand years ago.

RHYME a a *

  Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
  Dipt me in ink, my parents', or my own?
  As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,                
  I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
  I left no calling for this idle trade,
  No duty broke, no father disobey'd.
  The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not Wife,
  To help me thro' this long disease, my Life,           
  To second, ARBUTHNOT! thy Art and Care,
  And teach the Being you preserv'd, to bear.

RHYME a a *

  But why then publish? _Granville_ the polite,
  And knowing _Walsh_, would tell me I could write;
  Well-natur'd _Garth_ inflam'd with early praise;       
  And _Congreve_ lov'd, and _Swift_ endur'd my lays;
  The courtly _Talbot, Somers, Sheffield_, read;
  Ev'n mitred _Rochester_ would nod the head,
  And _St. John's_ self (great _Dryden's_ friends before)
  With open arms receiv'd one Poet more.                 
  Happy my studies, when by these approv'd!
  Happier their author, when by these belov'd!
  From these the world will judge of men and books,
  Not from the _Burnets, Oldmixons_, and _Cookes_.

RHYME a a *

  Soft were my numbers; who could take offence,          
  While pure Description held the place of Sense?
  Like gentle _Fanny's_ was my flow'ry theme,
  A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
  Yet then did _Gildon_ draw his venal quill;--
  I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still.              
  Yet then did _Dennis_ rave in furious fret;
  I never answer'd,--I was not in debt.
  If want provok'd, or madness made them print,
  I wag'd no war with _Bedlam_ or the _Mint_.

RHYME a a *

  Did some more sober Critic come abroad;                
  If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.
  Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
  And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
  Commas and points they set exactly right,
  And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.            
  Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds,
  From slashing _Bentley_ down to pidling _Tibalds_:
  Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells,
  Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables,
  Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim,         
  Preserv'd in _Milton's_ or in _Shakespeare's_ name.
  Pretty! in amber to observe the forms
  Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
  The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
  But wonder how the devil they got there.               

RHYME a a *

  Were others angry: I excus'd them too;
  Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
  A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
  But each man's secret standard in his mind,
  That Casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,           
  This, who can gratify? for who can _guess?_
  The Bard whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown,
  Who turns a Persian tale for half a Crown,
  Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
  And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year; 
  He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
  Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
  And He, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
  Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
  And He, whose fustian's so sublimely bad,              
  It is not Poetry, but prose run mad:
  All these, my modest Satire bade _translate_,
  And own'd that nine such Poets made a _Tate_.
  How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
  And swear, not ADDISON himself was safe.               

RHYME a a *

  Peace to all such! but were there One whose fires
  True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires;
  Blest with each talent and each art to please,
  And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
  Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,             
  Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
  View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
  And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise;
  Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
  And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;         
  Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
  Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
  Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend.
  A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
  Dreading ev'n fools, by Flatterers besieg'd,           
  And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
  Like _Cato_, give his little Senate laws,
  And sit attentive to his own applause;
  While Wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise,
  And wonder with a foolish face of praise:--           
  Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
  Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?

RHYME a a *

  What tho' my Name stood rubric on the walls
  Or plaister'd posts, with claps, in capitals?
  Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load,             
  On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
  I sought no homage from the Race that write;
  I kept, like Asian Monarchs, from their sight:
  Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long)
  No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song.     
  I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,
  To spread about the itch of verse and praise;
  Nor like a puppy, daggled thro' the town,
  To fetch and carry sing-song up and down;
  Nor at Rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd,       
  With handkerchief and orange at my side;
  But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
  To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.

RHYME a a *

  Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
  Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill;            
  Fed with soft Dedication all day long.
  Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
  His Library (where busts of Poets dead
  And a true Pindar stood without a head,)
  Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,              
  Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place:
  Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat,
  And flatter'd ev'ry day, and some days eat:
  Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
  He paid some bards with port, and some with praise;    
  To some a dry rehearsal saw assign'd,
  And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
  _Dryden_ alone (what wonder?) came not nigh,
  _Dryden_ alone escap'd this judging eye:
  But still the _Great_ have kindness in reserve,        
  He help'd to bury whom he help'd to starve.

RHYME a a *

  May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!
  May ev'ry _Bavius_ have his _Bufo_ still!
  So, when a Statesman wants a day's defence,
  Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense,           
  Or simple pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
  May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
  Blest be the _Great!_ for those they take away.
  And those they left me; for they left me Gay;
  Left me to see neglected Genius bloom,                 
  Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:
  Of all thy blameless life the sole return
  My Verse, and Queenb'ry weeping o'er thy urn.

RHYME a a *

  Oh let me live my own, and die so too!
  (To live and die is all I have to do:)                 
  Maintain a Poet's dignity and ease,
  And see what friends, and read what books I please;
  Above a Patron, tho' I condescend
  Sometimes to call a minister my friend.
  I was not born for Courts or great affairs;            
  I pay my debts, believe, and say my pray'rs;
  Can sleep without a Poem in my head;
  Nor know, if _Dennis_ be alive or dead.

RHYME a a *

  Why am I ask'd what next shall see the light?
  Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write?          
  Has Life no joys for me? or, (to be grave)
  Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?
  "I found him close with _Swift_"--'Indeed? no doubt,'
  (Cries prating _Balbus_) 'something will come out.'
  'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will.                   
  'No, such a Genius never can lie still;'
  And then for mine obligingly mistakes
  The first Lampoon Sir _Will_, or _Bubo_ makes.
  Poor guiltless I! and can I choose but smile,
  When ev'ry Coxcomb knows me by my _Style_?             

RHYME a a *

  Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,
  That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
  Give Virtue scandal, Innocence a fear,
  Or from the soft-eyed Virgin steal a tear!
  But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,         
  Insults fall'n worth, or Beauty in distress,
  Who loves a Lie, lame slander helps about,
  Who writes a Libel, or who copies out:
  That Fop, whose pride affects a patron's name,
  Yet absent, wounds an author's honest fame:            
  Who can _your_ merit _selfishly_ approve.
  And show the _sense_ of it without the _love_;
  Who has the vanity to call you friend,
  Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
  Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say,        
  And, if he lie not, must at least betray:
  Who to the _Dean_, and _silver bell_ can swear,
  And sees at _Canons_ what was never there;
  Who reads, but with a lust to misapply,
  Make Satire a Lampoon, and Fiction, Lie.               
  A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
  But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.

RHYME a a *

  Let _Sporus_ tremble--A. What? that thing of silk,
  _Sporus_, that mere white curd of Ass's milk?
  Satire or sense, alas! can _Sporus_ feel?              
  Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?
  P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
  This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;
  Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
  Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:         
  So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
  In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
  Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
  As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.
  Whether in florid impotence he speaks,                 
  And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;
  Or at the ear of _Eve_, familiar Toad,
  Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,
  In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
  Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies.          

RHYME a a a

  His wit all see-saw, between _that_ and _this_,            
  Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,                
  And he himself one vile Antithesis.                        

RHYME a a *

  Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
  The trifling head or the corrupted heart,              
  Fop at the toilet, flatt'rer at the board,
  Now trips a Lady, and now struts a Lord.
  _Eve's_ tempter thus the Rabbins have exprest,
  A Cherub's face, a reptile all the rest;
  Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust;    
  Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.

RHYME a a *

  Not Fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool,
  Not Lucre's madman, nor Ambition's tool,
  Not proud, nor servile;--be one Poet's praise,
  That, if he pleas'd, he pleas'd by manly ways:         
  That Flatt'ry, ev'n to Kings, he held a shame,
  And thought a Lie in verse or prose the same.
  That not in Fancy's maze he wander'd long,
  But stoop'd to Truth, and moraliz'd his song:
  That not for Fame, but Virtue's better end,            
  He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,
  The damning critic, half approving wit,
  The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit;
  Laugh'd at the loss of friends he never had,
  The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;          
  The distant threats of vengeance on his head,
  The blow unfelt, the tear he never shed;
  The tale reviv'd, the lie so oft o'erthrown,
  Th' imputed trash, and dulness not his own;
  The morals blacken'd when the writings scape,          
  The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape;
  Abuse, on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread,
  A friend in exile, or a father, dead;
  The whisper, that to greatness still too near,
  Perhaps, yet vibrates on his SOV'REIGN'S ear:--       
  Welcome for thee, fair _Virtue_! all the past;
  For thee, fair Virtue! welcome ev'n the _last_!
    A. But why insult the poor, affront the great?
  P. A knave's a knave, to me, in ev'ry state:
  Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail,                 
  _Sporus_ at court, or _Japhet_ in a jail
  A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,
  Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire;
  If on a Pillory, or near a Throne,
  He gain his Prince's ear, or lose his own.             
    Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit,
  _Sappho_ can tell you how this man was bit;
  This dreaded Sat'rist _Dennis_ will confess
  Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress:
  So humble, he has knock'd at _Tibbald's_ door,         
  Has drunk with _Cibber_, nay has rhym'd for _Moore_.
  Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?
  Three thousand suns went down on _Welsted's_ lie.
  To please a Mistress one aspers'd his life;
  He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife.            
  Let _Budgel_ charge low _Grubstreet_ on his quill,
  And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his Will;
  Let the two _Curlls_ of Town and Court, abuse
  His father, mother, body, soul, and muse.
  Yet why? that Father held it for a rule,               
  It was a sin to call our neighbour fool:
  That harmless Mother thought no wife a whore:
  Hear this, and spare his family, _James Moore!_
  Unspotted names, and memorable long!
  If there be force in Virtue, or in Song.               

RHYME a a *

  Of gentle blood (part shed in Honour's cause.
  While yet in _Britain_ Honour had applause)
  Each parent sprung--A. What fortune, pray?--P. Their own,
  And better got, than _Bestia's_ from the throne.
  Born to no Pride, inheriting no Strife,                
  Nor marrying Discord in a noble wife,
  Stranger to civil and religious rage,
  The good man walk'd innoxious thro' his age.
  Nor Courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
  Nor dar'd an Oath, nor hazarded a Lie.                 
  Un-learn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art,
  No language, but the language of the heart.
  By Nature honest, by Experience wise,
  Healthy by temp'rance, and by exercise;
  His life, tho' long, to sickness past unknown,         
  His death was instant, and without a groan.
  O grant me, thus to live, and thus to die!
  Who sprung from Kings shall know less joy than I.

RHYME a a *

  O Friend! may each domestic bliss be thine!
  Be no unpleasing Melancholy mine:                      
  Me, let the tender office long engage,
  To rock the cradle of reposing Age,
  With lenient arts extend a Mother's breath,
  Make Languor smile, and smooth the bed of Death,
  Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,           
  And keep a while one parent from the sky!
  On cares like these if length of days attend,
  May Heav'n, to bless those days, preserve my friend,
  Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
  And just as rich as when he serv'd a QUEEN.            
  A. Whether that blessing be deny'd or giv'n,
  Thus far was right, the rest belongs to Heav'n.

TITLE A Quiet Life

RHYME a b a b

  Happy the man whose wish and care
    A few paternal acres bound,
  Content to breathe his native air,
      In his own ground.

RHYME a b a b

  Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,               
    Whose flocks supply him with attire,
  Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
      In winter fire.

RHYME a b a b

  Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
    Hours, days, and years slide soft away,                 
  In health of body, peace of mind,
      Quiet by day,

RHYME a b a b

  Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
    Together mixt; sweet recreation;
  And Innocence, which most does please                     
      With meditation.

RHYME a b a b

  Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
    Thus unlamented let me die,
  Steal from the world, and not a stone
      Tell where I lie.                                     

TITLE Dunciad

RHYME a a *

  In vain, in vain--the all-composing Hour
  Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the Pow'r.
  She comes! she comes! the sable Throne behold
  Of _Night_ primaeval and of _Chaos_ old!
  Before her, _Fancy's_ gilded clouds decay,                   
  And all its varying Rain-bows die away.
  _Wit_ shoots in vain its momentary fires,
  The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.
  As one by one, at dread Medea's strain,
  The sick'ning stars fade off th' ethereal plain;         
  As Argus' eyes by Hermes' wand opprest,
  Clos'd one by one to everlasting rest;
  Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,
  _Art_ after _Art_ goes out, and all is Night.
  See skulking _Truth_ to her old cavern fled,             
  Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head!
  _Philosophy_, that lean'd on Heav'n before,
  Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.
  _Physic_ of _Metaphysic_ begs defence,
  And _Metaphysic_ calls for aid on _Sense_!               
  See _Mystery_ to _Mathematics_ fly!
  In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.
  _Religion_ blushing veils her sacred fires,
  And unawares _Morality_ expires.
  For _public_ Flame, nor _private_, dares to shine;       
  Nor _human_ Spark is left, nor Glimpse _divine_!
  Lo! thy dread Empire, CHAOS! is restor'd;
  Light dies before thy uncreating word;
  Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall,
  And universal Darkness buries All.                       

TITLE Pastorals

RHYME a a *

First in these fields I try the sylvan strains,
Nor blush to sport on Windsor's blissful plains:
Fair Thames, flow gently from thy sacred spring,
While on thy banks Sicilian Muses sing;
Let vernal airs through trembling osiers play,
And Albion's cliffs resound the rural lay.

RHYME a a *

You that, too wise for pride, too good for power,
Enjoy the glory to be great no more,
And, carrying with you all the world can boast,
To all the world illustriously are lost!           
Oh, let my Muse her slender reed inspire,
Till in your native shades you tune the lyre:
So when the nightingale to rest removes,
The thrush may chant to the forsaken groves,
But, charm'd to silence, listens while she sings,
And all the aerial audience clap their wings.

RHYME a a *

Soon as the flocks shook off the nightly dews,
Two swains, whom Love kept wakeful, and the Muse,
Pour'd o'er the whitening vale their fleecy care,
Fresh as the morn, and as the season fair:         
The dawn now blushing on the mountain's side,
Thus Daphnis spoke, and Strephou thus replied.

RHYME a a *

Hear how the birds, on every bloomy spray,
With joyous music wake the dawning day!
Why sit we mute when early linnets sing,
When warbling Philomel salutes the spring?
Why sit we sad, when Phosphor] shines so clear,
And lavish Nature paints the purple year?

RHYME a a *

Sing then, and Damon shall attend the strain,
While yon slow oxen turn the furrow'd plain.       
Here the bright crocus and blue violet glow;
Here western winds on breathing roses blow.
I'll stake yon lamb, that near the fountain plays,
And from the brink his dancing shade surveys.

RHYME a a *

And I this bowl, where wanton ivy twines,
And swelling clusters bend the curling vines:
Four Figures rising from the work appear,
The various Seasons of the rolling year;
And what is that, which binds the radiant sky,
Where twelve fair signs in beauteous order lie?    

RHYME a a *

Then sing by turns, by turns the Muses sing;
Now hawthorns blossom, now the daisies spring;
Now leaves the trees, and flowers adorn the ground:
Begin, the vales shall every note rebound.

RHYME a a *

Inspire me, Phoebus, in my Delia's praise,
With Waller's strains, or Granville's moving lays!
A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand,
That threats a fight, and spurns the rising sand.

RHYME a a *

O Love! for Sylvia let me gain the prize,
And make my tongue victorious as her eyes;         
No lambs or sheep for victims I'll impart,
Thy victim, Love, shall be the shepherd's heart.

RHYME a a *

Me gentle Delia beckons from the plain,
Then hid in shades, eludes her eager swain;
But feigns a laugh, to see me search around,
And by that laugh the willing fair is found.

RHYME a a *

The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green,
She runs, but hopes she does not run unseen;
While a kind glance at her pursuer flies,
How much at variance are her feet and eyes!        

RHYME a a *

O'er golden sands let rich Pactolus flow,
And trees weep amber on the banks of Po;
Blest Thames's shores the brightest beauties yield,
Feed here, my lambs, I'll seek no distant field.

RHYME a a *

Celestial Venus haunts Idalia's groves;
Diana Cynthus, Ceres Hybla loves;
If Windsor-shades delight the matchless maid,
Cynthus and Hybla yield to Windsor-shade.

RHYME a a *

All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers,
Hush'd are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers;
If Delia smile, the flowers begin to spring,
The skies to brighten, and the birds to sing.

RHYME a a *

All nature laughs, the groves are fresh and fair,
The sun's mild lustre warms the vital air;
If Sylvia smiles, new glories gild the shore,
And vanquish'd Nature seems to charm no more.

RHYME a a *

In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love,
At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove,
But Delia always; absent from her sight,
Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.    

RHYME a a *

Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May,
More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day;
Even spring displeases, when she shines not here;
But, blest with her, 'tis spring throughout the year.

RHYME a a *

Say, Daphnis, say, in what glad soil appears,
A wondrous tree] that sacred monarchs bears?
Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize,
And give the conquest to thy Sylvia's eyes.

RHYME a a *

Nay, tell me first, in what more happy fields
The thistle] springs, to which the lily] yields? 
And then a nobler prize I will resign;
For Sylvia, charming Sylvia shall be thine.

RHYME a a *

Cease to contend, for, Daphnis, I decree,
The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee:
Blest swains, whose nymphs in every grace excel;
Blest nymphs, whose swains those graces sing so well!
Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bowers,
A soft retreat from sudden vernal showers;
The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd.
While opening blooms diffuse their sweets around.
For see! the gath'ring flocks to shelter tend,
And from the Pleiads fruitful showers descend.

RHYME a a *

A shepherd's boy (he seeks no better name)
Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame,
Where dancing sunbeams on the waters play'd,
And verdant alders form'd a quivering shade.
Soft as he mourn'd, the streams forgot to flow,
The flocks around a dumb compassion show:
The Naiads wept in every watery bower,
And Jove consented in a silent shower.

RHYME a a *

Accept, O Garth] the Muse's early lays,
That adds this wreath of ivy to thy bays;          
Hear what from love unpractised hearts endure:
From love, the sole disease thou canst not cure.

RHYME a a *

Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
Defence from Phoebus', not from Cupid's beams,
To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I sing,
'The woods shall answer, and their echo ring.'0]
The hills and rocks attend my doleful lay;
Why art thou prouder and more hard than they?
The bleating sheep with my complaints agree,
They parch'd with heat, and I inflamed by thee.    
The sultry Sirius burns the thirsty plains,
While in thy heart eternal winter reigns.

RHYME a a *

Where stray ye, Muses, in what lawn or grove,
While your Alexis pines in hopeless love?
In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides,
Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?
As in the crystal spring I view my face,
Fresh rising blushes paint the watery glass;
But since those graces please thy eyes no more,
I shun the fountains which I sought before.        
Once I was skill'd in every herb that grew,
And every plant that drinks the morning dew;
Ah, wretched shepherd, what avails thy art,
To cure thy lambs, but not to heal thy heart!
Let other swains attend the rural care,
Feed fairer flocks, or richer fleeces shear:
But nigh yon mountain let me tune my lays,
Embrace my love, and bind my brows with bays.
That flute is mine which Colin's tuneful breath
Inspired when living, and bequeath'd in death;     
He said, 'Alexis, take this pipe--the same
That taught the groves my Rosalinda's name:'
But now the reeds shall hang on yonder tree,
For ever silent, since despised by thee.
Oh! were I made by some transforming power
The captive bird that sings within thy bower!
Then might my voice thy listening ears employ,
And I those kisses he receives, enjoy.

RHYME a a *

And yet my numbers please the rural throng,
Rough Satyrs dance, and Pan applauds the song:     
The Nymphs, forsaking every cave and spring,
Their early fruit, and milk-white turtles bring;
Each amorous nymph prefers her gifts in vain.
On you their gifts are all bestow'd again.
For you the swains the fairest flowers design,
And in one garland all their beauties join;
Accept the wreath which you deserve alone,
In whom all beauties are comprised in one.

RHYME a a *

See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
Descending gods have found Elysium here.           
In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray'd,
And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade.
Come, lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When swains from shearing seek their nightly bowers,
When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
And crown'd with corn their thanks to Ceres yield;
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the serpent love abides.
Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
But your Alexis knows no sweets but you.           
Oh, deign to visit our forsaken seats,
The mossy fountains, and the green retreats!
Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade:
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Oh, how I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the Muses, and resound your praise!
Your praise the birds shall chant in every grove,
And winds shall waft it to the Powers above.       
But would you sing, and rival Orpheus' strain,
The wondering forests soon should dance again,
The moving mountains hear the powerful call,
And headlong streams hang listening in their fall!

RHYME a a *

But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat,
The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,
To closer shades the panting flocks remove;
Ye gods! and is there no relief for love?
But soon the sun with milder rays descends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends:         
On me Love's fiercer flames for ever prey,
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.

RHYME a a *

Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays,
Hylas and AEgon sung their rural lays;
This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love.
And Delia's name and Doris' fill'd the grove.
Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring;
Hylas and AEgon's rural lays I sing.

RHYME a a *

Thou, whom the Nine with Plautus' wit inspire,
The art of Terence, and Menander's fire;
Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms,
Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms!   
Oh, skill'd in Nature! see the hearts of swains,
Their artless passions, and their tender pains.

RHYME a a *

Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright,
And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light;
When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan,
Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.

RHYME a a *

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
To Delia's ear the tender notes convey.
As some sad turtle his lost love deplores,
And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores,   
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpitied, and forlorn.

RHYME a a *

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
For her, the feather'd choirs neglect their song:
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her, the lilies hang their heads and die.
Ye flowers that droop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love?       

RHYME a a *

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Cursed be the fields that cause my Delia's stay;
Fade every blossom, wither every tree,
Die every flower, and perish all but she.

RHYME a a *

What have I said? Where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden flowers arise;
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from every thorn.

RHYME a a *

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their evening song,  
The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to labourers faint with pain,
Not showers to larks, or sunshine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy sight to me.
Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds,
Delia, each care and echoing rock rebounds.        
Ye Powers, what pleasing frenzy soothes my mind!
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes!--Now cease, my lay,
And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away!

RHYME a a *

Next AEgon sung, while Windsor groves admired;
Rehearse, ye Muses, what yourselves inspired.

RHYME a a *

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Of perjured Doris, dying I complain:
Here where the mountains, lessening as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies:      
While labouring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the field retreat:
While curling smokes from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.

RHYME a a *

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day:
Oft on the rind I carved her amorous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the vows are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.           

RHYME a a *

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain!
Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain,
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove;
Just gods! shall all things yield returns but love?

RHYME a a *

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
The shepherds cry, 'Thy flocks are left a prey'--
Ah! what avails it me, the flocks to keep,
Who lost my heart--while I preserved my sheep.     
Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caused my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?
What eyes but hers, alas, have power to move?
And is there magic but what dwells in love?

RHYME a a *

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strains!
I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flowery plains.
From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove,
Forsake mankind, and all the world--but Love!
I know thee, Love! on foreign mountains bred,
Wolves gave thee suck, and savage tigers fed.      
Thou wert from Etna's burning entrails torn,
Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born!

RHYME a a *

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay!
Farewell, ye woods; adieu, the light of day!
One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains;
No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains!

RHYME a a *

Thus sung the shepherds till the approach of night,
The skies yet blushing with departing light,
When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen'd every shade.    

TITLE The Fourth Pastoral

RHYME a a *

Thyrsis, the music of that murmuring spring
Is not so mournful as the strains you sing;
Nor rivers winding through the vales below,
So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.
Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,
The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky,
While silent birds forget their tuneful lays,
Oh sing of Daphne's fate, and Daphne's praise!

RHYME a a *

Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,
Their beauty wither'd, and their verdure lost.     
Here shall I try the sweet Alexis' strain,
That call'd the listening Dryads to the plain?
Thames heard the numbers as he flow'd along,
And bade his willows learn the moving song.

RHYME a a *

So may kind rains their vital moisture yield
And swell the future harvest of the field.
Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave,
And said, 'Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!'
Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,
And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.        

RHYME a a *

Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring,
Let nymphs and sylvans cypress garlands bring;
Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide,
And break your bows, as when Adonis died;
And with your golden darts, now useless grown,
Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone:
'Let Nature change, let Heaven and Earth deplore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and Love is now no more!'
'Tis done, and Nature's various charms decay;
See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day!        
Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear,
Their faded honours scatter'd on her bier.
See where, on earth, the flowery glories lie,
With her they flourish'd, and with her they die.
Ah, what avail the beauties Nature wore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and Beauty is no more!

RHYME a a *

For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,
The thirsty heifers shun the gliding flood,
The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan,
In notes more sad than when they sing their own;   
In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies,
Silent, or only to her name replies;
Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore;
Now Daphne's dead, and Pleasure is no more!

RHYME a a *

No grateful dews descend from evening skies,
Nor morning odours from the flowers arise;
No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,
Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield.
The balmy zephyrs, silent since her death,
Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath;            
Th' industrious bees neglect their golden store;
Fair Daphne's dead, and Sweetness is no more!

RHYME a a *

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, listening in mid air, suspend their wings;
No more the birds shall imitate her lays,
Or, hush'd with wonder, hearken from the sprays:
No more the streams their murmurs shall forbear,
A sweeter music than their own to hear;
But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore,
Fair Daphne's dead, and Music is no more!          

RHYME a a *

Her fate is whisper'd by the gentle breeze,
And told in sighs to all the trembling trees;
The trembling trees, in every plain and wood,
Her fate remurmur to the silver flood;
The silver flood, so lately calm, appears
Swell'd with new passion, and o'erflows with tears;
The winds and trees and floods her death deplore,
Daphne, our grief, our glory now no more!

RHYME a a *

But see! where Daphne wondering mounts on high
Above the clouds, above the starry sky!            
Eternal beauties grace the shining scene,
Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!
There while you rest in amaranthine bowers,
Or from those meads select unfading flowers,
Behold us kindly, who your name implore,
Daphne, our goddess, and our grief no more!

RHYME a a *

How all things listen, while thy Muse complains!
Such silence waits on Philomela's strains,
In some still evening, when the whispering breeze
Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees.      
To thee, bright goddess, oft a lamb shall bleed,
If teeming ewes increase my fleecy breed.
While plants their shade, or flowers their odours give,
Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall live!

RHYME a a *

But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews;
Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse;
Sharp Boreas blows, and Nature feels decay,
Time conquers all, and we must Time obey.
Adieu, ye vales, ye mountains, streams, and groves;
Adieu, ye shepherds, rural lays, and loves;        
Adieu, my flocks; farewell, ye sylvan crew;
Daphne, farewell; and all the world, adieu!

TITLE Messiah

RHYME a a *

Ye Nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids,
Delight no more--O Thou my voice inspire
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!

RHYME a a *

Rapt into future times, the bard begun:
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son!
From Jesse's root behold the branch arise,
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies:
The ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move,
And on its top descends the mystic Dove.
Ye Heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour,
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower!
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid,
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.
All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail;
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale;
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend.     
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn!
Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born!
See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring,
With all the incense of the breathing spring!
See lofty Lebanon his head advance,
See nodding forests on the mountains dance:
See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise,
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies!
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers;
'Prepare the way! a God, a God appears:'           
'A God, a God!' the vocal hills reply,
The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity.
Lo, Earth receives him from the bending skies!
Sink down, ye mountains, and ye valleys, rise;
With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay;
Be smooth, ye rocks, ye rapid floods, give way!
The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold:
Hear him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold!
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray,
And on the sightless eyeball pour the day:         
'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear,
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear:
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego,
And leap exulting like the bounding roe.
No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear,
From every face he wipes off every tear.
In adamantine chains shall Death be bound,
And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care,
Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air,         
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs,
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects,
The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms;
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage,
The promised Father of the future age.
No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more;           
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end.
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son
Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun;
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield,
And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field;
The swain in barren deserts with surprise
See lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise;
And start, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear
New falls of water murmuring in his ear.           
On rifted rocks, the dragons' late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods,
Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn,
The spiry fir, and shapely box adorn:
To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed,
And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed.
The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead,
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead;
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet.     
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.
Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes!
See, a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!           
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light and in thy temple bend;
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabean springs!
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See Heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn;      
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: The Light himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fix'd his word, his saving power remains;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own MESSIAH reigns!

TITLE Windsor Forest

RHYME a a *

Thy forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats,
At once the Monarch's and the Muse's seats,
Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan Maids!
Unlock your springs, and open all your shades.
Granville commands; your aid, O Muses, bring!
What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing?

RHYME a a *

The groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long,
Live in description, and look green in song:
These, were my breast inspired with equal flame,
Like them in beauty, should be like in fame.       
Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and water seem to strive again;
Not chaos-like, together crush'd and bruised,
But, as the world, harmoniously confused;
Where order in variety we see,
And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display,
And part admit, and part exclude the day;
As some coy nymph her lover's warm address
Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress.         
There, interspersed in lawns and opening glades,
Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.
Here in full light the russet plains extend:
There, wrapt in clouds the bluish hills ascend.
Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,
And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise,
That crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn,
Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.
Let India boast her plants, nor envy we
The weeping amber or the balmy tree,               
While by our oaks the precious loads are born,
And realms commanded which those trees adorn.
Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,
Though gods assembled grace his towering height.
Than what more humble mountains offer here,
Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.
See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd,
Here blushing Flora paints the enamell'd ground,
Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,
And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand;        
Rich industry sits smiling on the plains,
And peace and plenty tell a Stuart reigns.

RHYME a a *

Not thus the land appear'd in ages past,
A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste,
To savage beasts and savage laws0] a prey,
And kings more furious and severe than they;
Who claim'd the skies, dispeopled air and floods,
The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods:
Cities laid waste, they storm'd the dens and caves,
(For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves).     
What could be free, when lawless beasts obey'd,
And even the elements a tyrant sway'd?
In vain kind seasons swell'd the teeming grain,
Soft showers distill'd, and suns grew warm in vain;
The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields,
And famish'd dies amidst his ripen'd fields.
What wonder, then, a beast or subject slain
Were equal crimes in a despotic reign?
Both doom'd alike, for sportive tyrants bled,
But while the subject starved, the beast was fed.  
Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began,
A mighty hunter, and his prey was man:
Our haughty Norman boasts that barbarous name,
And makes his trembling slaves the royal game.
The fields are ravish'd from the industrious swains,
From men their cities, and from gods their fanes:
The levell'd towns with weeds lie cover'd o'er;
The hollow winds through naked temples roar;
Round broken columns clasping ivy twined;
O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind;       
The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires,
And savage howlings fill the sacred choirs.
Awed by his Nobles, by his Commons cursed,
The oppressor ruled tyrannic where he durst,
Stretch'd o'er the poor and Church his iron rod,
And served alike his vassals and his God.
Whom even the Saxon spared, and bloody Dane,
The wanton victims of his sport remain.
But see, the man who spacious regions gave
A waste for beasts, himself denied a grave!     
Stretch'd on the lawn, his second hope survey,
At once the chaser, and at once the prey:
Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart,
Bleeds in the forest like a wounded hart.
Succeeding monarchs heard the subjects' cries,
Nor saw displeased the peaceful cottage rise.
Then gathering flocks on unknown mountains fed,
O'er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread,
The forests wonder'd at the unusual grain,
And secret transport touch'd the conscious swain.  
Fair Liberty, Britannia's goddess, rears
Her cheerful head, and leads the golden years.

RHYME a a *

Ye vigorous swains! while youth ferments your blood,
And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood,
Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset,
Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net.
When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds,
And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds,
Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds,
Panting with hope, he tries the furrow'd grounds;
But when the tainted gales the game betray,
Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey:
Secure they trust the unfaithful field beset,
Till hovering o'er 'em sweeps the swelling net.
Thus (if small things we may with great compare)
When Albion sends her eager sons to war,
Some thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest,
Near, and more near, the closing lines invest;
Sudden they seize the amazed, defenceless prize,
And high in air Britannia's standard flies.    

RHYME a a *

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
Ah! what avail his glossy, varying dyes,
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,
His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?

RHYME a a *

Nor yet, when moist Arcturus clouds the sky,
The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny.
To plains with well-breath'd beagles we repair,
And trace the mazes of the circling hare;
(Beasts, urged by us, their fellow-beasts pursue,
And learn of man each other to undo.)
With slaughtering gun the unwearied fowler roves,
When frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves;
Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade,
And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade.
He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye;
Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky;
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath,
The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death:
Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare,
They fall, and leave their little lives in air.

RHYME a a *

In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade,
Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead,
The patient fisher takes his silent stand,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand:
With looks unmoved, he hopes the scaly breed,
And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed.   
Our plenteous streams a various race supply,
The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye,
The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd,
The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold,
Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains,
And pikes, the tyrants of the watery plains.

RHYME a a *

Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery car:
The youth rush eager to the sylvan war,
Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround,
Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound.
The impatient courser pants in every vein,
And pawing, seems to beat the distant plain:
Hills, vales, and floods appear already cross'd,
And ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost.
See the bold youth strain up the threatening steep,
Rush through the thickets, down the valleys sweep,
Hang o'er their coursers' heads with eager speed,
And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed.
Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain,
The immortal huntress, and her virgin-train;   
Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen
As bright a goddess, and as chaste a queen,
Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign,
The earth's fair light, and empress of the main.

RHYME a a *

Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana stray'd,
And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor shade;
Here was she seen o'er airy wastes to rove,
Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove;
Here, arm'd with silver bows, in early dawn,
Her buskin'd virgins traced the dewy lawn.     

RHYME a a *

Above the rest a rural nymph was famed,
Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona named;
(Lodona's fate, in long oblivion cast,
The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last).
Scarce could the goddess from her nymph be known,
But by the crescent and the golden zone.
She scorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care;
A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair;
A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds,
And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.
It chanced, as eager of the chase, the maid
Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd,    
Pan saw and loved, and, burning with desire,
Pursued her flight, her flight increased his fire.
Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
When through the clouds he drives the trembling doves;
As from the god she flew with furious pace,
Or as the god, more furious, urged the chase.
Now fainting, sinking, pale the nymph appears;
Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears;
And now his shadow reach'd her as she run,
His shadow lengthen'd by the setting sun;
And now his shorter breath, with sultry air,
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames she calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injured maid.
Faint, breathless, thus she pray'd, nor pray'd in vain:
'Ah, Cynthia! ah--though banish'd from thy train,
Let me, oh! let me, to the shades repair,
My native shades--there weep, and murmur there.' 
She said, and melting as in tears she lay,
In a soft, silver stream dissolved away.
The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs, and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the forest where she ranged before.
In her chaste current oft the goddess laves,
And with celestial tears augments the waves.
Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies
The headlong mountains and the downward skies, 
The watery landscape of the pendent woods,
And absent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forests paint the waves with green,
Through the fair scene roll slow the lingering streams,
Then foaming pour along, and rush into the Thames.

RHYME a a *

Thou, too, great Father of the British floods!
With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods;
Where towering oaks their growing honours rear,
And future navies on thy shores appear.        
Not Neptune's self from all her streams receives
A wealthier tribute, than to thine he gives.
No seas so rich, so gay no banks appear,
No lake so gentle, and no spring so clear.
Nor Po so swells the fabling poet's lays,
While led along the skies his current strays,
As thine, which visits Windsor's famed abodes,
To grace the mansion of our earthly gods:
Nor all his stars above a lustre show,
Like the bright beauties on thy banks below;   
Where Jove, subdued by mortal passion still,
Might change Olympus for a nobler hill.

RHYME a a *

Happy the man whom this bright court approves,
His sovereign favours, and his country loves:
Happy next him who to these shades retires,
Whom Nature charms, and whom the Muse inspires:
Whom humbler joys of home-felt quiet please,
Successive study, exercise, and ease.
He gathers health from herbs the forest yields,
And of their fragrant physic spoils the fields:
With chemic art exalts the mineral powers,
And draws the aromatic souls of flowers:
Now marks the course of rolling orbs on high;
O'er figured worlds now travels with his eye;
Of ancient writ unlocks the learned store,
Consults the dead, and lives past ages o'er:
Or wandering thoughtful in the silent wood,
Attends the duties of the wise and good,
To observe a mean, be to himself a friend,
To follow nature, and regard his end;          
Or looks on Heaven with more than mortal eyes,
Bids his free soul expatiate in the skies,
Amid her kindred stars familiar roam,
Survey the region, and confess her home!
Such was the life great Scipio once admired,
Thus Atticus, and Trumbull thus retired.

RHYME a a *

Ye sacred Nine! that all my soul possess,
Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless,
Bear me, oh, bear me to sequester'd scenes,
The bowery mazes, and surrounding greens:      
To Thames's banks which fragrant breezes fill,
Or where ye Muses sport on Cooper's Hill.
(On Cooper's Hill eternal wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow.)
I seem through consecrated walks to rove,
I hear soft music die along the grove:
Led by the sound, I roam from shade to shade,
By godlike poets venerable made:
Here his first lays majestic Denham sung;
There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's tongue.
Oh early lost! what tears the river shed,
When the sad pomp along his banks was led!
His drooping swans on every note expire,
And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre.

RHYME a a *

Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice,
No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice;
Who now shall charm the shades, where Cowley strung
His living harp, and lofty Denham sung?
But hark! the groves rejoice, the forest rings!
Are these revived? or is it Granville sings?   
'Tis yours, my lord, to bless our soft retreats,
And call the Muses to their ancient seats;
To paint anew the flowery sylvan scenes,
To crown the forest with immortal greens,
Make Windsor hills in lofty numbers rise,
And lift her turrets nearer to the skies;
To sing those honours you deserve to wear,
And add new lustre to her silver star.

RHYME a a *

Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage,
Surrey, the Granville of a former age:         
Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance,
Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance:
In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre,
To the same notes, of love and soft desire:
Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow,
Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now.

RHYME a a *

Oh, wouldst thou sing what heroes Windsor bore,
What kings first breathed upon her winding shore,
Or raise old warriors, whose adored remains
In weeping vaults her hallow'd earth contains! 
With Edward's acts adorn the shining page,
Stretch his long triumphs down through every age,
Draw monarchs chain'd, and Cressy's glorious field,
The lilies blazing on the regal shield:
Then, from her roofs when Verrio's colours fall,
And leave inanimate the naked wall,
Still in thy song should vanquish'd France appear,
And bleed for ever under Britain's spear.

RHYME a a *

Let softer strains ill-fated Henry mourn,
And palms eternal flourish round his urn.      
Here o'er the martyr-king the marble weeps,
And, fast beside him, once-fear'd Edward sleeps.
Whom not the extended Albion could contain,
From old Belerium to the northern main,
The grave unites; where ev'n the great find rest,
And blended lie the oppressor and the oppress'd!

RHYME a a *

Make sacred Charles' tomb for ever known,
(Obscure the place, and uninscribed the stone)
Oh fact accursed! what tears has Albion shed,
Heavens, what new wounds! and how her old have bled!
She saw her sons with purple deaths expire,
Her sacred domes involved in rolling fire,
A dreadful series of intestine wars,
Inglorious triumphs and dishonest scars.
At length great Anna said--'Let discord cease!'
She said, the world obey'd, and all was peace!

RHYME a a *

In that blest moment, from his oozy bed
Old Father Thames advanced his reverend head;
His tresses dropp'd with dews, and o'er the stream
His shining horns diffused a golden gleam:     
Graved on his urn appear'd the moon, that guides
His swelling waters, and alternate tides;
The figured streams in waves of silver roll'd,
And on their banks Augusta rose in gold.
Around his throne the sea-born brothers stood,
Who swell with tributary urns his flood;
First the famed authors of his ancient name,
The winding Isis and the fruitful Thame:
The Kennet swift, for silver eels renown'd;
The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown'd;  
Cole, whose dark streams his flowery islands lave;
And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave;
The blue, transparent Vandalis appears;
The gulfy Lee his sedgy tresses rears;
And sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood;
And silent Darent, stain'd with Danish blood.

RHYME a a *

High in the midst, upon his urn reclined,
(His sea-green mantle waving with the wind)
The god appear'd: he turn'd his azure eyes
Where Windsor-domes and pompous turrets rise;  
Then bow'd and spoke; the winds forget to roar,
And the hush'd waves glide softly to the shore.

RHYME a a *

Hail, sacred Peace! hail, long-expected days,
That Thames's glory to the stars shall raise!
Though Tiber's streams immortal Rome behold,
Though foaming Hermus swells with tides of gold,
From heaven itself though sevenfold Nilus flows,
And harvests on a hundred realms bestows;
These now no more shall be the Muse's themes,
Lost in my fame, as in the sea their streams.  
Let Volga's banks with iron squadrons shine,
And groves of lances glitter on the Rhine,
Let barbarous Ganges arm a servile train;
Be mine the blessings of a peaceful reign.
No more my sons shall dye with British blood
Red Iber's sands, or Ister's foaming flood:
Safe on my shore each unmolested swain
Shall tend the flocks, or reap the bearded grain;
The shady empire shall retain no trace
Of war or blood, but in the sylvan chase;      
The trumpet sleep, while cheerful horns are blown,
And arms employ'd on birds and beasts alone.
Behold! the ascending villas on my side,
Project long shadows o'er the crystal tide,
Behold! Augusta's glittering spires increase,
And temples rise, the beauteous works of Peace.
I see, I see, where two fair cities bend
Their ample bow, a new Whitehall ascend!
There mighty nations shall inquire their doom,
The world's great oracle in times to come;     
There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen
Once more to bend before a British queen.

RHYME a a *

Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their woods,
And half thy forests rush into the floods,
Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display,
To the bright regions of the rising day;
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole;
Or under southern skies exalt their sails,
Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales!    
For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow,
The pearly shell its lucid globe infold,
And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold.
The time shall come when, free as seas or wind,
Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind,
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
And seas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side,
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire!
O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore,
Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves,
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold.         
Exiled by thee from earth to deepest hell,
In brazen bonds, shall barbarous Discord dwell;
Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care,
And mad Ambition shall attend her there:
There purple Vengeance bathed in gore retires,
Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires:
There hateful Envy her own snakes shall feel,
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel:
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain.   

RHYME a a *

Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays
Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days:
The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite,
And bring the scenes of opening fate to light.
My humble Muse, in unambitious strains,
Paints the green forests and the flowery plains,
Where Peace descending bids her olives spring,
And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing.
Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleased in the silent shade with empty praise; 
Enough for me, that to the listening swains
First in these fields I sung the sylvan strains.

TITLE Ode on St Cecilia's Day

RHYME a b a b

1 Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;
    The breathing instruments inspire,
  Wake into voice each silent string,
    And sweep the sounding lyre;

RHYME a a b b b c c d d e e f f g h h g

    In a sadly-pleasing strain
    Let the warbling lute complain:
      Let the loud trumpet sound,
      Till the roofs all around
      The shrill echoes rebound:
  While in more lengthen'd notes and slow,
  The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
      Hark! the numbers soft and clear,
      Gently steal upon the ear;
      Now louder, and yet louder rise,
      And fill with spreading sounds the skies;
  Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
  In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
      Till, by degrees, remote and small,
        The strains decay,
        And melt away,
      In a dying, dying fall.

RHYME a a *

2 By Music, minds an equal temper know,
  Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
  If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
  Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;
    Or, when the soul is press'd with cares,
    Exalts her in enlivening airs.
  Warriors she fires with animated sounds;
  Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds;
      Melancholy lifts her head,
      Morpheus rouses from his bed,
      Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
      Listening Envy drops her snakes;
  Intestine war no more our passions wage,
  And giddy factions hear away their rage.

RHYME a a *

3 But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
  How martial music every bosom warms!

RHYME a b a b c c d e e c d

  So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
  High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain,
      While Argo saw her kindred trees
      Descend from Pelion to the main.
      Transported demigods stood round,
    And men grew heroes at the sound,
    Inflamed with glory's charms:
  Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
  And half unsheath'd the shining blade:
  And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound,
  'To arms, to arms, to arms!'

RHYME a a *

4 But when through all the infernal bounds,
  Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,
      Love, strong as death, the poet led
      To the pale nations of the dead,
  What sounds were heard,
  What scenes appear'd,

RHYME a b b c c d d a

    O'er all the dreary coasts!
        Dreadful gleams,
        Dismal screams,
 Fires that glow,
        Shrieks of woe,
        Sullen moans,
        Hollow groans,
      And cries of tortured ghosts!
 
RHYME a a b c c b d d

 But, hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
  And see! the tortured ghosts respire,
          See, shady forms advance!
    Thy stone, O Sisyphus! stands still,
    Ixion rests upon his wheel.
          And the pale spectres dance!
  The Furies sink upon their iron beds,
  And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.

RHYME a a b c c b d d e e f f

5    'By the streams that ever flow,
      By the fragrant winds that blow
        O'er the Elysian flowers;
      By those happy souls who dwell
      In yellow meads of asphodel,
        Or amaranthine bowers;
      By the hero's armed shades,
      Glittering through the gloomy glades;
      By the youths that died for love,
      Wandering in the myrtle grove,
  Restore, restore Eurydice to life:
  Oh take the husband, or return the wife!'

RHYME a b a b c c d e e d
   
   He sung, and hell consented
        To hear the poet's prayer:
      Stern Proserpine relented,
        And gave him back the fair.
          Thus song could prevail
          O'er death and o'er hell,
  A conquest how hard and how glorious!
      Though fate had fast bound her
      With Styx nine times round her,
  Yet Music and Love were victorious.

RHYME a a *

6 But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes:
  Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
  How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
  No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
    Now under hanging mountains,
    Beside the falls of fountains,
    Or where Hebrus wanders,
    Rolling in meanders,

RHYME a a a       

 All alone,
        Unheard, unknown,
        He makes his moan;

RHYME a a *

        And calls her ghost,
      For ever, ever, ever lost!
      Now with Furies surrounded,
      Despairing, confounded,
      He trembles, he glows,
      Amidst Rhodope's snows:
    
RHYME a a a

See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies;
    Hark! Haemus resounds with the bacchanals' cries--
                       Ah see, he dies!

RHYME a a b b a  

  Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,
    Eurydice still trembled on his tongue,
          Eurydice the woods,
          Eurydice the floods,
  Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.

RHYME a a *

7     Music the fiercest grief can charm,
      And Fate's severest rage disarm:
      Music can soften pain to ease,
      And make despair and madness please:
      Our joys below it can improve,
      And antedate the bliss above.
    This the divine Cecilia found,
  And to her Maker's praise confined the sound.

RHYME a b a a b

  When the full organ joins the tuneful choir,
    The immortal powers incline their ear;
  Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
  While solemn airs improve the sacred fire;
    And angels lean from heaven to hear.

RHYME a b a b

  Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
  To bright Cecilia greater power is given;
    His numbers raised a shade from hell,
      Hers lift the soul to heaven.

TITLE Chorus of Athenians

RHYME a a *

Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;
Groves, where immortal sages taught:
    Where heavenly visions Plato fired,
    And Epicurus' lay inspired;
    In vain your guiltless laurels stood
    Unspotted long with human blood.
War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.

RHYME a a *

    O heaven-born sisters! source of art!
    Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;
    Who lead fair Virtue's train along,
    Moral truth, and mystic song!
    To what new clime, what distant sky,
    Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?
Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore,
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

RHYME a a *

    When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
    When wild barbarians spurn her dust;
    Perhaps even Britain's utmost shore
    Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore,
    See Arts her savage sons control,
    And Athens rising near the pole!
Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from the land.

RHYME a a *

    Ye gods! what justice rules the ball?
    Freedom and Arts together fall;
    Fools grant whate'er Ambition craves,
    And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
    Oh, cursed effects of civil hate,
    In every age, in every state!
Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

O tyrant Love! hast thou possess'd
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,
And arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
  Love, soft intruder, enters here,
  But entering learns to be sincere.
  Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
  And Brutus tenderly reproves.

RHYME a b a b

    Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,
      Which Nature has impress'd
    Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
      The mild and generous breast?

RHYME a a *

  Love's purer flames the gods approve;
  The gods and Brutus bend to love:
  Brutus for absent Portia sighs,
And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loose love? a transient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of lust,
A vapour fed from wild desire,
A wandering, self-consuming fire.

 RHYME a b a b

  But Hymen's kinder flames unite,
    And burn for ever one;
  Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
    Productive as the sun.

RHYME a a *

  Oh source of every social tie,
  United wish, and mutual joy!
  What various joys on one attend,
As son, as father, brother, husband, friend!
  Whether his hoary sire he spies,
  While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
  Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
  Or views his smiling progeny;

RHYME a b a b

    What tender passions take their turns,
      What home-felt raptures move?
    His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
      With reverence, hope, and love.

RHYME a a a b c c c b

Hence, guilty joys, distastes, surmises,
Hence, false tears, deceits, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises,
  Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine!
Purest love's unwasting treasure,
Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;
  Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

Begone, ye critics, and restrain your spite,
Codrus writes on, and will for ever write.
The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone,
As clocks run fastest when most lead is on;
What though no bees around your cradle flew,
Nor on your lips distill'd the golden dew,
Yet have we oft discover'd in their stead
A swarm of drones that buzz'd about your head.
When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre,
Attentive blocks stand round you and admire.
Wit pass'd through thee no longer is the same,
As meat digested takes a different name,
But sense must sure thy safest plunder be,
Since no reprisals can be made on thee.
Thus thou may'st rise, and in thy daring flight
(Though ne'er so weighty) reach a wondrous height.
So, forced from engines, lead itself can fly,
And ponderous slugs move nimbly through the sky.
Sure Bavius copied Maevius to the full,
And Chaerilus taught Codrus to be dull;
Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o'er
This needless labour; and contend no more
To prove a _dull succession_ to be true,
Since 'tis enough we find it so in you.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

1   Vital spark of heavenly flame!
    Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
    Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
    Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
  Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
  And let me languish into life!

RHYME a a *

2   Hark! they whisper; angels say,
    'Sister Spirit, come away!'
    What is this absorbs me quite?
    Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
  Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
  Tell me, my soul, can this be Death?

RHYME a a b c c b

3   The world recedes; it disappears!
    Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
    With sounds seraphic ring!
    Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
  O Grave! where is thy victory?
  O Death! where is thy sting?

TITLE

RHYME a a *

What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?       

RHYME a a *

Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull, sullen prisoners in the body's cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;           
Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.

RHYME a a *

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And separate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

RHYME a a *

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!        
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long funerals blacken all the way)      
'Lo, these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,
And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.'
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

RHYME a a *

What can atone (O ever-injured Shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier, 
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What, though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What, though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?              
What, though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dress'd,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.

RHYME a a *

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.    
How loved, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

RHYME a a *

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;  
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!

TITLE

RHYME a a *

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream through every age;
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;            
In pitying love, we but our weakness show,
And wild ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.

RHYME a a *

Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,   
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies every deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?

RHYME a a *

Even when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;      
As her dead father's reverend image pass'd,
The pomp was darken'd and the day o'ercast;
The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye;
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome adored,
And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword.

RHYME a a *

Britons, attend: be worth like this approved,
And show you have the virtue to be moved.
With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued;  
Your scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation, and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage;
Such plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

In that soft season, when descending showers
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flowers;
When opening buds salute the welcome day,
And earth relenting feels the genial ray;
As balmy sleep had charm'd my cares to rest,
And love itself was banish'd from my breast,
(What time the morn mysterious visions brings,
While purer slumbers spread their golden wings),
A train of phantoms in wild order rose,
And, join'd, this intellectual scene compose.      

RHYME a a *

I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and skies;
The whole creation open to my eyes:
In air self-balanced hung the globe below,
Where mountains rise and circling oceans flow;
Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were seen,
There towery cities, and the forests green:
Here sailing ships delight the wandering eyes:
There trees, and intermingled temples rise;
Now a clear sun the shining scene displays,
The transient landscape now in clouds decays.      

RHYME a a *

O'er the wide prospect, as I gazed around,
Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound,
Like broken thunders that at distance roar,
Or billows murmuring on the hollow shore:
Then gazing up, a glorious pile beheld,
Whose towering summit ambient clouds conceal'd.
High on a rock of ice the structure lay,
Steep its ascent, and slippery was the way;
The wondrous rock like Parian marble shone,
And seem'd, to distant sight, of solid stone.      

RHYME a a *

Inscriptions here of various names I view'd,
The greater part by hostile time subdued;
Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past,
And poets once had promised they should last.
Some fresh engraved appear'd of wits renown'd;
I look'd again, nor could their trace be found.
Critics I saw, that other names deface,
And fix their own, with labour, in their place:
Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd,
Or disappear'd, and left the first behind.         
Nor was the work impair'd by storms alone,
But felt the approaches of too warm a sun;

RHYME a a *

For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays
Not more by envy than excess of praise.
Yet part no injuries of heaven could feel,
Like crystal faithful to the graving steel:
The rock's high summit, in the temple's shade,
Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade.
Their names inscribed unnumber'd ages past
From time's first birth, with time itself shall last;
These ever new, nor subject to decays,
Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days.

RHYME a a *

So Zembla's rocks (the beauteous work of frost)
Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast;
Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away,
And on the impassive ice the lightnings play;
Eternal snows the growing mass supply,
Till the bright mountains prop the incumbent sky:
As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears,
The gather'd winter of a thousand years.           

RHYME a a *

On this foundation Fame's high temple stands.
Stupendous pile! not rear'd by mortal hands.
Whate'er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld,
Or elder Babylon, its frame excell'd.
Four faces had the dome, and every face
Of various structure, but of equal grace;

RHYME a a *

Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high,
Salute the different quarters of the sky.
Here fabled chiefs in darker ages born,
Or worthies old, whom arms or arts adorn,          
Who cities raised, or tamed a monstrous race,
The walls in venerable order grace;
Heroes in animated marble frown,
And legislators seem to think in stone.

RHYME a a *

Westward, a sumptuous frontispiece appear'd,
On Doric pillars of white marble rear'd,
Crown'd with an architrave of antique mould,
And sculpture rising on the roughen'd gold.
In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld,
And Perseus dreadful with Minerva's shield:        
There great Alcides stooping with his toil,
Rests on his club, and holds th' Hesperian spoil.
Here Orpheus sings; trees, moving to the sound,
Start from their roots, and form a shade around;

RHYME a a *

Amphion there the loud creating lyre
Strikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire!
Cythaeron's echoes answer to his call,
And half the mountain rolls into a wall:
There might you see the lengthening spires ascend,
The domes swell up, the widening arches bend,      
The growing towers, like exhalations rise,
And the huge columns heave into the skies.

RHYME a a *

The eastern front was glorious to behold,
With diamond flaming, and barbaric gold.
There Ninus shone, who spread the Assyrian fame,
And the great founder of the Persian name:
There in long robes the royal Magi stand,
Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand,
The sage Chaldeans robed in white appear'd,
And Brachmans, deep in desert woods revered.   

RHYME a a *

These stopp'd the moon, and call'd the unbodied shades
To midnight banquets in the glimmering glades;
Made visionary fabrics round them rise,
And airy spectres skim before their eyes;
Of talismans and sigils knew the power,
And careful watch'd the planetary hour.
Superior, and alone, Confucius stood,
Who taught that useful science--to be good.

RHYME a a *

But on the south, a long majestic race
Of Egypt's priests the gilded niches grace,    
Who measured earth, described the starry spheres,
And traced the long records of lunar years.
High on his car Sesostris struck my view,
Whom sceptred slaves in golden harness drew:
His hands a bow and pointed javelin hold;
His giant limbs are arm'd in scales of gold.
Between the statues obelisks were placed,
And the learn'd walls with hieroglyphics graced.

RHYME a a *

Of Gothic structure was the northern side,
O'erwrought with ornaments of barbarous pride. 
There huge Colosses rose, with trophies crown'd,
And Runic characters were graved around.
There sat Zamolxis with erected eyes,
And Odin here in mimic trances dies.
There on rude iron columns, smear'd with blood,
The horrid forms of Seythian heroes stood,

RHYME a a *

Druids and Bards (their once loud harps unstrung)
And youths that died to be by poets sung.
These, and a thousand more of doubtful fame,
To whom old fables gave a lasting name,        
In ranks adorn'd the temple's outward face;
The wall, in lustre and effect like glass,
Which o'er each object casting various dyes,
Enlarges some, and others multiplies:
Nor void of emblem was the mystic wall,
For thus romantic Fame increases all.

RHYME a a *

The temple shakes, the sounding gates unfold
Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted gold:
Raised on a thousand pillars, wreathed around
With laurel foliage, and with eagles crown'd:  
Of bright, transparent beryl were the walls,
The friezes gold, and gold the capitals:
As heaven with stars, the roof with jewels glows,
And ever-living lamps depend in rows.
Full in the passage of each spacious gate,
The sage historians in white garments wait;

RHYME a a *

Graved o'er their seats the form of Time was found,
His scythe reversed, and both his pinions bound.
Within stood heroes, who through loud alarms
In bloody fields pursued renown in arms.       
High on a throne, with trophies charged, I view'd
The youth that all things but himself subdued;
His feet on sceptres and tiaras trod,
And his horn'd head belied the Libyan god.
There Caesar, graced with both Minervas, shone;
Caesar, the world's great master, and his own;
Unmoved, superior still in every state,
And scarce detested in his country's fate.

RHYME a a *

But chief were those, who not for empire fought,
But with their toils their people's safety bought:
High o'er the rest Epaminondas stood;
Timoleon, glorious in his brother's blood;
Bold Scipio, saviour of the Roman state;
Great in his triumphs, in retirement great;

RHYME a a a

And wise Aurelius, in whose well-taught mind,
With boundless power unbounded virtue join'd,
His own strict judge, and patron of mankind.

RHYME a a *

Much-suffering heroes next their honours claim,
Those of less noisy, and less guilty fame,
Fair Virtue's silent train: supreme of these   
Here ever shines the godlike Socrates:
He whom ungrateful Athens could expel,
At all times just, but when he sign'd the shell:
Here his abode the martyr'd Phocion claims,
With Agis, not the last of Spartan names:
Unconquer'd Cato shows the wound he tore,
And Brutus his ill Genius meets no more.

RHYME a a *

But in the centre of the hallow'd choir,
Six pompous columns o'er the rest aspire;
Around the shrine itself of Fame they stand,   
Hold the chief honours, and the fane command.
High on the first, the mighty Homer shone;
Eternal adamant composed his throne;
Father of verse! in holy fillets dress'd,
His silver beard waved gently o'er his breast;
Though blind, a boldness in his looks appears;
In years he seem'd, but not impair'd by years.
The wars of Troy were round the pillar seen:
Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian Queen;

RHYME a a *

Here Hector, glorious from Patroclus' fall,    
Here dragg'd in triumph round the Trojan wall:
Motion and life did every part inspire,
Bold was the work, and proved the master's fire;
A strong expression most he seem'd to affect,
And here and there disclosed a brave neglect.

RHYME a a *

A golden column next in rank appear'd,
On which a shrine of purest gold was rear'd;
Finish'd the whole, and labour'd every part,
With patient touches of unwearied art:
The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate,       
Composed his posture, and his look sedate;
On Homer still he fix'd a reverend eye,
Great without pride, in modest majesty.

RHYME a a *

In living sculpture on the sides were spread
The Latian wars, and haughty Turnus dead;
Eliza stretch'd upon the funeral pyre,
AEneas bending with his aged sire:
Troy flamed in burning gold, and o'er the throne,
ARMS AND THE MAN in golden cyphers shone.

RHYME a a *

Four swans sustain a car of silver bright,     
With heads advanced, and pinions stretch'd for flight:
Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode,
And seem'd to labour with the inspiring god.
Across the harp a careless hand he flings,
And boldly sinks into the sounding strings.

RHYME a a *

The figured games of Greece the column grace,
Neptune and Jove survey the rapid race.
The youths hang o'er their chariots as they run;
The fiery steeds seem starting from the stone;
The champions in distorted postures threat;    
And all appear'd irregularly great.

RHYME a a *

Here happy Horace tuned the Ausonian lyre
To sweeter sounds, and temper'd Pindar's fire:
Pleased with Alcaeus' manly rage t' infuse
The softer spirit of the Sapphic Muse.
The polish'd pillar different sculptures grace;
A work outlasting monumental brass.
Here smiling Loves and Bacchanals appear,
The Julian star, and great Augustus here;
The doves that round the infant poet spread    
Myrtles and bays, hung hovering o'er his head.

RHYME a a *

Here in a shrine that cast a dazzling light,
Sat, fix'd in thought, the mighty Stagyrite;
His sacred head a radiant zodiac crown'd,
And various animals his side surround;
His piercing eyes, erect, appear to view
Superior worlds, and look all Nature through.

RHYME a a *

With equal rays immortal Tully shone,
The Roman rostra deck'd the Consul's throne:
Gathering his flowing robe, he seem'd to stand 
In act to speak, and graceful stretch'd his hand.
Behind, Rome's Genius waits with civic crowns,
And the great Father of his country owns.

RHYME a a *

These massy columns in a circle rise,
O'er which a pompous dome invades the skies:
Scarce to the top I stretch'd my aching sight,
So large it spread, and swell'd to such a height.
Full in the midst, proud Fame's imperial seat
With jewels blazed, magnificently great;
The vivid emeralds there revive the eye,       
The flaming rubies show their sanguine dye,
Bright azure rays from lively sapphires stream,
And lucid amber casts a golden gleam.
With various-colour'd light the pavement shone,
And all on fire appear'd the glowing throne;
The dome's high arch reflects the mingled blaze,
And forms a rainbow of alternate rays.
When on the goddess first I cast my sight,
Scarce seem'd her stature of a cubit's height;

RHYME a a *

But swell'd to larger size, the more I gazed,  
Till to the roof her towering front she raised.
With her, the temple every moment grew,
And ampler vistas open'd to my view:
Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend,
And arches widen, and long aisles extend.
Such was her form as ancient bards have told,
Wings raise her arms, and wings her feet infold;
A thousand busy tongues the goddess bears,
A thousand open eyes, and thousand listening ears.

RHYME a a *

Beneath, in order ranged, the tuneful Nine     
(Her virgin handmaids) still attend the shrine:
With eyes on Fame for ever fix'd, they sing;
For Fame they raise the voice, and tune the string;
With Time's first birth began the heavenly lays,
And last, eternal, through the length of days.

RHYME a a *

Around these wonders as I cast a look,
The trumpet sounded, and the temple shook,
And all the nations, summon'd at the call,
From different quarters fill the crowded hall:
Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard 
In various garbs promiscuous throngs appear'd;
Thick as the bees, that with the spring renew
Their flowery toils, and sip the fragrant dew,
When the wing'd colonies first tempt the sky,
O'er dusky fields and shaded waters fly,
Or settling, seize the sweets the blossoms yield,
And a low murmur runs along the field.
Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend,
And all degrees before the goddess bend;

RHYME a a *

The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage, 
And boasting youth, and narrative old age.
Their pleas were different, their request the same:
For good and bad alike are fond of Fame.
Some she disgraced, and some with honours crown'd;
Unlike successes equal merits found.
Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns,
And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.

RHYME a a *

First at the shrine the learned world appear,
And to the goddess thus prefer their prayer:
'Long have we sought to instruct and please mankind,
With studies pale, with midnight vigils blind;
But thank'd by few, rewarded yet by none,
We here appeal to thy superior throne;
On wit and learning the just prize bestow,
For fame is all we must expect below.'

RHYME a a *

The goddess heard, and bade the Muses raise
The golden trumpet of eternal praise:
From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound,
That fills the circuit of the world around;
Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud;  
The notes at first were rather sweet than loud:
By just degrees they every moment rise,
Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies.
At every breath were balmy odours shed,
Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread;
Less fragrant scents the unfolding rose exhales,
Or spices breathing in Arabian gales.

RHYME a a *

Next these, the good and just, an awful train,
Thus on their knees address the sacred fane:
'Since living virtue is with envy cursed,      
And the best men are treated like the worst,
Do thou, just goddess, call our merits forth,
And give each deed the exact intrinsic worth.'

RHYME a a *

'Not with bare justice shall your act be crown'd,'
(Said Fame), 'but high above desert renown'd:
Let fuller notes the applauding world amaze,
And the loud clarion labour in your praise.'

RHYME a a *

This band dismiss'd, behold, another crowd
Preferr'd the same request, and lowly bow'd;
The constant tenor of whose well-spent days    
No less deserved a just return of praise.
But straight the direful trump of Slander sounds;
Through the big dome the doubling thunder bounds;
Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies,
The dire report through every region flies,

RHYME a a *

In every ear incessant rumours rung,
And gathering scandals grew on every tongue.
From the black trumpet's rusty concave broke
Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke:
The poisonous vapour blots the purple skies,   
And withers all before it as it flies.

RHYME a a *

A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore,
And proud defiance in their looks they bore:
'For thee' (they cried), 'amidst alarms and strife,
We sail'd in tempests down the stream of life;
For thee whole nations fill'd with flames and blood,
And swam to empire through the purple flood.
Those ills we dared, thy inspiration own,
What virtue seem'd, was done for thee alone.'

RHYME a a *

'Ambitious fools!' (the Queen replied, and frown'd)
'Be all your acts in dark oblivion drown'd;
There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone,
Your statues moulder'd, and your names unknown!'
A sudden cloud straight snatch'd them from my sight,
And each majestic phantom sunk in night.

RHYME a a *

Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen;
Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien.
'Great idol of mankind! we neither claim
The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame;
But safe in deserts from the applause of men,  
Would die unheard of, as we lived unseen;
'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight
Those acts of goodness which themselves requite.
Oh let us still the secret joy partake,
To follow virtue even for virtue's sake.'

RHYME a a *

'And live there men, who slight immortal Fame?
Who then with incense shall adore our name?
But, mortals! know, 'tis still our greatest pride
To blaze those virtues which the good would hide.
Rise, Muses, rise! add all your tuneful breath;
These must not sleep in darkness and in death.'
She said: in air the trembling music floats,
And on the winds triumphant swell the notes;
So soft, though high, so loud, and yet so clear,
Even listening angels lean'd from heaven to hear:
To furthest shores the ambrosial spirit flies,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.

RHYME a a *

Next these a youthful train their vows express'd,
With feathers crown'd, with gay embroidery dress'd:
'Hither' (they cried) 'direct your eyes, and see 
The men of pleasure, dress, and gallantry;
Ours is the place at banquets, balls, and plays,
Sprightly our nights, polite are all our days;
Courts we frequent, where 'tis our pleasing care
To pay due visits, and address the fair:
In fact, 'tis true, no nymph we could persuade,
But still in fancy vanquish'd every maid;
Of unknown duchesses lewd tales we tell,
Yet, would the world believe us, all were well.
The joy let others have, and we the name,      
And what we want in pleasure, grant in fame.'

RHYME a a *

The Queen assents, the trumpet rends the skies,
And at each blast a lady's honour dies.

RHYME a a *

Pleased with the strange success, vast numbers press'd
Around the shrine, and made the same request:
'What! you,' (she cried) 'unlearn'd in arts to please,
Slaves to yourselves, and even fatigued with ease,
Who lose a length of undeserving days,
Would you usurp the lover's dear-bought praise?
To just contempt, ye vain pretenders, fall,    
The people's fable and the scorn of all.'
Straight the black clarion sends a horrid sound,
Loud laughs burst out, and bitter scoffs fly round,
Whispers are heard, with taunts reviling loud,
And scornful hisses run through all the crowd.

RHYME a a *

Last, those who boast of mighty mischiefs done,
Enslave their country, or usurp a throne;
Or who their glory's dire foundation laid
On sovereigns ruin'd, or on friends betray'd;
Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix,
Of crooked counsels, and dark politics;
Of these a gloomy tribe surround the throne,
And beg to make the immortal treasons known.
The trumpet roars, long flaky flames expire,
With sparks, that seem'd to set the world on fire.
At the dread sound, pale mortals stood aghast,
And startled Nature trembled with the blast.

RHYME a a *

This having heard and seen, some Power unknown
Straight changed the scene, and snatch'd me from the throne.
Before my view appear'd a structure fair,      
Its site uncertain, if in earth or air;
With rapid motion turn'd the mansion round;
With ceaseless noise the ringing walls resound;
Not less in number were the spacious doors,
Than leaves on trees, or sands upon the shores;
Which still unfolded stand, by night, by day,
Pervious to winds, and open every way.
As flames by nature to the skies ascend,
As weighty bodies to the centre tend,
As to the sea returning rivers roll,           
And the touch'd needle trembles to the pole;
Hither, as to their proper place, arise
All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies,

RHYME a a *

Or spoke aloud, or whisper'd in the ear;
Nor ever silence, rest, or peace is here.
As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes
The sinking stone at first a circle makes;
The trembling surface by the motion stirr'd,
Spreads in a second circle, then a third;
Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance, 
Fill all the watery plain, and to the margin dance:
Thus every voice and sound, when first they break,
On neighbouring air a soft impression make;
Another ambient circle then they move;
That, in its turn, impels the next above;
Through undulating air the sounds are sent,
And spread o'er all the fluid element.

RHYME a a *

There various news I heard of love and strife,
Of peace and war, health, sickness, death, and life,
Of loss and gain, of famine and of store,      
Of storms at sea, and travels on the shore,
Of prodigies, and portents seen in air,
Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair,
Of turns of fortune, changes in the state,
The falls of favourites, projects of the great,
Of old mismanagements, taxations new:
All neither wholly false, nor wholly true.

RHYME a a *

Above, below, without, within, around,
Confused, unnumber'd multitudes are found,
Who pass, repass, advance, and glide away;      
Hosts raised by fear, and phantoms of a day:
Astrologers, that future fates foreshow;
Projectors, quacks, and lawyers not a few;
And priests, and party-zealots, numerous bands
With home-born lies, or tales from foreign lands;
Each talk'd aloud, or in some secret place,
And wild impatience stared in every face.
The flying rumours gather'd as they roll'd,
Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told;

RHYME a a a

And all who told it added something new,       
And all who heard it made enlargements too,
In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew.

RHYME a a *

Thus flying east and west, and north and south,
News travell'd with increase from mouth to mouth.

RHYME a a *

So from a spark, that kindled first by chance,
With gathering force the quickening flames advance;
Till to the clouds their curling heads aspire,
And towers and temples sink in floods of fire.
When thus ripe lies are to perfection sprung,
Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal tongue,  
Through thousand vents, impatient, forth they flow,
And rush in millions on the world below.
Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course,
Their date determines, and prescribes their force:
Some to remain, and some to perish soon;
Or wane and wax alternate like the moon.
Around, a thousand winged wonders fly,
Born by the trumpet's blast, and scatter'd through the sky.

RHYME a a *

There, at one passage, oft you might survey
A lie and truth contending for the way;        
And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent,
Which first should issue through the narrow vent:
At last agreed, together out they fly,
Inseparable now, the truth and lie;
The strict companions are for ever join'd,
And this or that unmix'd, no mortal e'er shall find.

RHYME a a *

While thus I stood, intent to see and hear,
One came, methought, and whisper'd in my ear:
'What could thus high thy rash ambition raise?
Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise?' 

RHYME a a *

''Tis true,' said I, 'not void of hopes I came,
For who so fond as youthful bards of fame?
But few, alas! the casual blessing boast,
So hard to gain, so easy to be lost.
How vain that second life in others' breath,
The estate which wits inherit after death!
Ease, health, and life, for this they must resign,
(Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine!)
The great man's curse, without the gains, endure,
Be envied, wretched, and be flatter'd, poor;   
All luckless wits their enemies profess'd,
And all successful, jealous friends at best.
Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call;
She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all.
But if the purchase costs so dear a price,
As soothing folly, or exalting vice;
Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway,
And follow still where fortune leads the way;
Or if no basis bear my rising name,
But the fallen ruins of another's fame;        
Then teach me, Heaven! to scorn the guilty bays,
Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise,
Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown;
Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!'

RHYME a a *

In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing Melancholy reigns,
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love!--From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

RHYME a a *

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd:        
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise
Where, mix'd with God's, his loved idea lies:
Oh write it not, my hand!--the name appears
Already written--wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

RHYME a a *

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns, shagg'd with horrid thorn!   
Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heaven's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain.

RHYME a a *

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.          
Oh, name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breathed in sighs, still usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe;
Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom,
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench'd the unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, Love and Fame.    

RHYME a a *

Yet write, oh! write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this power away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in prayer;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

RHYME a a *

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief!     
Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires;
The virgin's wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

RHYME a a *

Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name;   
My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of the all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attempering every ray,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gazed; Heaven listen'd while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those, what precept fail'd to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love:
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish'd an angel whom I loved a man.            
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them that heaven I lose for thee.

RHYME a a *

How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which Love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;           
Before true passion all those views remove;
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous god, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires,
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world's great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn them all:
Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!     
Oh, happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature law:
All then is full, possessing and possess'd,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Even thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This, sure, is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

RHYME a a *

Alas, how changed! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!         
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had opposed the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears and burning blushes speak the rest.

RHYME a a *

Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar's foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale:
Heaven scarce believed the conquest it survey'd,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.  
Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd;
Give all thou canst--and let me dream the rest.
Ah, no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

RHYME a a *

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You raised these hallow'd walls; the desert smiled,
And Paradise was open'd in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father's stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers given,
Here bribed the rage of ill-requited Heaven:
But such plain roofs as Piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker's praise.        
In these lone walls, (their day's eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others' prayers I try,
(Oh pious fraud of amorous charity!)           
But why should I on others' prayers depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah, let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one--thy love!
The darksome pines that, o'er yon rocks reclined,
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wandering streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;   
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades every flower, and darkens every green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.    

RHYME a a *

Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, even then, shall my cold dust remain;
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine.

RHYME a a *

Ah, wretch! believed the spouse of God in vain,
Confess'd within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heaven! but whence arose that prayer?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?         
Even here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn'd to Heaven, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
'Tis sure the hardest science to forget!       
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love the offender, yet detest the offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch'd, so pierced, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain,--do all things but forget!   
But let Heaven seize it, all at once 'tis fired;
Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspired!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself--and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for He
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

RHYME a a *

How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot:
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd;  
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
'Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;'
Desires composed, affections ever even;
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her the unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;
For her the spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,          
To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

RHYME a a *

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
O curst, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!     
Provoking demons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake:--no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say:
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!        
Alas, no more! methinks we wandering go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mouldering tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

RHYME a a *

For thee the Fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;   
Thy life a long dead calm of fix'd repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiven,
And mild as opening gleams of promised heaven.

RHYME a a *

Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves;
Even thou art cold--yet Eloisa loves.          
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm the unfruitful urn.

RHYME a a *

What scenes appear where'er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear,
With every bead I drop too soft a tear.        
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.

RHYME a a *

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gathering in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is opening on my soul:       
Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to heaven; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and prayers;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

RHYME a a *

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!   
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee!
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view)
Long loved, adored ideas, all adieu!
O Grace serene! O Virtue heavenly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky!  
And Faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

RHYME a a *

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
'Come, sister, come!' (it said, or seem'd to say)
'Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!     
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd,
Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here Grief forgets to groan, and Love to weep,
Even Superstition loses every fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.'

RHYME a a *

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bowers,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refined in breasts seraphic glow: 
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eyeballs roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah, no!--in sacred vestments may'st thou stand,
The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah, then thy once-loved Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.        
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till every motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;
And even my Abelard be loved no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we doat on when 'tis man we love.

RHYME a a *

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy!)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, 
From opening skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

RHYME a a *

May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wandering lovers brings
To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs,
O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;  
Then sadly say,--with mutual pity moved,
'Oh, may we never love as these have loved!'
From the full choir when loud hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene, if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven,
One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven.
And sure, if Fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,           
Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who love so long, so well,
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint them who shall feel them most.

RHYME a a *

Such were the notes thy once-loved Poet sung,
Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh just beheld and lost! admired and mourn'd!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!
Blest in each science, blest in every strain!
Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear--in vain!

RHYME a a *

For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him, despised the farce of state,
The sober follies of the wise and great;           
Dext'rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleased to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.

RHYME a a *

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear,)
Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Behold thee glorious only in thy fall.             

RHYME a a *

And sure, if aught below the seats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine:
A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
Above all pain, all passion, and all pride,
The rage of power, the blast of public breath,
The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.

RHYME a a *

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade:
'Tis hers the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.            
When interest calls off all her sneaking train,
And all the obliged desert, and all the vain,
She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Even now she shades thy evening-walk with bays,
(No hireling she, no prostitute to praise),
Even now, observant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day;
Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.             

