Decrepit Winter, in the yearly ring,

Thus slowly creeps to meet the blooming spring:
Downward he cast a melancholy look,

Thrice turn'd to hide his grief, then faintly spoke.
"Now deep in years, and forward in decay,
"That axe can only rob me of a day :
"For thee, my soul's desire! I can't refrain;
"And shall my tears, my last tears, flow in vain?
"When you shall know a mother's tender name,
К My heart's distress no longer will you blame."
At this, afar his bursting groans were heard;
The tears ran trickling down his silver beard:
He snatch'd her hand, which to his lips he press❜d,
And bid her plant a dagger in his breast;
Then, sinking, call'd her piety unjust,
And soil'd his hoary temples in the dust.
Hard-hearted men! will you no mercy know?
Has the queen brib'd you to distress her foe?
O weak deserters to Misfortune's part,
By false affection thus to pierce her heart!
When she had soar'd, to let your arrows fly,
And fetch her bleeding from the middle sky.
And can her virtue, springing from the ground,
Her flight recover, and disdain the wound,
When cleaving love, and human int'rest, bind
The broken force of her aspiring mind!

As round the gen'rous eagle, which in vain

Exerts her strength, the serpent wreaths his train,
Her struggling wings entangles, curling plies

His pois'nous tail and stings her as she flies.
While yet the blow's first dreadful weight she

feels,

And with its force her resolution reels,

Large doors, unfolding with a mournful sound,
To view discover, welt'ring on the ground,

Three headless trunks of those whose arms main

tain'd,

And in her wars immortal glory gain'd:

The lifted axe assur'd her ready doom,
And silent mourners sadden'd all the room.
Shall I proceed, or here break off

my tale, Nor truths to stagger human faith reveal?

She met this utmost malice of her fate
With Christian dignity and pious state;

The beating storm's propitious rage she bless'd,
And all the martyr triumph'd in her breast.
Her lord, and father, for a moment's space,
She strictly folded in her soft embrace!
Then thus she spoke, while angels heard on high,
And sudden gladness smil'd along the sky.

"Your over-fondness has not mov'd my hate : "I am well pleas'd you make my death so great :

"I joy I cannot save you; and have giv'n

"Two lives much dearer than my own to heav'n, "If so the queen decrees*.-But I have cause

"To hope my blood will satisfy the laws;
"And there is mercy still for you in store:
"With me the bitterness of death is o'er;
"He shot his sting in that farewel embrace,
"And all that is to come is joy and peace.
"Then let mistaken sorrow be supprest,
"Nor seem to envy my approaching rest.”
Then, turning to the ministers of fate,
She, smiling, said, "My victory's complete;
"And tell your queen I thank her for the blow,
"And grieve my gratitude I cannot show.
"A poor return I leave in England's crown,
"For everlasting pleasure and renown:
"Her guilt alone allays this happy hour;
"Her guilt, the only vengeance in her power."

Not Rome, untouch'd with sorrow, heard her fate, And fierce Maria pity'd her too late.

*Here she embraces them.

EPISTLES.

EPISTLES TO MR. POPE,

CONCERNING THE

AUTHORS OF THE AGE.

EPISTLE I.

WHILST you at Twick'nham plan the future wood,

Or turn the volumes of the wise and good,
Our senate meets; at parties parties bawl,
And pamphlets stun the streets and load the stall:
So rushing tides bring things obcene to light,
Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight;
The Civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns,
And Codrus' prose works up, and Lico's strains,
Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high,
Where Speculation roosted near the sky;
Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song,
And all the garret thunders on the throng!
O Pope! I burst; nor can nor will refrain ;
I'll write, let others in their turn complain.

Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear
Less dreads a pillory than pamphleteer:

I've heard myself to death; and, plagu'd each hour,
Sha'n't I return the vengeance in my pow'r?
For who can write the true absurd like me?—
Thy pardon, Codrus! who, I mean, but thee?

Pope! if like mine or Codrus' were thy style,
The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy file;
Merit less solid less despite had bred;
They had not bit, and then they had not bled.
Fame is a public mistress none enjoys,

But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys;
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows;
The man that makes a character makes foes:
Slight peevish insects round a genius rise,
As a bright day awakes the world of flies ;
With hearty malice, but with feeble wing,
(To shew they live) they flutter, and they sting;
But as by depredations wasps proclaim

The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame.
Shall we not censure all the motley train,
Whether with ale irriguous or champaign;
Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb,
And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme;
The college sloven, or embroider'd spark ;
The purple prelate, or the parish-clerk ;