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THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heav'nly flame?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
With sounds seraphic ring:
o death! where is thy sting??
TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM ENTITLED
i This ode was written in imitation of the famous sonnet of Hadrian to his departing soul.- Warburton.
2 This ode was written by the desire of Steele, and Pope says in a letter to him, “ You have it as Cowley calls it, just warm from the brain. It came to me the first moment I waked this morning: yet you will see it was not so absolutely inspiration but that I had in my head not only the verses of Hadrian but the fine fragment of Sappho."
What though no bees around your cradle flew,
[From the Letters.)
ARGUS. When wise Ulysses, from his native coasts Long kept by wars, and long by tempests tossed, Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone, To all his friends and even his Queen unknown; Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares, Furrowed his rev'rend face, and white his hairs, In his own palace forced to ask his bread, Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed, Forgot of all his own domestic crew; The faithful dog alone his rightful master knew! Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay, Like an old servant, now cashiered, he lay;
1 An allusion to the tradition about Plato.
2 and 3 Two stupid and malevolent poets in the age of Augustus, who attacked the fame of superior writers. 4 Supposed to mean Shadwell,
6 Probably Cibber.
Touched with resentment of ungrateful man,
TO HENRY CROMWELL, ESQ.
That glide along th' Elysian glades,
Strong drink was drunk and gambols played
The business of it is t express,
To you and to your gentleness,
A hearty stomach and fair lady,
A FAREWELL TO LONDON.
IN THE YEAR 1715.
Thy fools no more I'll tease:
Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman's toll;
Save threepence and his soul.
Farewell, Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned sot;
Although he knows it not.
Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonson! Heaven gives thee, for thy loss of Rowe,
Lean Philips and fat Johnson.'
Why should I stay? Both parties rage;.
My vixen mistress: squalls;
And Homer—d - him-calls.
The love of arts lies cold and dead
In Halifax's urn;
Has yet the grace to mourn.
My friends, by turns, my friends confound,
Betray, and are betrayed:
Y r 's sold for fifty pounds,
Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour seek. * * * * * *
Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimsies to contrive; The gayest valetudinaire,
Most thinking rake alive.
Solicitous for other ends,
Though fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolic with my foes.
1 Johnson was probably the friend of Wilkes : he wrote sixteen very inferior plays. 2 Whigs and Jacobites.
3 Teresa Blount, Bowles thinks. 4 Pope is said to have fallen asleep at his own table when the Prince of Wales was in company.-Bowles.
Luxurious lobster-nights farewell,
For sober, studious days!
For salads, tarts, and pease!
Adieu to all but Gay alone,
Whose soul, sincere and free,
And so may starve with me.
A TOWN ECLOGUE.1
SMILINDA. Ah, madam, since my Sharper is untrue, I joyless make my once adored Alpeu. I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair, And whisper with that soft, deluding air, And those feigned sighs which cheat the list’ning fair.
1 There were six town eclogues, one written, it is believed, by Pope, five by Lady Mary W., Montagu,- Warton. Only this of all the town eclogues was Mr. Pope's; and is here printed from a copy corrected by his own hand.-The humour of it consists in this, that the one is in love with the game, and the other with the sharper.- Warburton,
? One who keeps tally,