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VITAL spark of heav'nly flame?
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.


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?

The world recedes ; it disappears!
Heav'n 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??


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;

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,
Nor on your lips distilled their golden dew;
Yet have we oft discovered in their stead
A swarm of drones that buzzed about your head.
When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre,
Attentive blocks stand round you and admire.
Wit passed through thee no longer is the same,
As meat digested takes a diferent name;
But sense must sure thy safest plunder be,
Since no reprisals can be made on thee.
Thus thou mayst 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 Mævius 3 to the full,
And Chærilus taught Codrus 5 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.

[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,
Aud longing to behold his ancient lord again.
Him when he saw-he rose, and crawled to meet,
('Twas all he could) and fawned, and kissed his feet,
Seized with dumb joy—then falling by his side,
Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died !


This letter greets you from the shades;
(Not those which their unbodied shadows fill

That glide along th' Elysian glades,
Or skim the flow'ry meads of Asphodel;)
But those in which a learned author said

Strong drink was drunk and gambols played
And two substantial meals a-day were made.

The business of it is t express,
From me and from my holiness,

To you and to your gentleness,
How much I wish you health and happiness;
And much good news, and little spleen as may be,

A hearty stomach and fair lady,
And ev'ry day a double dose of coffee,
To make you look as sage as any Sophi.


DEAR, droll, distracting town, farewell!

Thy fools no more I'll tease:
This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,

Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd

Till the third watchman's toll;
Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde

Save threepence and his soul.

Farewell, Arbuthnot's raillery

On every learned sot;
And Garth, the best good Christian he,

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;
The wits in envious feuds engage:

And Homer—d - him-calls.

The love of arts lies cold and dead

In Halifax's urn;
And not one muse of all he fed

Has yet the grace to mourn.

My friends, by turns, my friends confound,

Betray, and are betrayed:

Y r 's sold for fifty pounds,
And B- ll is a jade.

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!
And Burlington's delicious meal,

For salads, tarts, and pease!

Adieu to all but Gay alone,

Whose soul, sincere and free,
Loves all mankind, but flatters none,

And so may starve with me.




The basset-table spread, the talliero come;
Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room?
Rise, pensive nymph, the tallier waits for you:

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.

Is this the cause of your romantic strains ?
A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains.
As you by love, so I by fortune crossed;
One, one bad deal, three Septlevas have lost.

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,

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