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Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept,
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, Near the clos'd cradle where an infant slept, The Power exerts his attributes on high ; And writh'd his neck: the landlord's little pride, Your actions uses nor controuls your will, O strange return! grew black, and gasp'd, aud dy’d. And bids the doubting sons of men be still. Horror of horrors! what! his only son!
Whatstrange events can strike with more surprise, How look'd our hermit when the fact was done ! Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just, And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. And where you can't unriddle learn to trust !
Confus’d, and struck with silence at the deed, The great, vain man, who far'd on costly food, He flies, but trembling fails to fly with speed.
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; His steps the youth pursues; the country lay
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way: And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine; A river cross'd the path ; the passage o'er
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, Was nice to find; the servant trod before ;
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. Long arms of oaks an open bridge supply'd,
The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door And deep the waves beneath the bending glide. Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wandering poor ; The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, With him I left the cup, to teach his mind Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in ; That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head,
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. And feels compassion touch bis grateful soul.
Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head; Detested wretch !-But scarce his speech began,
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, When the strange partner seem'd no longer man :
And loose from dross the silver runs below. His youthful face grew more serenely sweet;
Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, His robe turn’d white, and flow'd upon his feet;
But now the child half wean'd his heart from God; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; (Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain, Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And measur'd back his steps to earth again. And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day,
To what excesses had his dotage run? Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
But God, to save the father, took the son. The form ethereal burst upon his sight,
To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, And moves in all the majesty of light.
(And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow) Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do;
Now owns in tears the punishment was just. Surprise in secret chains his words suspends,
But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, And in a calm his settling temper ends.
Had that false servant sped in safety back; But silence here the beauteous angel broke
This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to steal, (The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke).
And what a fund of charity would fail! Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this trial o'er, In sweet memorial rise before the throne :
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more. These charms success in our bright region find, On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, And force an angel down to calm thy mind; The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. For this commission'd, I forsook the sky;
Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high, Nay, cease to kneel—Thy fellow-servant I.
His master took the chariot of the sky; Then know the truth of government divine, The fiery pomp ascending left to view, And let these scruples be no longer thine,
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. The Maker justly claims that world he made, The bending hermit here a prayer begun, In this the right of Providence is laid ;
“ Lord! as in Heaven, on earth thy will be done :" Its sacred majesty through all depends
Then gladly turning sought his ancient place, On using second means to work his ends:
And pass’d a life of piety and peace.
PRIOR-A. D. 1664-1721.
Calliope, and God knows who.
The sum of all I have to say,
There's one thing more I had almost slipt,
No family, that takes a whelp
My uncle, rest his soul! when living,
All this you made me quit, to follow
ANOTHER EPISTLE TO THE SAME. Sir,
Burleigh, May 14, 1689.
Or as, with gondolas and men, his
Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy
Then take it, Sir, as it was writ,
Here some would scratch their heads, and try
If once for principle 'tis laid,
In verse or prose, we write or chat, That thought is trouble to the head;
Not sixpence matter upon what. I argue thus: the world agrees
"Tis not how well an author says; That he writes well, who writes with ease :
But 'tis how much, that gathers praise. Then he, by sequel logical,
Tonson, who is himself a wit, Writes best that never thinks at all.
Counts writers' merits by the sheet. Verse comes from heaven, like inward light;
Thus each should down with all he thinks, Mere human pains can ne'er come by't;
As boys eat bread, to fill up chinks. The god, not we, the poem makes ;
Kind Sir, I should be glad to see you ; We only tell folks what he speaks.
I hope y' are well; so God be wi' you; Hence, when anatomists discourse,
Was all I thought at first to write : How like brutes' organs are to ours;
But things since then are alter'd quite ; They grant, if higher powers think fit,
Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high: A bear might soon be made a wit;
So God knows when my clack will lie:
I must, Sir, pratile on, as afore,
So at pure barn of loud Non-con,
Where with my grannuin I have gone, Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing,
When Lobb had sifted all his text, With prompting priest behind the hanging: And I well hop'd the pudding next; The wooden head resolv'd the question
“ Now to apply," has plagu'd me more While you and Pettis help'd the jest on.
Than all his villain cant before. Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius,
For your religion, first, of her, Are against gods, you know; and teach us,
Your friends do savoury things aver ; The gods make not the poet; but
They say, she's honest as your claret, The thesis, vice-versa put,
Nor sour'd with cant, nor stumm’d with merit; Should Hebrew-wise be understood;
Your chamber is the sole retreat And means, the poet makes the god.
Of chaplains every Sunday night : Egyptian gardeners thus are said to
Of grace, no doubt, a certain sign, Have set the leeks they after pray'd to;
When layman herds with man divine; And Romish bakers praise the deity
For if their fame be justly great, They chipp'd while yet in its paniety.
Who would no Popish nuncio treat; That when you poets swear and cry,
That his is greater, we must grant, The god inspires; I rave, I die;
Who will treat nuncios Protestant. If inward wind does truly swell ye,
One single positive weighs more, 'T must be the cholic in your belly:
You know, than negatives a score. That writing is but just like dice,
In politics, I hear, you're stanch, And lucky mains make people wise :
Directly bent against the French; That jumbled words, if fortune throw 'em,
Deny to have your free-born toe Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem;
Dragoon'd into a wooden shoe: Or make a speech, correct and witty,
Are in no plots; but fairly drive at As you know who-at the committee.
The public welfare, in your private ; So atoms dancing round the centre,
And will for England's glory try They urge, made all things at a venture.
Turks, Jews, and Jesuits, to defy, But, granting matters should be spoke
And keep your places till you die. By method, rather than by luck;
For me, whom wandering fortune threw This may confine their younger styles,
From what I lov'd, the town and you : Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's;
Let me just tell you how my time is But never could be meant to tie
Past in a country life.—Imprimis, Authentic wits, like you and I:
As soon as Phæbus' rays inspect us, For as young children, who are tied in
First, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast; Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding ;
So on, till foresaid God does set, When members knit, and legs grow stronger, I sometimes study, sometimes eat. Make use of such machine no longer;
Thus, of your heroes and brave boys, But leap pro libitu, and scout
With whom old Homer makes such noise, On horse call’d hobby, or without;
The greatest actions I can find, So when at school we first declaim,
Are, that they did their work, and din'd. Old Busby walks us in a theme,
The books, of which I'm chiefly fond, Whose props support our infant vein,
Are such as you have whilom conn'd; And help the rickets in the brain :
That treat of China's civil law, But, when our souls their force dilate,
And subjects' rights in Golconda ; And thoughts grow up to wit's estate ;
Of highway elephants at Ceylon,
That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland ; The little pleasure of the game
Is from afar to view the flight.
Our anxious pains we, all the day,
In search of what we like, employ: And twenty other stranger matters ;
Scorning at night the worthless prey,
We find the labour gave the joy.
At distance through an artful glass
To the mind's eye things well appear : From whose remarks I give opinion
They lose their forms, and make a mass On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one.
Confus'd and black if brought too near. Then all your wits that fleer and sham,
If we see right, we see our woes: Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram ;
Then what avails it to have eyes? From whom I jests and puns purloin,
From ignorance our comfort flows:
The only wretched are the wise.
We wearied should lie down in death :
This cheat of life would take no more ; To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar;
If you thought fame but empty breath, Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,
I Phillis but a perjur'd whore. Squire Shephard's health-With all my heart.
Thus without much delight or grief, I fool away an idle life:
THE LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS. Till Shadwell from the town retires (Chok'd up with fame and sea-coal fires)
IN IMITATION OF A GREEK IDYLLIUM. To bless the wood with peaceful lyric:
Celia and I the other day Then hey for praise and panegyric;
Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea : Justice restor'd, and nations freed,
The setting sun adorn’d the coast,
And, on the surface of the deep,
The nymph did like the scene appear,
Soft fell her words, as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her say, Howe'er, 'tis well, that while mankind
That she would never miss one day Through fate's perverse meander errs,
A walk so fine, a sight so gay. He can imagin'd pleasures find,
But, oh the change! the winds grow high; To combat against real cares.
Impending tempests charge the sky:
The lightning flies, the thunder roars ; Fancies and notions he pursues,
And big waves lash the frighten'd shores. Which ne'er had being but in thought;
Struck with the horror of the sight, Each, like the Grecian artist, woos
She turns her head, and wings her flight: The image he himself has wrought.
And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore, or view the main.
Once more at least look back, said I,
Thyself in that large glass descry:
When thou art in good-humour drest; And sets his judgment by his passion.
When gentle reason rules thy breast; The hoary fool, who many days
The sun upon the calmest sea Has struggled with continued sorrow,
Appears not half so bright as thee :
'Tis then that with delight I rove Renews his hope, and blindly lays The desperate bet upon tomorrow.
Upon thy boundless depth of love :
I bless my chain; I hand my oar; Tomorrow comes ; 'tis noon, 'tis night;
Nor think on all I left on shore. This day like all the former flies:
But when vain doubt and groundless fear Yet on be rans, to seek delight
Do that dear foolish bosom tear Tomorrow, till to-night he dies.
When the big lip and watery eye
the rising storm is nigh ; Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim
'Tis then, thou art yon angry main, At objects in an airy height:
Deform'd by winds, and dash'd by rain ;
AFTERWARDS EARL OF HALIFAX,
And the poor sailor, that must try
THE DOVE. Its fury, labours less than I.
"-Tantæne animis cælestibus iræ ?"
VIRG. Shipwreck’d, in vain to land I make, While love and fate still drive me back :
In Virgil's sacred verse we find, Forc'd to dote on thee thy own way,
That passion can depress or raise I chide thee first, and then obey.
The heavenly, as the human mind: Wretched when from thee, vex'd when nigh,
Who dare deny what Virgil says ? I with thee, or without thee, die.
But, if they should, what our great master
Has thus laid down, my tale shall prove:
Fair Venus wept the sad disaster
Of having lost her favourite dove.
In complaisance poor Cupid mourn'd;
His grief reliev'd his mother's pain; And in that heaven desir'd to rest :
He vow'd he'd leave no stone unturn'd,
But she should have her dove again.
Though none, said he, shall yet be nam’d,
I know the felon well enough: Yet mistress of herself, devis'd
But be she not, mamma, condemn'd
Without a fair and legal proof.
With that, his longest dart he took,
As constable would take his staff: The silken bond, and held him fast,
That gods desire like men to look,
Would make ev'n Heraclitus laugh.
Love's subalterns, a duteous band,
Like watchmen, round their chief appear: Fluttering the god, and weeping, said,
Each had his lantern in his hand;
And Venus mask'd brought up the rear.
Accoutred thus, their eager step
To Cloe's lodging they directed : He never there must hope to dwell :
(At once I write, alas! and weep, Set an unhappy prisoner free,
That Cloe is of theft suspected).
Late they set out, had far to go :
St. Dunstan's as they pass’d struck one. What are his haunts, or which his way;
Cloe, for reasons good, you know,
Lives at the sober end o' th' town.
With one great peal they rap the door,
Like footmen on a visiting day. I'll give thee up my bow and dart;
Folks at her house at such an hour !
Lord! what will all the neighbours say?
The door is open: up they run:
Nor prayers, nor threats, divert their speed: The chain I'll in return untie;
Thieves! thieves! cries Susan; we're undone ; And freely thou again shalt fly.
They'll kill my mistress in her bed.
In bed indeed the nymph had been
Three hours : for all historians say, Passes his life in harmless play;
She commonly went up at ten,
Unless piquet was in the way.
She wak’d, be sure, with strange surprise :
O Cupid, is this right or law, Directs his årrow as she wills;
Thus to disturb the brightest eyes Gives grief, or pleasure ; spares, or kills.
That ever slept, or ever saw ?