See how the torrent rolls the golden sand From the high ridges to the flatter land. The lofty lines abound with endless store Of mineral treasure and metallic ore.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

Among the Whig poets of the day, whom Pope's enmity raised to temporary importance, was AMBROSE PHILIPS (1671-1749). He was a native of Leicestershire, educated at Cambridge, and patronised by the Whig government of George I. He was a commissioner of the collieries, held some appointments in Ireland, and sat for the county of Armagh in the Irish House of Commons. The works of Philips consist of three plays, some miscellaneous poems, translations, and pastorals. The latter were published in the same miscellany with those of Pope, and were injudiciously praised by Tickell as the finest in the English language. Pope resented this unjust depreciation of his own poetry by an ironical paper in the Guardian, calculated to make Philips appear ridiculous. Ambrose felt the satire keenly, and even vowed to take personal vengeance on his adversary, by whipping him with a rod in Button's coffeehouse. A paper war ensued, and Pope immortalised Philips as-

The bard whom pilfered 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.
The pastorals are certainly poor enough; but
Philips was an elegant versifier, and Goldsmith has
eulogised part of his epistle to Lord Dorset, as
comparably fine.'

in

A fragment of Sappho, translated by Philips, is a poetical gem so brilliant, that Warton thought Addison must have assisted in its composition :—

Blessed as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while, Softly speak and sweetly smile.

"Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed in transport tossed,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glowed; the subtle flame
Ran quickly through my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chilled,
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

Epistle to the Earl of Dorset. COPENHAGEN, March 9, 1709. From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.

No gentle-breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly.

The vast leviathan wants room to play,
And spout his waters in the face of day.
The starving wolves along the main sca prowl,
And to the moon in icy valleys howl.
O'er many a shining league the level main
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain :
There solid billows of enormous size,
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen, even here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear,
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow,
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow:
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brightened every object to my eyes:
For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass;
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield,
Seemed polished lances in a hostile field.
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:
Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When, if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies;
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees:
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads
Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious meads;
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear:
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

The First Pastoral.

LOBBIN.

If we, O Dorset ! quit the city-throng,
To meditate in shades the rural song,

By your command, be present; and, O bring The Muse along! The Muse to you shall sing Her influence, Buckhurst, let me there obtain, And I forgive the famed Sicilian swain.

Begin. In unluxurious times of yore, When flocks and herds were no inglorious store, Lobbin, a shepherd boy, one evening fair, As western winds had cooled the sultry air, His numbered sheep within the fold now pent, Thus plained him of his dreary discontent; Beneath a hoary poplar's whispering boughs, He, solitary, sat, to breathe his vows. Venting the tender anguish of his heart, As passion taught, in accents free of art; And little did he hope, while, night by night, His sighs were lavished thus on Lucy bright.

Ah! well-a-day, how long must I endure This pining pain? Or who shall speed my cure? Fond love no cure will have, seek no repose, Delights in grief, nor any measure knows: And now the moon begins in clouds to rise; The brightening stars increase within the skies;

the effect of giving rise to the English opera, a species of light comedy enlivened by songs and music, which for a time supplanted the Italian opera, with all its exotic and elaborate graces. Gay tried a sequel to the 'Beggar's Opera,' under the title of Polly; but as it was supposed to contain sarcasms on the court, the lord chamberlain prohibited its representation. The poet had recourse to publication; and such was the zeal of his friends, and the effect of party spirit, that while the Beggar's Opera' realised for him only about £400, 'Polly' produced a profit of £1100 or £1200. The Duchess of Marlborough gave £100 as her subscription for a copy. Gay had now amassed £3000 by his writings, which he resolved to keep entire and sacred.' He was at the same time received into the house of his kind patrons the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, with whom he spent the remainder of his life. His only literary occupation was composing additional fables, and corresponding occasionally with Pope and Swift. A sudden attack of inflammatory fever hurried him out of life in three days. He died on the 4th of December 1732. Pope's letter to Swift announcing the event was indorsed by the latter: On my dear friend Mr Gay's death. Received, December 15th, but not read till the 20th, by an impulse foreboding some misfortune.' The friendship of these eminent men seems to have been sincere and tender; and nothing in the life of Swift is more touching or honourable to his memory, than those passages in his letters where the recollection of Gay melted his haughty stoicism, and awakened his deep though unavailing sorrow. Pope, always more affectionate, was equally grieved by the loss of

him whom he has characterised as

Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit a man, simplicity a child.

Gay was buried in Westminster abbey, where a handsome monument was erected to his memory by the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry. The works of this easy and loveable son of the muses have lost much of their popularity. He has the licentiousness, without the elegance, of Prior. His fables are still, however, the best we possess; and if they have not the nationality or rich humour and archness of La Fontaine's, the subjects of them are light and pleasing, and the versification always smooth and The Hare with Many Friends is doubtless drawn from Gay's own experience. In the Court of Death, he aims at a higher order of poetry, and marshals his diseases dire' with a strong and gloomy His song of Black-Eyed Susan, and the ballad beginning Twas when the seas were roaring,'

correct.

power.

"

are full of characteristic tenderness and lyrical melody. The latter is said by Cowper to have been the joint production of Arbuthnot, Swift, and Gay.

[The Country Ballad Singer.] [From The Shepherd's Week."]

Sublimer strains, O rustic muse! prepare;
Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care;
Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise,
The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays;
With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse,
While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse.
'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil
Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil;
Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout,
Clean damsels bound the gathered sheaves about;
The lads with sharpened hook and sweating brow
Cut down the labours of the winter plough.
When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied,
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside;

*

That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing,
Or with the rosined bow torment the string;
That Bowzybeus who, with fingers' speed,
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed;
That Bowzybeus who, with jocund tongue,
Ballads, and roundelays, and catches sung:
They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright,
And in disport surround the drunken wight.

Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long?
The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous strong!
Thou should'st have left the fair before 'twas night,
But thou sat'st toping till the morning light.

Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout, And kissed with smacking lip the snoring lout (For custom says, Whoe'er this venture proves, For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves'). By her example Dorcas bolder grows, And plays a tickling straw within his nose. He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke The sneering strains with stammering speech bespoke: To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er; As for the maids, I've something else in store.

No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,
But lads and lasses round about him throng.
Not ballad-singer placed above the crowd
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud;
Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear,
Like Bowzybeus soothes the attentive ear.
Why the grave owl can never face the sun.
Of nature's laws his carols first begun,
For owls, as swains observe, detest the light,
And only sing and seek their prey by night.
And how the closing coleworts upwards grow;
How turnips hide their swelling heads below,
How Will-a-wisp misleads night-faring clowns
O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs.
Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail,
And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail.
He sung where woodcocks in the summer feed,
And in what climates they renew their breed
(Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend,
Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend);
Where swallows in the winter's scason keep,
And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep;
How nature does the puppy's eyelid close,
Till the bright sun has nine times set and rose
(For huntsmen by their long experience find,
That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind).

For still new fairs before his eyes arose.
Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows,
How pedlers' stalls with glittering toys are laid,
Long silken laces hang upon the twine,
The various fairings of the country maid.
And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine;
Ilow the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors spies,
And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told,
Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold.
The lads and lasses trudge the street along,
And all the fair is crowded in his song.

The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells
His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells;
Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs,
And on the rope the venturous maiden swings;
Jack Pudding, in his party-coloured jacket,
Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet.
Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats,
Of pockets picked in crowds, and various cheats.

Then sad he sung The Children in the Wood,' (Ah, barbarous uncle, stained with infant blood !) How blackberries they plucked in deserts wild, And fearless at the glittering faulchion smiled; Their little corpse the robin-redbreasts found, And strewed with pious bill the leaves around. (Ah, gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, Your names shall live for ever in my song.)

For 'Buxom Joan' he sung the doubtful strife, How the sly sailor made the maid a wife.

6

To louder strains he raised his voice, to tell What woful wars in Chevy Chase' befell, When 'Percy drove the deer with hound and horn; Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!' Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crowned, If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound! Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps, By future bards be wailed in doleful dumps.

All in the land of Essex' next he chaunts, How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants: How the grave brother stood on bank so greenHappy for him if mares had never been!

Then he was seized with a religious qualm, And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm. He sung of Taffy Welsh' and 'Sawney Scot,' 'Lilly-bullero' and the Irish Trot.'

•

Why should I tell of Bateman' or of ' Shore,'
Or Wantley's Dragon' slain by valiant Moore,
"The Bower of Rosamond,' or 'Robin Hood,'
And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood?'
His carols ceased: the listening maids and swains
Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains.
Sudden he rose, and, as he reels along,
Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song.
The damsels laughing fly; the giddy clown
Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown;
The power that guards the drunk his sleep attends,
Till, ruddy, like his face, the sun descends.

Through winter streets to steer your course aright,
How to walk clean by day, and safe by night;
How jostling crowds with prudence to decline,
When to assert the wall, and when resign,
I sing; thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song,
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
By thee transported, I securely stray
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way;
The silent court and opening square explore,
And long perplexing lanes untrod before.
To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays;
For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground,
Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound;
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside.
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame,
From the great theme to build a glorious name;
To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown,
And bind my temples with a civic crown:
But more my country's love demands my lays;
My country's be the profit, mine the praise!

When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice,
And clean your shoes' resounds from every voice;
When late their miry sides stage-coaches show,
And their stiff horses through the town move slow;
When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies,
And damsels first renew their oyster cries;
Then let the prudent walker shoes provide,
Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide;

The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound,
And with the scalloped top his step be crowned:
Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet
Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet.
Should the big last extend the shoe too wide,
Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside;
The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein,
Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain;
And, when too short the modish shoes are worn,
You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.
Nor should it prove thy less important care,
To choose a proper coat for winter's wear.

Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit fold,
The silken drugget ill can fence the cold;
The frieze's spongy nap is soaked with rain,
And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain;
True Witney broadcloth, with its shag unshorn,
Unpierced is in the lasting tempest worn:

Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear
Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear?
Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent,
Hands, that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent.
Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace,
Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace.
That garment best the winter's rage defends,
Whose ample form without one plait depends;
By various names in various counties known,
Yet held in all the true surtout alone;

Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost, Then brave unwet the rain, unchilled the frost.

If the strong cane support thy walking hand, Chairmen no longer shall the wall command; Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey, And rattling coaches stop to make thee way: This shall direct thy cautious tread aright, Though not one glaring lamp enliven night. Let beaux their canes, with amber tipt, produce; Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. In gilded chariots while they loll at ease, And lazily insure a life's disease; While softer chairs the tawdry load convey To court, to White's,3 assemblies, or the play; Rosy-complexioned Health thy steps attends, And exercise thy lasting youth defends. Imprudent men Heaven's choicest gifts profane: Thus some beneath their arm support the canc; The dirty point oft checks the careless pace, And miry spots the clean cravat disgrace. Oh! may I never such misfortune meet! May no such vicious walkers crowd the street! May Providence o'ershade me with her wings, While the bold Muse experienced danger sings!

Song.

Sweet woman is like the fair flower in its lustre, Which in the garden enamels the ground; Near it the bees, in play, flutter and cluster, And gaudy butterflies frolic around.

But when once plucked, 'tis no longer alluring,
To Covent-Garden 'tis sent (as yet sweet),
There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduring,
Rots, stinks, and dies, and is trod under feet.

[The Poct and the Rose.]

[From the Fables."]

"

I hate the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame:
Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own;
Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decried:
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister awkward creature;'
For the kind flattery's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.
As in the cool of early day
A poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odour bends;
A rose he plucked, he gazed, admired,
Thus singing, as the muse inspired—

1 A town in Oxfordshire.

2 A Joseph, wrap-rascal, &c.

3 A chocolate-house in St James's Strect.