ON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM RUSSELL.

DOOM'D as I am in solitude to waste
The present moments, and regret the past;
Deprived of every joy I valued most,

My friend torn from me and my mistress lost;
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien,
The dull effect of business or of spleen.
Still, still, I mourn, with each returning day,
Him snatch'd by fate in early youth away;
And her, through tedious years of doubt and pain
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful, but in vain.
O prone to pity, generous and sincere,

Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear;
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows,
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes;
See me, ere yet my destined course half done,
Cast forth a wanderer on a world unknown:
See me neglected on the world's rude coast,
Each dear companion of my voyage lost;
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow,
And ready tears wait only leave to flow;
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free,
All that delights the happy, palls with me.

AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ.
1754.

'Tis not that I design to rob
Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,-
For thou art born sole heir and single
Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;
Nor that I mean, while thus I knit
My threadbare sentiments together,
To show my genius or my wit,

When God and you know, I have neither;
Or such, as might be better shown
By letting poetry alone.

"Tis not with either of these views,
That I presume to address the Muse:
But to divert a fierce banditti,

(Sworn foes to everything that's witty)
That, with a black infernal train,
Make cruel inroads in my brain,
And daily threaten to drive thence
My little garrison of sense:
The fierce banditti which I mean,
Are gloomy thoughts led on by Spleen.
Then there's another reason yet,
Which is, that I may fairly quit
The debt which justly became due
The moment when I heard from you;
And you might grumble, crony mine,
If paid in any other coin;

Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows,
(I would say twenty sheets of prose)
Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much
As one of gold, and yours was such.
Thus the preliminaries settled,
I fairly find myself pitch-kettled;
And cannot see, though few see better,
How I shall hammer out a letter.

First, for a thought-since all agree-
A thought-I have it-let me see-
"Tis gone again-plague on't! I thought
I had it but I have it not.

Dame Gurton thus and Hodge her son,
That useful thing, her needle, gone,

Rake well the cinders, sweep the floor,
And sift the dust behind the door;
While eager Hodge beholds the prize
In old grimalkin's glaring eyes;
And Gammer finds it on her knees
In every shining straw she sees.
This simile were apt enough,
But I've another, critic-proof.
The virtuoso thus at noon,
Broiling beneath a July sun,
The gilded butterfly pursues

O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews,
And after many a vain essay
To captivate the tempting prey,
Gives him at length the lucky pat,
And has him safe beneath his hat:
Then lifts it gently from the ground;
But ah! 'tis lost as soon as found;
Culprit his liberty regains;

Flits out of sight and mocks his pains.
The sense was dark, 'twas therefore fit
With simile to illustrate it;

But as too much obscures the sight,
As often as too little light,

We have our similes cut short,

For matters of more grave import.

That Matthew's numbers run with ease
Each man of common sense agrees;

All men of common sense allow,
That Robert's lines are easy too;
Where then the preference shall we place,
Or how do justice in this case?
Matthew (says Fame) with endless pains
Smooth'd and refined the meanest strains,
Nor suffer'd one ill-chosen rhyme
To escape him at the idlest time;
And thus o'er all a lustre cast,
That while the language lives shall last.
An't please your ladyship, (quoth I,—
For 'tis my business to reply ;)
Sure so much labour, so much toil,
Bespeak at least a stubborn soil.
Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed,

Who both write well and write full speed;
Who throw their Helicon about

As freely as a conduit spout.
Friend Robert, thus like chien savant,
Lets fall a poem, en passant,
Nor needs his genuine ore refine;
'Tis ready polish'd from the mine.

AN ODE,

ON READING MR. RICHARDSON'S HISTORY OF

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON.

SAY, ye apostate and profane, Wretches who blush not to disdain

Allegiance to your God,Did e'er your idly-wasted love Of virtue for her sake remove

And lift you from the crowd?

Would you the race of glory run,
Know, the devout and they alone,
Are equal to the task :

The labours of the illustrious course
Far other than the unaided force

Of human vigour ask,

To arm against repeated ill
The patient heart too brave to feel
The tortures of despair:
Nor safer yet high-crested pride,
When wealth flows in with every tide
To gain admittance there.

To rescue from the tyrant's sword
The oppress'd;-unseen and unimplored,
To cheer the face of woe;
From lawless insult to defend
An orphan's right, a fallen friend,
And a forgiven foe;

These, these distinguish from the crowd,
And these alone, the great and good,

The guardians of mankind;

Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, Oh, with what matchless speed, they leave The multitude behind!

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth Virtues like these derive their birth?

Derived from Heaven alone, Full on that favour'd breast they shine, Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart;-but while the Muse
Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,
Her feebler spirits faint:

She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
That subject for an angel's song,
The hero, and the saint!

ADDRESSED TO MISS MACARTNEY,

AFTERWARDS MRS. GREVILLE,

ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. 1762.

AND dwells there in a female heart,
By bounteous heaven design'd
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined;

Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,

To smother in ignoble rest

At once both bliss and woe?

Far be the thought, and far the strain,
Which breathes the low desire,
How sweet soe'er the verse complain,
Though Phoebus string the lyre.
Come then, fair maid, (in nature wise)
Who, knowing them, can tell
From generous sympathy what joys
The glowing bosom swell;

In justice to the various powers
Of pleasing, which you share,
Join me, amid your silent hours,
To form the better prayer.

With lenient balm may Oberon hence
To fairy-land be driven,
With every herb that blunts the sense
Mankind received from heaven.

"Oh! if my Sovereign Author please, Far be it from my fate, To live unblest in torpid ease,

And slumber on in state;

Each tender tie of life defied,
Whence social pleasures spring;
Unmoved with all the world beside,
A solitary thing."

Some Alpine mountain wrapt in snow,
Thus braves the whirling blast,
Eternal winter doom'd to know,
No genial spring to taste;

In vain warm suns their influence shed,
The zephyrs sport in vain,

He rears unchanged his barren head,
Whilst beauty decks the plain.

What though in scaly armour dress'd,
Indifference may repel

The shafts of woe, in such a breast
No joy can ever dwell.

"Tis woven in the world's great plan,
And fix'd by Heaven's decree,
That all the true delights of man

Should spring from Sympathy.

'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws
Of nature we retain,

Our self-approving bosom draws
A pleasure from its pain.

Thus grief itself has comforts dear,
The sordid never know;

And ecstacy attends the tear,

When virtue bids it flow.

For when it streams from that pure source, No bribes the heart can win,

To check, or alter from its course

The luxury within.

Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,
Who, if from labour eased,
Extend no care beyond themselves,
Unpleasing and unpleased.

Let no low thought suggest the prayer!
Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me,
Long as I draw ethereal air,
Sweet Sensibility!

Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen,
With lustre-beaming eye,

A train, attendant on their queen,
(Her rosy chorus) fly.

The jocund Loves in Hymen's band,
With torches ever bright,

And generous Friendship hand in hand,
With Pity's watery sight.

The gentler Virtues too are join'd,
In youth immortal warm,

The soft relations which combined
Give life her every charm.

The Arts come smiling in the close,
And lend celestial fire ;

The marble breathes, the canvass glows,
The Muses sweep the lyre.

"Still may my melting bosom cleave

To sufferings not my own;
And still the sigh responsive heave,
Where'er is heard a groan.

So Pity shall take Virtue's part,
Her natural ally,

And fashioning my soften'd heart,
Prepare it for the sky."

This artless vow may Heaven receive,
And you, fond maid, approve;
So may your guiding angel give
Whate'er you wish or love.

So may the rosy-finger'd hours
Lead on the various year,

And every joy, which now is yours,
Extend a larger sphere.

And suns to come, as round they wheel,
Your golden moments bless,
With all a tender heart can feel,
Or lively fancy guess.

THE

FIFTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

PRINTED IN DUNCOMBE'S HORACE.

1759,

A HUMOROUS DRSCRIPTION OF THE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY FROM

ROME TO BRUNDUSIUM.

"Twas a long journey lay before us, When I, and honest Heliodorus,

Who far in point of rhetoric

Surpasses every living Greek,

Each leaving our respective home
Together sallied forth from Rome.
First at Aricia we alight,

And there refresh and pass the night,
Our entertainment rather coarse

Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse.
Thence o'er the causeway soft and fair
To Appiiforum we repair.
But as this road is well supplied
(Temptation strong!) on either side

With inns commodious, snug, and warm,
We split the journey, and perform
In two days' time what's often done
By brisker travellers in one.
Here, rather choosing not to sup
Than with bad water mix my cup,
After a warm debate, in spite
Of a provoking appetite,
I sturdily resolved at last
To balk it, and pronounce a fast,
And in a moody humour wait,
While my less dainty comrades bait.

Now o'er the spangled hemisphere
Diffused the starry train appear,
When there arose a desperate brawl;
The slaves and bargemen, one and all,
Rending their throats (have mercy on us!)
As if they were resolved to stun us.
"Steer the barge this way to the shore!
I tell you we'll admit no more!
Plague! will you never be content?"
Thus a whole hour at least is spent,
While they receive the several fares,
And kick the mule into his gears.

Happy, these difficulties past,

Could we have fallen asleep at last!
But, what with humming, croaking, biting,
Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting,
These tuneful natives of the lake
Conspired to keep us broad awake.
Besides, to make the concert full,
Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull,
The bargeman and a passenger,
Each in his turn, essay'd an air

In honour of his absent fair.
At length the passenger, opprest
With wine, left off, and snored the rest.
The weary bargeman too gave o'er,
And hearing his companion snore,
Seized the occasion, fix'd the barge,
Turn'd out his mule to graze at large,
And slept forgetful of his charge.
And now the sun o'er eastern hill,
Discover'd that our barge stood still;
When one, whose anger vex'd him sore,
With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore,
Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack
Assails the mule and driver's back.

Then slowly moving on with pain,
At ten Feronia's stream we gain,
And in her pure and glassy wave
Our hands and faces gladly lave.
Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's height
We reach, with stony quarries white.
While here, as was agreed, we wait,
Till, charged with business of the state,
Maecenas and Cocceius come,
The messengers of peace from Rome.
My eyes, by watery humours blear
And sore, I with black balsam smear.
At length they join us, and with them
Our worthy friend Fonteius came;
A man of such complete desert,
Antony loved him at his heart.
At Fundi we refused to bait,

And laugh'd at vain Aufidius' state,
A prætor now, a scribe before,
The purple-border'd robe he wore,
His slave the smoking censer bore.
Tired at Muræna's we repose,

At Formia sup at Capito's.

With smiles the rising morn we greet,
At Sinuessa pleased to meet
With Plotius, Varius, and the bard
Whom Mantua first with wonder heard.
The world no purer spirits knows;
For none my heart more warmly glows.
Oh! what embraces we bestow'd,
And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd!
Sure while my sense is sound and clear,
Long as I live, I shall prefer
A gay, good-natured, easy friend,
To every blessing Heaven can send.
At a small village, the next night,
Near the Vulturnus we alight;
Where, as employ'd on state affairs,
We were supplied by the purveyors
Frankly at once, and without hire,
With food for man and horse, and fire.
Capuá next day betimes we reach,
Where Virgil and myself, who each
Labour'd with different maladies,

His such a stomach,-mine such eyes,-
As would not bear strong exercise,

In drowsy mood to sleep resort; Maecenas to the tennis-court.

Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated,
Above the Caudian tavern seated;
His kind and hospitable board

With choice of wholesome food was stored.
Now, O ye nine, inspire my lays!
To nobler themes my fancy raise !
Two combatants, who scorn to yield
The noisy, tongue-disputed field,
Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claim
A poet's tribute to their fame ;
Cicirrus of true Oscian breed,
Sarmentus, who was never freed,

But ran away. We don't defame him;
His lady lives, and still may claim him.
Thus dignified, in harder fray
These champions their keen wit display,
And first Sarmentus led the way.
"Thy locks, (quoth he) so rough and coarse,
Look like the mane of some wild horse."
We laugh: Cicirrus undismay'd-
"Have at you!"-cries, and shakes his
head.

« "Tis well (Sarmentus says) you've lost
That horn your forehead once could boast,
Since maim'd and mangled as you are,
You seem to butt." A hideous scar
Improved ('tis true) with double grace
The native horrors of his face.
Well. After much jocosely said
Of his grim front, so fiery red,
(For carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er,
As usual on Campania's shore)

"Give us, (he cried,) since you're so big,
A sample of the Cyclops' jig!

Your shanks methinks no buskins ask,
Nor does your phiz require a mask."
To this Cicirrus: "In return
Of you, Sir, now I fain would learn,
When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave,
Your chains you to the Lares gave.

For though a scrivener's right you claim,
Your lady's title is the same.

But what could make you run away,
Since, pigmy as you are, each day
A single pound of bread would quite
O'erpower your puny appetite?"

Thus joked the champions, while we laugh'd,
And many a cheerful bumper quaff 'd.
To Beneventum next we steer ;
Where our good host by over care
In roasting thrushes lean as mice
Had almost fallen a sacrifice.
The kitchen soon was all on fire,
And to the roof the flames aspire.
There might you see each man and master
Striving, amidst this sad disaster,
To save the supper. Then they came
With speed enough to quench the flame.
From hence we first at distance see
The Apulian hills, well known to me,
Parch'd by the sultry western blast;
And which we never should have past,
Had not Trivicus by the way
Received us at the close of day.
But each was forced at entering here
To pay the tribute of a tear,

For more of smoke than fire was seen;
The hearth was piled with logs so green.

From hence in chaises we were carried
Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarried
At a small town, whose name my verse
(So barbarous is it) can't rehearse.
Know it you may by many a sign,
Water is dearer far than wine.
There bread is deem'd such dainty fare,
That every prudent traveller

His wallet loads with many a crust;
For at Canusium, you might just
As well attempt to gnaw a stone
As think to get a morsel down.
That too with scanty streams is fed ;
Its founder was brave Diomed.
Good Varius (ah, that friends must part!)
Here left us all with aching heart.
At Rubi we arrived that day,
Well jaded by the length of way,
And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter.
Next day no weather could be better;
No roads so bad; we scarce could crawl
Along to fishy Barium's wall.

The Egnatians next, who by the rules
Of common sense are knaves or fools,
Made all our sides with laughter heave,
Since we with them must needs believe
That incense in their temples burns,
And without fire to ashes turns.
To circumcision's bigots tell
Such tales! for me, I know full well,
That in high heaven, unmoved by care,
The Gods eternal quiet share :
Nor can I deem their spleen the cause
Why fickle nature breaks her laws.
Brundusium last we reach and there
Stop short the Muse and Traveller.

THE

NINTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT.

ADAPTED TO THE PRESENT TIMES.

1759.

SAUNTERING along the street one day,
On trifles musing by the way,
Up steps a free familiar wight;
(I scarcely knew the man by sight.)
"Carlos (he cried) your hand, my dear!
Gad, I rejoice to meet you here!
Pray Heaven I see you well!"
"So, so ;
Even well enough as times now go.
The same good wishes, sir, to you."
Finding he still pursued me close,
"Sir, you have business, I suppose?"
"My business, sir, is quickly done,
"Tis but to make my merit known.
Sir, I have read"-" O learned sir,
You and your learning I revere.”
Then, sweating with anxiety,
And sadly longing to get free,
Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't,
Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short,
Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near,
And whisper'd nothing in his ear.

Teased with his loose unjointed chat, "What street is this? What house is that?" O Harlow, how I envied thee

Thy unabash'd effrontery,

Who darest a foe with freedom blame,
And call a coxcomb by his name!
When I return'd him answer none,
Obligingly the fool ran on,
"I see you're dismally distress'd,
Would give the world to be released,
But, by your leave, sir, I shall still
Stick to your skirts, do what you will.
Pray which way does your journey tend?"
"O'tis a tedious way, my friend,

Across the Thames, the Lord knows where:
I would not trouble you so far."
"Well I'm at leisure to attend you."
"Are you? (thought I) the De'il befriend
you!"

No ass with double panniers rack'd,
Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd,
E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull
As I, nor half so like a fool.
"Sir, I know little of myself,
(Proceeds the pert conceited elf)
If Gray or Mason you will deem
Than me more worthy your esteem.
Poems I write by folios,

As fast as other men write prose.
Then I can sing so loud, so clear,
That Beard cannot with me compare.
In dancing too I all surpass,

Not Cooke can move with such a grace.”
Here I made shift, with much ado,
To interpose a word or two.-
"Have you no parents, sir, no friends,
Whose welfare on your own depends?"
"Parents, relations, say you? No.
They're all disposed of long ago."-
"Happy to be no more perplex'd!
My fate too threatens, I go next.
Despatch me, sir, 'tis now too late,
Alas! to struggle with my fate!
Well, I'm convinced my time is come.
When young, a gipsy told my doom;
The beldame shook her palsied head,
As she perused my palm, and said,
'Of poison, pestilence, or war,
Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh,
You have no reason to beware.
Beware the coxcomb's idle prate;
Chiefly, my son, beware of that!
Be sure, when you behold him, fly
Out of all earshot, or you die!"

To Rufus' Hall we now draw near, Where he was summon'd to appear, Refute the charge the plaintiff brought, Or suffer judgment by default. "For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait One moment! I'll be with you straight." Glad of a plausible pretence"Sir, I must beg you to dispense With my attendance in the court. My legs will surely suffer for't.""Nay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile!" "Faith, sir, in law I have no skill. Besides, I have no time to spare, I must be going, you know where." "Well, I protest, I'm doubtful now, Whether to leave my suit or you!" "Me, without scruple! (I reply) Me, by all means, sir!"" No, not I. Allons, monsieur !" "Twere vain (you know) To strive with a victorious foe.

So I reluctantly obey,
And follow, where he leads the way.
"You and Newcastle are so close;
Still hand and glove, sir, I suppose
?"
"Newcastle (let me tell you, sir,)
Has not his equal everywhere."

"Well. There indeed your fortune's made!
Faith, sir, you understand your trade.
Would you but give me your good word!
Just introduce me to my lord.

I should serve charmingly by way Of second fiddle, as they say: What think you, sir? 'twere a good jest. 'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest.". "Sir, you mistake the matter far, We have no second fiddles there." "Richer than I some folks may be: More learned, but it hurts not me. Friends though he has of different kind, Each has his proper place assign'd." "Strange matters these alleged by you !""Strange they may be, but they are true.' "Well, then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever: Now I long ten times more than ever To be advanced extremely near

One of his shining character."

"Have but the will-there wants no more,
"Tis plain enough you have the power.
His easy temper (that's the worst)
He knows, and is so shy at first.
But such a cavalier as you-
Lord, sir, you'll quickly bring him to!
"Well ; if I fail in my design,
Sir, it shall be no fault of mine.
If by the saucy servile tribe
Denied, what think you of a bribe?
Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow,
But try my luck again to-morrow,
Never attempt to visit him
But at the most convenient time,
Attend him on each levee day,
And there my humble duty pay.
Labour, like this, our want supplies;
And they must stoop, who mean to rise."
While thus he wittingly harangued,
For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd,
Campley, a friend of mine, came by,
Who knew his humour more than I.
We stop, salute, and-" Why so fast,
Friend Carlos? Whither all this haste?"
Fired at the thoughts of a reprieve,
I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve,
Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout,
Do everything but speak plain out;
While he, sad dog, from the beginning
Determined to mistake my meaning,
Instead of pitying my curse,

By jeering made it ten times worse.
"Campley, what secret (pray!) was that
You wanted to communicate?"
"I recollect. But 'tis no matter.
Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter.
E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell
Another time, sir, just as well."

Was ever such a dismal day?
Unlucky cur, he steals away,
And leaves me, half bereft of life,
At mercy of the butcher's knife;
When sudden, shouting from afar,
See his antagonist appear!