Their top-debauches were at best precise,
An unimprov'd simplicity of vice.
But this blest age has found a fairer road,
And left the paths their ancestors have trod.
Nay, we could wear (our taste so very nice is)
Their old cast-fashions sooner than their vices.
Whoring till now a common trade has been,
But masquerades refine upon the sin:
An higher Taste to wickedness impart,
And second Nature with the helps of art.
New ways and means to pleasure we devise,
Since pleasure looks the lovelier in disguise.
The stealth and frolic give a smarter gust,
Add wit to vice, and eloquence to lust.
In vain the modish evil to redress,
At once conspire the pulpit and the press:
Our priests and poets preach and write in vain ;
All satire's lost both sacred and profane.
So many various changes to impart,
Would tire an Ovid's or a Proteus' art;
Where lost in one promiscuous whim we see,
Sex, age, condition, quality, degree.
Where the facetious crowd themselves lay down,
And take up every person but their own.
Fools, dukes, rakes, cardinals, fops, Indian queens,
Belles in tye-wigs, and lords in harlequins;
Troops of right-honourable porters come, [room:
And garter'd small-coal-merchants crowd the
Valets adorn'd with coronets appear,
Lacqueys of state, and footmen with a star:
Sailors of quality with judges mix,
And chimney-sweepers drive their coach and six.
Statesmen so us'd at court the mask to wear,
With less, disguise assume the vizor here.
Officious Heydegger deceives our eyes,
For his own person is his best disguise:
And half the reigning toasts of equal grace,
Trust to the natural vizor of the face.
Idiots turn conjurers, and courtiers clowns ;
And sultans drop their handkerchiefs to nuns.
Starch'd quakers glare in furbelows and silk;
Beaux deal in sprats, and dutchesses cry milk.
But guard thy fancy, Muse, nor stain thy pen
With the lewd joys of this fantastic scene;
Where sexes blend in one confus'd intrigue,
Where the girls ravish, and the men grow big:
Nor credit what the idle world has said,
Of lawyers forc'd, and judges brought to bed:
Or that to belles their brothers breathe their vows,
Or husbands through mistake gallant a spouse.
Such dive disasters, and a numerous throng
Of like enormities, require the song:
But the chaste Muse, with blushes cover'd o'er,
Retires confus'd, and will reveal no more.
The fond philosophers for gain
Will leave unturn'd no stone;
But though they toil with endless pain,
They never find their own.
By the same rock the chymists drown,
And find no friendly hold,
But melt their ready specie down,
In hopes of fancy'd gold.
What is the mad projector's care?
In hopes elate and swelling,
He builds his castles in the air,
Yet wants an house to dwell in.
At court the poor dependants fail,
And damn their fruitless toil,
When complimented thence to jail,
And ruin'd with a smile.
How to philosophers will sound
So strange a truth display'd? "There's not a substance to be found, But every where a shade."
TO CELIA PLAYING ON A LUTE.
WHILE Calia's hands fly swiftly o'er,
And strike this soft machine,
Her touch awakes the springs, and life
Of harmony within.
Sweetly they sink into the strings,
The quivering strings rebound,
Each stroke obsequiously obey,
And tremble into sound.
Oh! had you blest the years of old;
His lute had Ovid strung,
And dwelt on yours, the charming theme
Of his immortal song,
Your's, with Arion's wondrous harp,
The bard had hung on high;
And on the new-born star bestow'd
The honours of the sky.
The radiant spheres had ceas'd their tunes,
And danc'd in silence on,
Pleas'd the new harmony to hear,
More heavenly than their own.
Of old to raise one shade from Hell,
To Orpheus was it given:
But every tune of yours calls down
An angel from his Heaven.
How are deluded human kind
By empty shows betray'd?
In all their hopes and schemes they find
A nothing or a shade.
The prospects of a truncheon cast
The soldier on the wars;
Dismist with shatter'd limbs at last,
Brats, poverty, and scars.
AUTHOR OF THE BATTLE OF THE SEXES,
THE theme in other works, for every part,
Supplies materials to the builder's art :
To build from matter, is sublimely great,
But gods and poets only can create;
And such are you; their privilege you claim,
To show your wonders, but conceal your name.
Like some establish'd king, without control,
You take a general progress through the soul;
Survey each part, examine every side,
Where she's secure, and where unfortify'd.
In faithful lines her history declare,
And trace the causes of her civil war ;
Your pen no partial prejudices sway,
But truth decides, and virtue wins the day. [pass,
Through what gay fields and flowery scenes we
Where fancy sports, and fiction leads the chase?
Where life, as through her various acts she tends,
Like other comedies, in marriage ends.
What Muse but yours so justly could display
Th' embattled passions marshal'd in array ?
Bid the rang'd appetites in order move,
Give lust a figure, and a shape to love?
To airy notions solid forms dispense,
And make our thoughts the images of sense?
Discover all the rational machine,
And show the movements, springs, and wheels
But Hymen waves his torch, all discords cease;
All parley, drop their arms, and sue for peace.
Soon as the signal flames, they quit the fight,
For all at first but differ'd to unite.
From every part the lines in order move,
And sweetly centre in the point of love.
Let blockheads to the musty schools repair,
And poach for morals and the passions there,
Where Virtue, like a dwarf in giant's arms,
Cumber'd with words, and manacled in terms,
Serves to amuse the philosophic fool,
By method dry, and regularly dull.
Who sees thy lines so visibly express
The soul herself in such a pleasing dress,
May from thy labours be convinc'd and taught,
How Spencer would have sung, and Plato thought.
THE TWELFTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK
OF HORACE,
WHAT man, what hero will you raise,
By the shrill pipe, or deeper lyre?
What god, O Clio, will you praise,
And teach the echoes to admire?
Amidst the shades of Helicon,
Cold Hamus' tops, or Pindus' head, Whence the glad forests hasten'd down,
And danc'd as tuneful Orpheus play'd. Taught by the Muse, he stopp'd the fall Of rapid floods, and charm'd the wind; The listening oaks obey'd the call,
And left their wondering hills behind.
Whom should I first record, but Jove,
Whose sway extends o'er sea and land,
The king of men and gods above,
Who holds the seasons in command?
To rival Jove, shall none aspire,
None shall to equal glory rise;
But Pallas claims beneath her sire,
The second honours of the skies.
To thee, O Bacchus, great in war,
To Dian will I strike the string,
Of Phœbus wounding from afar,
In numbers like his own I'll sing.
![[ocr errors]](https://books.google.be/books/content?id=CvYSAAAAIAAJ&hl=nl&output=html_text&pg=PA381&img=1&zoom=3&q=%2522her+goods,+in+no+extreme+they+dwell%253B+There+needs+but+thinking+right,+and+meaning+well%253B+And,+mourn+our+various+portions%2522&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U1w8MyBoYVp-LcB34nzBTTjjrGwqw&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=518,501,4,21)
The Muse Alcides shall resound;
The twins of Leda shall succeed;
This for the standing fight renown'd,
And that for managing the steed,
Whose star shines innocently still;
The clouds disperse, the tempests cease,
The waves obedient to their will,
Sink down, and hush their rage to peace.
Next shall I Numa's pious reign,
Or thine, O Romulus, relate:
Or Rome by Brutus freed again,
Or haughty Cato's glorious fate?
Or dwell on noble Paulus' fame?
Too lavish of the patriot's blood?
Or Regulus' immortal name,
Too obstinately just and good?
These with Camillus brave and bold,
And other chiefs of matchless might,
Rome's virtuous poverty of old,
Severely season'd to the fight.
Like trees, Marcellus' glory grows,
With an insensible advance;
The Julian star, like Cynthia, glows,
Who leads the planetary dance.
The Fates, O sire of human race,
Entrust great Cæsar to thy care,
Give him to hold thy second place,
And reign thy sole vicegerent here.
And whether India he shall tame,
Or to his chains the Seres doom;
Or mighty Parthia dreads his name,
And bows her haughty neck to Rome.
While on our groves thy bolts are hurl'd,
And thy loud car shakes Heaven above,
He shall with justice awe the world,
To none inferior but to Jove.
THE TWENTY-SECOND ODE OF THE
FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.
THE man unsully'd with a crime,
Disdains the pangs of fear,
He scorns to dip the poison'd shaft,
Or poise the glittering spear.
Nor with the loaded quiver goes
To take the dreadful field:
His solid virtue is his helm,
And innocence his shield.
In vain the fam'd Hydaspes' tides
Obstruct and bar the road,
He smiles on danger, and enjoys
The roarings of the flood.
All climes are native, and forgets
Th' extremes of heats and frosts,
The Scythian Caucasus grows warm,
And cool the Libyan coasts.
For while I wander'd through the woods,
And rang'd the lonely grove,
Lost and bewilder'd in the songs
And pleasing cares of love;
A wolf beheld me from afar,
Of monstrous bulk and might;
But, naked as I was, he fled
And trembled at the sight.
A beast so huge, nor Daunia's grove,
Nor Afric ever view'd,
Though nurst by her, the lion reigns
The monarch of the wood.
Expose me in those horrid climes,
Where not a gentle breeze
Revives the vegetable race,
Or cheers the drooping trees:
Where on the world's remotest verge
Th' unactive seasons lie,
And not one genial ray unbinds
The rigour of the sky :
On that unhabitable shore,
Expose me all alone,
Where I may view without a shade,
The culminating Sun.
Beneath th' equator, or the pole,
In safety could I rove,
And in a thousand different climes
Could live for her I love.
A PROLOGUE FOR THE STROLLERS, GENTEELS, of old pert prologues led the way, To guide, defend, and usher in the play, As powder'd footmen run before the coach, And thunder at the door my lord's approach. But though they speak your entertainment near, Most prologues speed like other bills of fare; Seldom the languid stomach they excite, And oftner pall, than raise the appetite.
As for the play-'tis hardly worth our care,
The prologue craves your mercy for the player;
That is, your money-for by Jove I swear,
White gloves and lodging are confounded dear.
Since here are none but friends, the truth to own,
Hasp'd in a coach our company came down,
But I most shrewdly fear we shall depart,
Ev'n in our old original, a cart.
With pride inverted, and fantastic power,
We strut the fancy'd monarchs of an hour;
While duns our emperors and heroes fear,
And Cleomenes' starves in earnest here:
The mightiest kings and queens we keep in pay,
Support their pomp on eighteen-pence a day.
Great Cyrus for a dram has pawn'd his coat,
And all our Cæsars can't command a groat;
Our Scipios, Hannibals, and Pompeys break,
And Cleopatra shifts but once a week.
To aggravate the case we have not one,
Of all the new refinements of the town:
No moving statues, no lewd harlequins,
No pasteboard-players, no heroes in machines;
No rosin to flash lightning-'twould exhaust us,
To buy a devil and a Doctor Faustus.
No windmills, dragons, millers, conjurers,
To exercise your eyes, and spare your ears;
No paper-seas, no thunder from the skies,
No witches to descend, no stage to rise;
Scarce one for us the actors-we can set
Nothing before you but mere sense and wit.
A bare downright old-fashion'd English feast,
Such as true Britons only can digest;
Such as your homely fathers us'd to love,
Who only came to hear and to improve :
Humbly content and pleas'd with what was drest,
When Otway, Lee, and Shakespeare rang'd the
feast.
O KING eternal and divine!
The world is thine alone:
Above the stars thy glories shine,
Above the heavens thy throne.
How far extends thy mighty name!
Where'er the Sun can roll,
That Sun thy wonders shall proclaim,
Thy deeds from pole to pole.
The infant's tongue shall speak thy power,
And vindicate thy laws;
The tongue that never spoke before,
Shall labour in thy cause.
For when I lift my thoughts and eyes,
And view the heavens around,
Yon stretching waste of azure skies,
With stars and planets crown'd;
Who in their dance attend the Moon,
The empress of the night,
And pour around her silver throne,
Their tributary light:
Lord! what is mortal man? that he
Thy kind regard should share?
What is his son, who claims from thee
And challenges thy care?
Next to the blest angelic kind,
Thy hands created man,
And this inferior world assign'd,
To dignify his span.
Him all revere, and all obey
His delegated reign,
The Blocks that through the valley stray,
The herds that graze the plain.
The furious tiger speeds his flight,
And trembles at his power;
In fear of his superior might,
The lions cease to roar.
Whatever horrid monsters tread
The paths beneath the sea,
Their king at awful distance dread,
And sullenly obey.
O Lord, how far extends thy name!
Where-e'er the Sun can roll,
That Sun thy wonders shall proclaim,
Thy deeds from pole to pole.
'The Spartan Hero, a tragedy, by Mr. Dryden.
as the world can stretch its bounds, The Lord is king of all;
His wondrous power extends around
The circuit of the ball.
For he within the gloomy deeps
Its dark foundations cast,
And rear'd the pillars of the Earth
Amid the watery waste.
Who shall ascend his Sion's hill,
And see Jehovah there?
Who from bis sacred shrine shall breathe The sacrifice of prayer?
He only whose unsully'd soul
Fair virtue's paths has trod,
Who with clean hands and heart regards
His neighbour and his God.
On him shall his indulgent Lord
Diffusive bounties shed,
From God his Saviour shall descend
All blessings on his head.
Of those who seek his righteous ways,
Is this the chosen race,
Who bask in all his bounteous smiles,
And flourish in his grace.
Lift up your stately heads, ye doors,
With hasty reverence rise;
Ye everlasting doors, who guard
The passes of the skies.
Swift from your golden hinges leap,
Your barriers roll away,
Now throw your blazing portals wide,
And burst the gates of day.
For see! the King of Glory comes
Along th' ethereal road:
The cherubs through your folds shall bear
The triumph of your God.
Who is this great and glorious King?
Oh! 'tis the Lord, whose might
Decides the conquest, and suspends
The balance of the fight.
Lift up your stately heads, ye doors,
With hasty reverence rise;
Ye everlasting doors, who guard
The passes of the skies.
Swift from your golden hinges leap,
Your barriers roil away;
Now throw your blazing portals wide,
And burst the gates of day.
For see; the King of glory comes
Along th' ethereal road;
The cherubs through your folds shall bear
The triumphs of their God.
Who is this great and glorious King?
Oh! 'tis the God, whose care
Leads on his Israel to the field,
Whose power controls the war.
YE mighty princes, your oblations bring,
And pay due honours to your awful King;
His boundless power to all the world proclaim,
Bend at his shrine, and tremble at his name.
For hark! his voice with unresisted sway
Rules and controls the raging of the sea;
Within due bounds the mighty ocean keeps,
And in their watery cavern awes the deeps:
Shook by that voice, the nodding groves around Start from their roots, and fly the dreadful sound. The blasted cedars low in dust are laid,
And Lebanon is left without a shade.
See! when he speaks, the lofty mountains crowd,
And fly for shelter from the thundering God:
Sirion and Lebanon like hinds advance,
And in wild measures lead th' unwieldy dance.
His voice, his mighty voice, divides the fire,
Back from the blast the shrinking flames retire.
Ev'n Cades trembles when Jehovah speaks,
With all his savages the desert shakes,
At the dread sound the hinds with fear are stung,
And in the lonely forest drop their young.
While in his hallow'd temple all proclaim
His glorious honours, and adore his name,
High o'er the foaming surges of the sea
He sits, and bids the listening deeps obey :
He reigns o'er all; for ever lasts his power
Till Nature sinks, and time shall be no more.
With strength the sons of Israel shall he bless,
And crown our tribes, with happiness and peace.
ON God we build our sure defence,
In God our hope repose:
His hand protects us in the fight,
And guards us from our woes.
Then, be the Earth's unwieldy frame
From its foundations hurl'd,
We may, unmov'd with fear, enjoy
The ruins of the world.
What though the solid rocks be rent,
In tempests whirl'd away?
What though the hills should burst their roots,
And roll into the sea?
Thou sea, with dreadful tumults swell,
And bid thy waters rise
In furious surges, till they dash
The flood-gates of the skies."
Our minds shall be serene and calm,
Like Siloah's peaceful flood;
Whose soft and silver streams refresh
The city of our God.
Within the proud delighted waves,
The wanton turrets play;
The streams lead down their humid train,
Reluctant to the sea.
Amid the scene the temple floats,
With its reflected towers,
Gilds all the surface of the flood,
And dances to the shores.
With wonder see what mighty power
Our sacred Sion cheers,
Lo! there amidst her stately walls,
Her God, her God appears.
Fixt on her basis she shall stand,
And, innocently proud,
Smile on the tumults of the world,
Beneath the wings of God.
See how, their weakness to proclaim, The heathen tribes engage!
See! how with fruitless wrath they burn,
And impotence of rage!
But God has spoke; and lo! the world,
His terrours to display,
With all the melting globe of Earth,
Drops silently away.
Still to the mighty Lord of hosts
Securely we resort;
For refuge fly to Jacob's God,
Our succour and support.
Hither, ye numerous nations, crowd,
In silent rapture stand,
And see o'er all the Earth display'd
The wonders of his hand.
He bids the din of war be still,
And all its tumults cease;
He bids the guiltless trumpet sound
The harmony of peace.
He breaks the tough reluctant bow,
He bursts the brazen spear,
And in the crackling fire his hand
Consumes the blazing car.
Hear then his formidable voice,
"Be still, and know the Lord;
By all the heathen I'll be fear'd;
By all the Earth ador'd."
Still to the mighty Lord of hosts,
Securely we resort;
For refuge fly to Jacob's God;
Our succour and support.
THY hand, O Lord, through rolling years
Has sav'd us from despair,
From period down to period stretch'd
The prospects of thy care.
Before the world was first conceiv'd,
Before the pregnant Earth,
Call'd forth the mountains from her womb,
Who struggled to their birth;
Eternal God! thy early days
Beyond duration run,
Ere the first race of starting time
Was measur'd by the Sun.
We die; but future nations hear
Thy potent voice again,
Rise at the summons, and restore
The perish'd race of man ;
Before thy comprehensive sight,
Duration fleets away;
And rapid ages on the wing,
Fly swifter than a day.
As great Jehovah's piercing eyes
Eternity explore,
The longest era is a night,
A period is an hour.
We at thy mighty call, O Lord,
Our fancy'd beings leave,
Rouz'd from the flattering dream of life,
To sleep within the grave.
Swift from their barrier to their goal
The rapid moments pass,
And leave poor man, for whom they rus,
The emblem of the grass.
In the first morn of life it grows,
And lifts its verdant head,
At noon decays, at evening dies,
And withers in the mead.
We in the glories of thy face
Our secret sins survey,
And see how gloomy those appear,
How pure and radiant they.
To death, as our appointed goal,
Thy anger drives us on,
To that full period fix'd at length
This tale of life is done.
With winged speed, to stated bounds
And limits we must fly,
While seventy rolling suns compleat
Their circles in the sky.
Or if ten more around us roll,
'Tis labour, woe, and strife,
Till we at length are quite drawn down
To the last dregs of life.
But who, O Lord, regards thy wrath,
Though dreadful and severe ?
That wrath, whatever fear he feels,
Is equal
to his fear.
So teach us, Lord, to count our days,
And eye their constant race,
To measure what we want in time,
By wisdom, and by grace.
With us repent, and on our hearts
Thy choicest graces shed,
And shower from thy celestial throne
Thy blessings on our head.
Oh! may thy mercy crown us here,
And come without delay;
Then our whole course of life will seem
One glad triumphant day.
Now the blest years of joy restore,
For those of grief and strife,
And with one pleasant drop allay
This bitter draught of life.
Thy wonders to the world display,
Thy servants to adorn,
That may delight their future sons,
And children yet unborn;
Thy beams of majesty diffuse,
With them thy great commands,
And bid prosperity attend
The labours of our hands.
PSALM CXXXIX.
PARAPHRASED, IN MILTONIC VERSE.
O dread Jehovah! thy all-piercing eyes Explore the motions of this mortal frame,
|