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How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forsaken bowers restore ;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ;
No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other hills, however Fortune frown'd;
Some refuge in the Muse's art I found:
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him, who taught me how to sing ;
And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.
0! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)
The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong,
And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song!

These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid,
To thee, O Craggs, th’expiring sage convey'd,
Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame,
Nor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,
And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.
Blest pair? whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues : each other's boast! farewell,
Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship tried,
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.

And oft have sallied out to pillage
The hen-roosts of some peaceful village,
Or, while their neighbors were asleep,
Have carried off a lowland sheep.

“What boots thy high-born host of beggars,
Mac-leans, Mac-kenzies, and Mac-gregors,
With popish cut-throats, perjur'd ruffians,
And Foster's troop of ragamuffins ?

“In vain thy lads around thee bandy,
Inflam'd with bagpipe and with brandy.
Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty,
With heart so true, and voice so rusty,
(A loyal soul) thy troops affright,
While hoarsely he demands the fight?
Dost thou not generous Ilay dread,
The bravest hand, the wisest head ?
Undaunted dost thou hear th' alarms
Of hoary Athol sheath'd in arms ?

"Douglas, who draws his lineage down
From thanes and peers of high renown,
Fiery, and young, and uncontrollid,
With knights, and squires, and barons bold,
(His noble household-band) advances,
And on the milk-white courser prances.
Thee Forfar to the combat dares,
Grown swarthy in Iberian wars ;
And Monroe, kindled into rage,
Sourly defies thee to engage;
He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many,
And horse to boot—if thou hadst any.

“But see Argyle, with watchful eyes,
Lodgid in his deep intrenchments lies,
Couch'd like a lion in thy way,
He waits to spring upon his prey ;
While, like a herd of timorous deer,
Thy army shakes and pants with fear,
Led by their doughty general's skill,
From frith to frith, from hill to hill.

" Is thus thy haughty promise paid
That to the Chevalier was made,
When thou didst oaths and duty barter,
For dukedom, generalship, and garter ?
Three moons thy Jemmy shall command,
With Highland sceptre in his hand,
Too good for his pretended birth,
..Then down shall fall the king of Perth.

“ 'Tis so decreed: for George shall reign
And traitors be forsworn in vain.
Heaven shall for ever on him smile,
And bless him still with an Argyle.
While thou, pursu'd by vengeful foes,
Condemn'd to barreň rocks and snows,
And hinder'd passing Inverlocky,
Shall burn the clan, and curse poor Jocky'

AN IMITATION

OF THE PROPHECY OF NEREUS. FROM HORACE. Book II. Ode XV.

Dicam insigne, recens, adhuc

Indictum ore alio : non secus in jugis
Ex somnis stupet Euias

Hobrum prospiciens, et nive candidam
Thracen, ac pede barbaro
Lustratam Rhodopen.

Hor.
As Mar his round one morning took,
(Whom some call earl, and some call duke),
And his new brethren of the blade,
Shivering with fear and frost, survey'd,
On Perth's bleak hills he chano'd to spy
An aged wizard six feet high,
With bristled hair and visage blighted,
Wall-ey'd, bare-baunchd, and second-sighted.

The grisly sage in thought profound
Beheld the chief with back so round,
Then roll'd his eyeballs to and fro
O'er his paternal hills of snow,
And into these tremendous speeches
Broke forth the prophet without breeches.

“ Into what ills betray'd, by thee,
This ancient kingdom do I see!
Her realms unpeopled and forlorn!
Wae's me! that ever thou wert born!
Proud English loons (our clans o'ercome)
On Scottish pads shall amble home;
I see them drest in bonnets blue
(The spoils of thy rebellious crew);
I see the target cast away,
And chequer'd plaid become their prey,
The chequer'd plaid to make a gown
For many a lass in London town.

“In vain thy hungry mountaineers
Come forth in all thy warlike gears,
The shield, the pistol, dirk, and dagger,
In which they daily wont to swagger,

AN EPISTLE

FROM A LADY IN ENGLAND TO A GENTLEMAN

AT AVIGNON.

To thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends,
The health, she wants, thy gentle Chloe sends.
Though much you suffer, think I suffer more,
Worse than an exile on my native shore.
Companions in your master's flight, you roam,
Unenvied by your haughty foes at home;
For ever near the royal outlaw's side,
You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide,

On glorious schemes and thoughts of empire dwell, Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
And with imaginary titles swell.

To vend the discontented statesman's thought,
Say, for thou know'st I own his sacred line, Though red with stripes, and recent from the thong
The passive doctrine, and the right divine, Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
Say, what new succors does the chief prepare ? The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade,
The strength of armies ? or the force of prayer? Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Does he from Heaven or Earth his hopes derive? Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
From saints departed, or from priests alive? (stand, And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.
Nor saints nor priests can Brunswick's troops with- Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause,
And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand ; His sword for James no brother sovereign draws.
Heaven to our vows may future kingdoms owe, The pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
But skill and courage win the crowns below. To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms,

Ere to thy cause, and thee, my heart inclin'd, And though he hears his darling son's complaint, Or love to party had seduc'd my mind,

Can hardly spare one tutelary saint, In female joys I took a dull delight,

But lists them all to guard his own abodes, Slept all the morn, and punted half the night: And into ready money coins his gods. But now, with fears and public cares possest, The dauntless Swede, pursued by vengeful foes, The church, the church, for ever breaks my rest. Scarce keeps his own hereditary snows; The postboy on my pillow I explore,

Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain And sist the news of every foreign shore,

With feasts regale our garter'd youth again. Studious to find new friends, and new allies; Safe, Bar-le-Duc, within thy silent grove What armies march from Sweden in disguise ; The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove. How Spain prepares her banners to unfold, The knight, who aims unerring from afar, And Rome deals out her blessings, and her gold: Th’adventurous knight, now quits the sylvan war: Then o'er the map my finger, taught to stray, Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd, Cross many a region marks the winding way; Or grunt secure beneath the chestnut shade. From sea to sea, from realm to realm I rove, Inconstant Orleans (still we mourn the day And grow a mere geographer by love :

That trusted Orleans with imperial sway) But still Avignon, and the pleasing coast

Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends, That holds thee banish'd, claims my care the most : Far from the call of his desponding friends. Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes, Such are the terms, to gain Britannia's grace! And span the distance that between us lies. And such the terrors of the Brunswick race!

Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair, Was it for this the Sun's whole lustre failid, Whilst on his side he reckons half the fair : And sudden midnight o'er the Moon prevail'd! In Britain's lovely isle a shining throng

For this did Heaven display to mortal eyes War in his cause, a thousand beauties strong. Aërial knights and combats in the skies! Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their powers ;

Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red! Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours. And Thames driv'n backward show'd his secret bed We reason with such fluency and fire,

False auguries! th' insulting victor's scorn! The beaux we baffle, and the learned tire, Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn! Against her prelates plead the church's cause, O portents construed on our side in vain! And from our judges vindicate the laws.

Let never Tory trust eclipse again! Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms lost; Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye skies ! A crown, though late, thy sacred brows may boast; And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise ! Heaven seems through us thy empire to decree; To Rome then must the royal wanderer go, Those who win hearts, have given their hearts to thee. And fall a suppliant at the papal toc ?

Hast thou not heard that when, profusely gay, His life sloth inglorious must he wear, Our well-drest rivals grac'd their sovereign's day, One half in luxury, and one in prayer ? We stubborn damsels met the public view His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease, In lothesome wormwood, and repenting rue ? The proffer'd purple and the hat may please. What Whig but trembled, when our spotless band Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race In virgin roses whiten'd half the land !

To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace, Who can forget what fears the foe possest, In solemn conclave sit, devoid of thought, When oaken-boughs mark'd every loyal breast! And poll for points of faith his trusty vote! Less scar'd than Medway's stream the Norman stood, Be summon'd to his stall in time of need, When cross the plain he spied a marching wood, And with his casting suffrage fix a creed ! Till, near at hand, a gleam of swords betray'd Shall he in robes on stated days appear, The youth of Kent beneath its wandering shade? And English heretics curse once a year!

Those who the succors of the fair despise, Garnet and Faux shall he with prayers invoke, May find that we have nails as well as eyes. And beg that Smithfield piles once more may smoke! Thy female bards, O prince by fortune crost, Forbid it, Heaven! my soul, to fury wrought, At least more courage than thy men can boast : Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought. Our sex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet, From James and Rome I feel my heart decline, And purchas'd fame in many a well-fought street. And fear, O Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine; From Drury-Lane, the region of renown,

Yet still his share thy rival will contest, The land of love, the Paphos of the town, And sull the double claim divides my breast. Fair patriots sallying oft have put to flight The fate of James with pitying eyes I view, With all their poles the guardians of the night, And wish my homage were not Brunswick’s due: And bore, with screams of triumph, to their side To James my passion and my weakness guide, The leader's staff in all its painted pride. But reason sways me to the victor's side.

Where Britain's foremost names are found,
In peace belov'd, in war renown'd,
Who made the hostile nations moan,
Or brought a blessing on their own:

Once more a son of Spencer waits. A name familiar to thy gates ; Sprung from the chief whose prowess gain'd The Garter while thy founder reign'd, He offer'd here his dinted shield, The dread of Gauls in Cressi's field, Which, in thy high-arch'd temple rais'd; For four long centuries hath blaz’d.

These seats our sires, a hardy kind, To the fierce sons of war confin’d, The flower of chivalry, who drew With sinew'd arm the stubborn yew: Or with heav'd pole-ax clear'd the field ; Or who, in joust and lourneys skill'd, Before their ladies' eyes renown'd, Threw horse and horseman to the ground.

Though griev'd I speak it, let the truth appear!
You know my language, and my heart, sincere.
In vain did falsehood his fair fame disgrace :
What force had falsehood when he show'd his face !
In vain to war our boastful clans were led
Heaps driv'n on heaps, in the dire shock they fled :
France shuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame
A second Dunkirk in another name :
In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows:
Spite of feign'd fears and artificial cries,
The pious town sees fifty churches rise :
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And sits more firmly on his shaken throne.

To my sad thought no beam of hope appears
Through the long prospect of succeeding years.
The son, aspiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his sire : another and the same.
He, blest in lovely Carolina's arms,
To future ages propagates her charms :
With pain and joy at strife, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face ;
Half sickening at the sight, too well I spy
The father's spirit through the mother's eye :
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And strive to hate their innocence in vain.

O princess! happy by thy foes consest !
Blest in thy husband ! in thy children blest!
As they from thee, from them new beauties born,
While Europe lasts, shall Europe's thrones adorn.
Transplanted to each court, in times to come,
Thy smile celestial and unfading bloom,
Great Austria's sons with softer lines shall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race.
The fair descendants of thy sacred bed,
Wide-branching o'er the western world, shall spread
Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot
To earth ward bending of itself takes root,
Till, like their mother plant, ten thousand stand
In verdant arches on the fertile land;
Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove,
Or hunt, at large, through the wide echoing grove.

O thou, to whom these mournful lines I send, My promis'd husband, and my dearest friend; Since Heaven appoints this favor'd race to reign, And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain ;) Must I be wretched, and thy flight partake ? Or wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's sake, Tird out at length, submit to fate's decree? If not to Brunswick, O return to me! Prostrate before the victor's mercy bend : What spares whole thousands, may to thee extend. Should blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blame, Great Brunswick's virtue shall secure thy fame : Say these invite thee to approach his throne, And own the monarch Heaven vouchsafes to own : The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve ; Say this to them; but swear to me 'twas love.

In after-times, as courts refin'd, Our patriots in the list were join'd. Not only Warwick stain'd with blood, Or Marlborough near the Danube's flood, Have in their crimson crosses glow'd; But, on just lawgivers bestow'd, These emblems Cecil did invest, And gleam'd on wise Godoiphin's breast

So Greece, ere arts began to rise, Fix'd huge Orion in the skies, And stern Alcides, fam'd in wars, Bespangled with a thousand stars ; Till letter'd Athens round the Pole Made gentler constellations roll; In the blue heavens the lyre she strung, And near the Maid the Balance * hung.

Then, Spencer, mount amid the band, Where knights and kings promiscuous stand. What though the hero's Name repress'd Burns calmly in thy generous breast ! Yet who more dauntless to oppose In doubtful days our home-bred foes ! Who rais'd his country's wealth so high, Or view'd with less desiring eye!

The sage, who, large of soul, surveys The globe and all its empires weighs, Watchful the various climes to guide, Which seas, and tongues, and faiths, divide, A nobler name in Windsor's shrine Shall leave, if right the Muse divine, Than sprung of old, abhorr'd and vain, From ravag'd realms and myriads slain.

AN ODE

INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF SUNDERLAND,

Why praise we, prodigal of fame, The rage that sets the world on flame? My guiltless Muse his brow shall bind Whose godlike bounty spares mankind. For those, whom bloodly garlands crown, The brass may breathe, the marble frown, To him through every rescued land, Ten thousand living trophies stand.

AT WINDSOR.

Thou Dome, where Edward first enroll'd His red-cross knights and barons bold, Whose vacant seats, by Virtue bought, Ambitious emperors have sought:

* Names of constellations.

JAMES HAMMOND.

JAMES HAMMOND, a popular elegiac poet, was the Elegies” were published soon after his death by second son of Anthony Hammond, Esq. of Somer- Lord Chesterfield, and have been several times sham place, in Huntingdonshire. He was born in reprinted. It will seem extraordinary that the no1710, and was educated in Westminster school, ble editor has only once mentioned the name of where at an early age he obtained the friendship of Tibullus, and has asserted that Hammond, sincere several persons of distinction, among whom were in his love, as in his friendship, spoke only the Lords Cobham, Chesterfield, and Lyttleton. He genuine sentiments of his heart, when there are so was appointed equerry to Frederic, Prince of Wales, many obvious imitations of the Roman poet, even and upon his interest was brought into parliament so far as the adoption of his names of Neera, Cynin 1741, for Truro in Cornwall. This was nearly thia, and Delia. It must, however, be acknowhe last stage of his life, for he died in June 1742, ledged, that he copies with the hand of a master, at the seat of Lord Cobham, at Stowe. An unfor- and that his imitations are generally managed with tunate passion for a young lady, Miss Dashwood, a grace that almost conceals their character. Still who was cold to his addresses, is thought to have as they are, in fact, poems of this class, however disordered his mind, and perhaps contributed to his skilfully transposed, we shall content ourselves with premature death.

transcribing one which introduces the name of his Hammond was a man of an amiable character, principal patron with peculiarly happy effect. and was much regretted by his friends. His “Love

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What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast !

Or lullid to slumber by the beating rain,
ELEGY.

Secure and happy, sink at last to rest!
He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, Or, if the Sun in flaming Leo ride,

content with each other, they are retired into the By shady rivers indolently stray, country.

And with my Delia, walking side by side,

Hear how they murmur, as they glide away!
LET others boast their heaps of shining gold, What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
And view their fields, with waving plenty crown'd, To stop, and gaze on Delia as I go!
Whom neighboring foes in constant terror hold, To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound. And teach my lovely scholar all I know!
While calmly poor I trifle life away,

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,

In silent happiness I rest unknown;
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,

Content with what I am, not what I seem,
But, cheaply blest, I'll scorn each vain desire. I live for Delia and myself alone.
With timely care I'll sow my little field,

Ah, foolish man, who thus of her possest,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
Nor blusb to spread the hay, the hook to wield, And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind!
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,

With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,

Nor trust to happiness that's not our own; Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, The smile of fortune might suspicion raise, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. But here I know that I am lov'd alone.

Stanhope, in wisdom as in wit divine,

Delia alone can please, and never tire, May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause, Exceed the paint of thought in true delight; With steady rein his eager wit confine,

With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, While maniy sense the deep attention draws. And equal rapture glows through every night : Let Stanhope speak his listening country's wrongs, Beauty and worth in her alike contend, My humble voice shall please one partial maid ; To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; For her alone I pen my tender song,

In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, Securely sitting in his friendly shade.

I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd. Stanhope shall come, and grace his rural friend, On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er, Delia shall wonder at her noble guest,

And dying press her with my clay-cold handWith blushing awe the riper fruit commend, Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, And for her husband's patron cull the best. Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand Hers be the care of all my little train,

Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare, While I with tender indolence am blest,

Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, The favorite subject of her gentle reign, Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, By love alone distinguish'd from the rest. Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still: For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow,

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed. In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock;

Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart; For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow, Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead, And sleep extended on the naked rock.

These weeping friends will do thy mournful part: Ah, what avails to press the stately bed,

Let them, extended on the decent bier, And far from her midst tasteless grandeur weep, Convey the corse in melancholy state, By marble fountains lay the pensive head, Through all the village spread the tender tear, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep? While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

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