Without one wish I see the guineas shine,
"Fate, keep your gold," I cry, "make Chloe mine."
Now see, prepar'd their utmost speed to try,
O'er the smooth turf the bounding racers fly!
Now more and more their slender limbs they strain,
And foaming stretch along the velvet plain!
Ah stay! swift steeds, your rapid flight delay,
No more the jockey's smarting lash obey:
But rather let my hand direct the rein,
And guide your steps a nobler prize to gain;
Then swift as eagles cut the yielding air,
Bear me, oh bear me to the absent fair.

Now when the winds are hush'd, the air serene,
And cheerful sunbeams gild the beauteous scene,
Pensive o'er all the neighb'ring fields I stray,
Where'er or choice or chance directs the way:
Or view the op'ning lawns, or private woods,
Or distant bluish hills, or silver floods
Now harmless birds in silken nets insnare,
Now with swift dogs pursue the flying hare:
Du! sports! for oh my Chloe is not there!
Fatigu'd, at length I willingly retire
To a small study, and a cheerful fire;
There o'er some folio pore; I pore 't is true,
But oh my thoughts are fled, and fled to you!
I hear you, see you, feast upon your eyes,
And clasp with eager arms the lovely prize;
Here for a while I could forget my pain,
Whilst I by dear reflection live again:
But ev'n these joys are too sublime to last,
And quickly fade, like all the real ones past;
For just when now beneath some silent grove
I hear you talk-and talk perhaps of love-
Or charm with thrilling notes the list'ning ear,
Sweeter than angels sing, or angels hear,
My treach'rous hand its weighty charge lets go,
The book falls thund'ring on the floor below,
The pleasing vision in a moment's gone,
And I once more am wretched, and alone.

So when glad Orpheus from th' infernal shade Had just recall'd his long-lamented maid, Soon as her charms had reach'd his eager eyes Lost in eternal night again she dies.

Behold, how bright these gaudy trifles shine, The lovely sportings of a hand divine! See with what art each curious shell is made, Here carv'd in fretwork, there with pearl inlaid! What vivid streaks th' enamell'd stones adorn, Fair as the paintings of the purple morn! Yet still not half their charms can reach our eyes, While thus confus'd the sparkling chaos lies; Doubly they'll please, when, in your grotto plac'd, They plainly speak their fair disposer's taste; Then glories yet unseen shall o'er them rise, New order from your hand, new lustre from your eyes.

How sweet, how charming will appear this grot, When by your art to full perfection brought! Here verdant plants and blooming flow'rs will grow, There bubbling currents through the shell-work Here coral mix'd with shells of various dyes, [flow; There polish'd stones will charm our wond'ring eyes: Delightful bow'r of bliss! secure retreat!

Fit for the Muses, and Statira's seat.

But still how good must be that fair one's mind, Who thus in solitude can pleasure find! The Muse her company, good-sense her guide, Resistless charms her pow'r, but not her pride: Who thus torsakes the town, the park, and play, In silent shades to pass her hours away; Who better likes to breathe fresh country air, Than ride imprison'd in a velvet chair; And makes the warbling nightingale her choice, Before the thrills of Farinelli's voice; Prefers her books, and conscience void of ill, To consorts, balls, assemblies, and quadrille; Sweet bow'rs more pleas'd than gilded chariots sees, For groves the playhouse quits, and beaux for trees. Bless'd is the man, whom Heav'n shall grant one

hour

With such a lovely nymph, in such a lovely bow'r!

TO A LADY,

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER WROTE IN A VERY FINE

HAND.

TO A LADY,

SENT WITH A PRESENT OF SHELLS AND STONES DESIGNED FOR A GROTTO.

WITH gifts like these, the spoils of neighb'ring shores,

The Indian swain his sable love adores;
Offrings well suited to the dusky shrine
Of his rude goddess, but unworthy mine:
And yet they seem not such a worthless prize,
If nicely view'd by philosophic eyes;
And such are your's, that Nature's works admire
With warmth like that, which they themselves
spire.

WHILST well wrote lines our wond'ring eyes com

mand,

To such how fair appears each grain of sand, Or humblest weed, as wrought by Nature's hand! How far superior to all human pow'r Springs the green blade, or buds the painted flow'r! In all her births, though of the meanest kinds, A just observer entertainment finds, With fond delight her low productions sees, And how she gently rises by degrees;

A shell, or stone, he can with pleasure view, [you. Hence trace her noblest works, the Heav'ns-and

Chloe, your quill can equal wonders do,
Wound full as sure, and at a distance too:
Arm'd with your feather'd weapons in your hands,
From pole to pole you send your great commands,
To distant climes in vain the lover flies,
Your pen o'ertakes him, if he 'scapes your eyes;
So those who from the sword in battle run
But perish victims to the distant gun.

Beauty 's a short-liv'd blaze, a fading flow'r,
But these are charms no ages can devour;
These far superior to the brightest face,
Triumph alike o'er time as well as space.
When that fair form, which thousands now adore,
By years decay'd, shall tyrannise no more,
These lovely lines shall future ages view,
And eyes unborn, like ours, be charm'd by you.
How oft do I admire with fond delight
The curious piece, and wish like you to write!
Alas, vain hope! that might as well aspire
To copy Paulo's stroke, or Titian's fire:
Ev'n now your splendid lines before me lie,
And I in vain to imitate them try ;
Believe me, fair, I'm practising this art,
To steal your hand, in hopes to steal your heart.

TO THE RIGHT HON. THE LADY

MARGARET CAVENDISH HARLEY',

PRESENTED WITH A COLLECTION OF POEMS.

THE tuneful throng was ever beauty's care, And verse a tribute sacred to the fair;

1 Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley was the only daughter and heiress of Edward earl of Oxford and Mortimer, by his wife the lady Henrietta Cavendish, sole daughter and heiress of John Holles duke of Newcastle. She married William the second duke of Portland July 11, 1734, who died on the 1st of May, 1762; her grace surviving him, departed this life at her seat at Bulstrode, on Monday the 18th of June, 1785, leaving behind her that famous museum, replete with works in the fine arts, and a most extensive collection of natural history, which, with no less industry than judgment, and at an expense which could be only supported by her princely fortune, she had been the greatest part of her life collecting; but this collection, however it was

Hence in each age the loveliest nymph has been,
By undisputed right, the Muse's queen;
Her smiles have all poetic bosoms fir'd,
And patronis'd the verse themselves inspir'd:
Lesbia presided thus in Roman times,
Thus Sacharissa reign'd o'er British rhymes,
And present bards to Margaretta bow,
For what they were of old, is Harley now.
From Oxford's house, in these dull busy days,
Alone we hope for patronage or praise;
He to our slighted labour still is kind,
Beneath his roof w' are ever sure to find
(Reward sufficient for the world's neglect)
Charms to inspire, and goodness to protect;
Your eyes with rapture animate our lays,
Your sire's kind hand uprears our drooping bays;
Form'd for our glory and support, ye seem,
Our constant patron he, and you our theme.
Where should poetic homage then be paid?
Where ev'ry verse, but at your feet, be laid?
A double right you to this empire bear,
As first in beauty, and as Oxford's heir.

Illustrious maid! in whose sole person join'd
Ev'ry perfection of the fair we find,
Charms that might warrant all her sex's pride,
Without one foible of her sex to hide;
Good-nature artless as the bloom that dyes
Her cheeks, and wit as piercing as her eyes.
Oh, Harley! could but you these lines approve,
These children sprung from idleness and love,
Could they, (but ah how vain is the design!)
Hope to amuse your hours, as once they 've mine,
Th' ill-judging world's applause, and critic's blame,
Alike I'd scorn: your approbation 's fame.

gazed at, and with great judgment admired by men of virtue and philosophy of our own and foreign nations, yet, when time shall have done away all traces of its existence, her grace's unfeigned religion and piety, exact fulfilment of all domestic duties, superior talents of mind, native dignity amongst her equals, a flowing condescension to her inferiors, which made those whom she honoured with her acquaintance forget the difference of their stations, universal benevolence, and the most amiable sweetness of temper, will cause her ever to be remembered amongst the most famous of her sex, whose superior characters reflect a lustre on the British nation. E.

4 Alas! he is not half so bless'd As those who 've liberty and rest, And dine on beans and bacon.

5 Why should we then to London run,
And quit our cheerful country sun
For bus'ness, dirt, and smoke?
Can we, by changing place and air,
Ourselves get rid of, or our care?

In troth, 't is all a joke.

6 Care climbs proud ships of mightiest force, And mounts behind the general's horse,

Outstrips hussars and pandours;
Far swifter than the bounding hind,
Swifter than clouds before the wind,

Or Cope' before th' Highlanders.

7 A man, when once he 's safely chose,
Should laugh at all his threat'ning foes,
Nor think of future evil:
Each good has its attendant ill;
8 A seat is no bad thing, but still
Elections are the devil.

9 Its gifts, with hand impartial, Heav'n
Divides: to Orford it was giv'n
To die in full-blown glory;
10 To Bath indeed a longer date,
But then with unrelenting hate
Pursu'd by Whig and Tory.

11 The gods to you with bounteous hand Have granted seats, and parks, and land; Brocades and silks you wear; With claret and ragouts you treat, 12 Six neighing steeds with nimble feet Whirl on your gilded car.

13 To me they 've given a small retreat, Good port and mutton, best of meat,

With broad-cloth on my shoulders,

A soul that scorns a dirty job,

14 Loves a good rhyme, and hates a mob, I mean who a' n't freeholders.

General Cope, in the year 1745, had made a very precipitate retreat, before the rebel army, from Preston Panns to Edinburgh.

HORATII LIB. IV. OD. VIII.

1. DONAREM pateras grataque commodus,
Censorine, meis æra sodalibus:
Donarem tripodas, præmia fortium
Grajorum; 2 neque tu pessima munerum
Ferres, divite me scilicet artium,
Quas aut Parrhasius protulit aut Scopas

3 Hic saxo, liquidis ille coloribus

Solers nunc hominem ponere, nunc deum.

IMITATED.

TO THE SAME.

1 DID but kind fate to me impart
Wealth equal to my gen'rous heart,
Some curious gift to ev'ry friend,
A token of my love, I'd send;

2 But still the choicest and the best
Should be consign'd to friends at Wrest.
An organ, which, if right I guess,
Would best please lady marchioness,
Should first be sent by my command,
Worthy of her inspiring hand:
To lady Bell of nicest mould
A coral set in burnish'd gold:

To you, well knowing what you like, 3 Portraits by Lely or Vandyke,

A curious bronze, or bust antique.

6 Non incisa notis marmora publicis,
Per quæ spiritus et vita redit bonis
Post mortem ducibus; non celeres fugæ,
Rejectæque retrorsum Annibalis minæ;
Non incendia Carthaginis impiæ,
Ejus qui domitâ nomen ab Africâ
Lucratus rediit, clarius indicant
Laudes, quam Calabræ Pierides: neque,
7 Si chartæ sileant quod bene feceris,

Mercedem tuleris. 8 Quid foret Ilia
Mavortisque puer, si taciturnitas

Obstaret meritis invida Romuli?
Ereptum Stygiis fluctibus acum
Virtus et favor et lingua potentium
Vatum divitibus consecrat insulis.

9 Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori,
Coelo musa beat: 10 Sic Jovis interest
Optatis epulis impiger Hercule:
Clarum Tyndarida sidus ab infirmis
Quassas eripiunt æquoribus rates:
Ornatus viridi tempora pampino
Liber vota bonos ducit ad exitus.

4 But since these gifts exceed my power, And you, who need not wish for more, Already bless'd with all that 's fine,

609

Are pleas'd with verse, though such as mine; As poets us'd in ancient times,

I'll make my presents all in rhymes;

5 And, lest you should forget their worth, Like them I'll set their value forth.

6 Not monumental brass or stones,
The guardians of heroic bones,
Not victories won by Marlbro's sword,
Nor titles which these feats record,
Such glories o'er the dead diffuse,
As can the labours of the Muse.
7 But if she should her aid deny,
With you your virtues all must die,
Nor tongues unborn shall ever say
How wise, how good, was lady Grey.
8 What now had been th' ignoble doom
Of him who built imperial Rome?
Or him, deserving ten times more,
Who fed the hungry, cloth'd the poor,
Clear'd streams, and bridges laid across,
And built the little church of Ross?
Did not th' eternal powers of verse
From age to age their deeds rehearse.

9 The Muse forbids the brave to die,
Bestowing immortality:

10 Still by her aid in bless'd abodes
Alcides feasts among the gods;
And royal Arthur still is able
To fill his hospitable table

With English beef, and English knights,
And looks with pity down on White's.

THE CHOICE.

HAD I, Pygmalion like, the pow'r
To make the nymph I would adore;
The model should be thus design'd,
Like this her form, like this her mind.

Her skin should be as lilies fair,
With rosy cheeks and jetty hair;
Her lips with pure vermilion spread,
And soft and moist, as well as red;
Her eyes should shine with vivid light,
At once both languishing and bright;
Her shape should be exact and small,
Her stature rather low than tall;
Her limbs well turn'd, her air and mien
At once both sprightly and serene;
Besides all this, a nameless grace
Should be diffus'd all o'er her face;
To make the lovely piece complete,
Not only beautiful, but sweet.

This for her form: now for her mind;
I'd have it open, gen'rous, kind,
Void of all coquettish arts,

And vain designs of conquering hearts,
Not sway'd by any views of gain,
Nor fond of giving others pain;

But soft, thongh bright, like her own eyes,
Discreetly witty, gayly wise.

I'd have her skill'd in ev'ry art
That can engage a wand'ring heart;
Know all the sciences of love,
Yet ever willing to improve;
To press the hand, and roll the eye,
And drop sometimes an amorous sigh;
To lengthen out the balmy kiss,
And heighten ev'ry tender bliss;
And yet I'd have the charmer be
By nature only taught,-or me.

I'd have her to strict honour ty'd,
And yet without one spark of pride;
In company well dress'd and fine,
Yet not ambitious to outshine;
In private always neat and clean,
And quite a stranger to the spleen;
Well-pleas'd to grace the park and play,
And dance sometimes the night away,
But oft'ner fond to spend her hours
In solitude and shady bow'rs,
And there, beneath some silent grove,
Delight in poetry and love.

Some sparks of the poetic fire

I fain would have her soul inspire,
Enough, at least, to let her know
What joys from love and virtue flow;
Enough, at least, to make her wise,
And fops and fopperies despise;
Prefer her books, and her own Muse,
To visits, scandal, chat, and news;
Above her sex exalt her mind,
And make her more than womankind.

TO A YOUNG LADY,
GOING TO THE WEST INDIES.

FOR universal sway design'd

To distant realms Clorinda flies, And scorns, in one small isle confim'd,

To bound the conquests of her eyes.