And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet, In whose bright, limpid stream

The blue sky and the world of boughs are met,

Mirrored in one bright gleam.

And of the elm, the hoar and silvery leaves The slumbering winds scarce blow; Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous

waves,

Follow their motion slow.

These airy mountains, and this fragrant seat,
Bright with a thousand flowers;

These interwoven forests, where the heat
Is tempered in their bowers!

These cooling grottoes!-O retirement blest!
Within thy calm abode,

My mind alone can from her troubles rest
With solitude and God.

Thou giv'st me life, and liberty, and love, And all I now admire;

And from the winter of my soul dost move
The deep enthusiast fire.

O bounteous Nature, 'tis thy healing womb
Alone can peace procure!
Thither all ye, the weary, laden, come,
From storms of life secure!

THE POND.

Edu

[Dr. JOHN BYROM, born near Manchester, 1691. cated at Trinity College, Cambridge. Died 1763]. Once on a time, a certain man was found That had a pond of water in his ground: A fine large pond of water fresh and clear, Enough to serve his turn for many a year. Yet so it was a strange unhappy dread Of wanting water seized the fellow's head: When he was dry, he was afraid to drink Too much at once, for fear his pond should sink.

Perpetually tormented with this thought, He never ventured on a hearty draught; Still dry, still fearing to exhaust his store, When half refreshed, he frugally gave o'er; Reviving of himself revived his fright, "Better," quoth he, "to be half choked than quite.'

"

Upon his pond continually intent,

In cares and pains his anxious life he spent;
Consuming all his time and strength away,
To make his pond rise higher every day:
He worked and slaved, and-oh! how slow it
fills!

| Poured in by pailfuls, and took out by gills.
In a wet season he would skip about,
Placing his buckets under every spout;
From falling showers collecting fresh supply,
And grudging every cloud that passed by;
Cursing the dryness of the times each hour,
Although it rained as fast as it could pour.
Then he would wade through every dirty spot.
Where any little moisture could be got;
And when he had done draining of a bog,
Still kept himself as dirty as a hog:
And cried, whene'er folks blamed him, "What
d'ye mean?

It costs a world of water to be clean;'

If some poor neighbor craved to slake his thirst,

"What! rob my pond! I'll see the rogue hanged first:

A burning shame, these vermin of the poor
Should creep unpunished thus about my door!
As if I had not frogs and toads enow,
That suck my pond, whatever I can do."
The sun still found him, as he rose or set,
Always in quest of matters that were wet:
Betime he rose to sweep the morning dew,
And rested late to catch the evening too;
With soughs and troughs he laboured to en-
rich

The rising pond from every neighbouring ditch;

With soughs, and troughs, and pipes, and cuts, and sluices,

From growing plants he drained the very juices;

Made every stick upon the hedges

Of good behaviour to deposit pledges;

By some conveyance or another, still
Devised recruits from each declining hill:
He left, in short, for this beloved plunder,
No stone unturned, that could have water
under.

Sometimes-when forced to quit his awkward toil,

And-sore against his will-to rest awhile :
Then straight he took his book and down he sat
To calculate th' expenses he was at;
How much he suffered, at a moderate guess,
From all those ways by which the pond grew
less;

For as to those by which it still grew bigger,
For them he reckoned-not a single figure;
He knew a wise old saying, which maintained
That 'twas bad luck to count what one had
gained.

"First, for myself my daily charges here
Cost a prodigious quantity a year:
Although, thank Heaven, I never boil my
meat,

Nor am I such a sinner as to sweat;
But things are come to such a pass, indeed
We spend ten times the water that we need;

People are grown, with washing, cleansing, rinsing,

So finical and nice, past all convincing;
So many proud fantastic modes, in short,
Are introduced, that my poor pond pays for't.
Not but I could be well enough content
With what upon my own account is spent ;
But those large articles from whence I reap
No kind of profit, strike me on a heap:
What a vast deal each moment, at a sup,
This ever thirsty earth itself drinks up!
Such holes! and gaps! Alas! my pond pro-
vides

Scarce for its own unconscionable sides:
Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive,
So many creatures as it keeps alive!
That creep from every nook and corner, marry!
Filching as much as ever they can carry :
Then all the birds that fly along the air
Light at my pond, and come in for a share :
Item, at every puff of wind that blows,
Away at once the surface of it goes:
The rest in exhalation to the sun-
One month's fair weather-and I am undone."
This life he led for many a year together;
Grew old and grey in watching of the weather;
Meagre as Death itself, till this same Death
Stopped, as the saying is, his vital breath;
For, as the old fool was carrying to his field
A heavier burden than he well could wield,
He missed his footing, or somehow he fumbled
In tumbling of it in—but in he tumbled:
Mighty desirous to get out again,

He screamed and scrambled, but 'twas all in vain:

The place was grown so very deep and wide, Nor bottom of it could he feel, nor side; And so i' the middle of his pond-he died. What think ye now, from this imperfect sketch, My friends, of such a miserable wretch? "Why, 'tis a wretch, we think of your own making;

No fool can be supposed in such a taking; Your own warm fancy." Nay, but warm or cool,

The world abounds with many such a fool: The choicest ills, the greatest torments, sure Are those, which numbers labour to endure. "What! for a pond?" Why, call it an estate: You change the name, but realize the fate.

THE MODEST MUSE

[WENTWORTH DILLON, Earl of Roscommon (1634-1685) was the nephew and godson of the celebrated Earl of Strafford. He travelled abroad during the Civil War, and returned at the time of the Restoration, when he was made captain of the band of pensioners, and sub

sequently Master of the Horse to the Duchess of York, Roscommon, like Denham, was addicted to gambling; but he cultivated his taste for literature, and produced a poetical" Essay on Translated Verse," a translation of Horace's " Art of Poetry," and some other minor pieces. He planned, in conjunction with Dryden, a scheme for refining our language and fixing its standard; but, while meditating on this and similar topics connected with literature, the arbitrary measures of James II caused public alarm and commotion. Roscommon, dreading the result, prepared to retire to Rome, saying, it was best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smoked. An attack of gout prevented the poet's departure. He died, and was buried (January 21, 1684-5) in Westminster Abbey. "At the moment in which he expired," says Johnson, " he uttered, with an energy of voice that expressed the most fervent devotion, two lines of his own version of' Dies Ira':

My God, My Father, and my Friend,
Do not forsake me in my end!"]
With how much ease is a young maid betrayed-
How nice the reputation of the maid!
Your early, kind, paternal care appears
By chaste instruction of her tender years.
The first impression in her infant breast
Will be the deepest, and should be the best.
Let not austerity breed servile fear;
No wanton sound offend her virgin ear.
Secure from foolish pride's affected state,
And specious flattery's more pernicious bait;
Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts;
But your neglect must answer for her faults.
Immodest words admit of no defence,

For want of decency is want of sense.
What moderate fop would rake the park or stews,
Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose
Variety of such is to be found;
Take then a subject proper to expound,
But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice;
For men of sense despise a trivial choice:
And such applause it must expect to meet,
As would some painter busy in a street
To copy bulls and bears, and every sign
That calls the staring sots to nasty wine.

Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good;
It must delight us when 'tis understood.
He that brings fulsome objects to my view-
As many old have done, and many new—
With nauseous images my fancy fills,
And all goes down like oxymel of squills.
Instruct the listening world how Maro sings
of useful subjects and of lofty things.
These will such true, such bright ideas raise,
As merit gratitude, as well as praise.
But foul descriptions are offensive still,
Either for being like or being ill.
For who without a qualm hath ever looked
On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked?
Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods,
Make some suspect he snores as well as nods.

But I offend-Virgil begins to frown,

And Horace looks with indignation down:
My blushing Muse, with conscious fear retires,
And whom they like implicitly admires.

to fight with the Duke of Buckingham. In the profligate court of Charles, Rochester was the most profligate; his intrigues, his low amours and disguises, his erecting a stage and playing the mountebank on Tower-hill, and his having been five years in a state of inebriety, are circumstances well known and partly admitted by himself. It is remarkable, however, that his domestic let

On sure foundations let your fabric rise,

And with attractive majesty surprise;

Not by affected meretricious arts,

But strict harmonious symmetry of parts;

Which through the whole insensibly must pass
With vital heat, to animate the mass;

A pure, an active, an auspicious flame,

And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing came.
But few-0 few! souls pre-ordained by fate,
The race of gods, have reached that envied height.
No rebel Titans' sacrilegious crime,

By heaping hills on hills, can hither climb:
The grisly ferryman of hell denied
Eneas entrance, till he knew his guide.
How justly then will impious mortals fall,
Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call!
Pride of all others the most dangerous fault-
Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.
The men who labour and digest things most,
Will be much apter to despond than boast;
For if your author be profoundly good,
"Twill cost you dear before he's understood.
How many ages since has Virgil writ!
How few are they who understand him yet!
Approach his altars with religious fear;
No vulgar deity inhabits there.

Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod
Than poets should before their Mantuan god.
Hail, mighty Maro! may that sacred name
Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame,
Sublime ideas and apt words infuse;

The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the Muse!
EARL OF ROSCOMMON.

alive to all the affections of a husband, a father, and a son." His repentance itself says something for the natural character of the unfortunate profligate: to judge from the memoir left by Dr. Burnet, who was his lordship's spiritual guide on his death-bed, it was sincere and unreserved. We may, therefore, with some confidence, set down Rochester as one of those whose vices are less the effect of an inborn tendency, than of external corrupting circumstances. It may be fairly said of him, "Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it." His poems consist of slight effusions thrown of without labour. Many of them are so very licentious as to be unfit for publication; but in one of these, he has given in one line a happy character of Charles II.:

A merry monarch, scandalous and poor.

His songs are sweet and musical.

SONG.

While on those lovely looks I gaze,
To see a wretch pursuing,
In raptures of a blest amaze,
His pleasing happy ruin;
'Tis not for pity that I move;
His fate is too aspiring,
Whose heart, broke with a load of love,
Dies wishing and admiring.

But if this murder you'd forego,
Your slave from death removing,
Let me your art of charming know,
Or learn you mine of loving.
But whether life or death betide,
In love 'tis equal measure;
The victor lives with empty pride,
The vanquished die with pleasure.

EARL OF ROCHESTER.

CONSTANCY-A SONG.

cannot change as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.
No, Phillis, no; your heart to move
A surer way I'll try ;

And, to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, will still love on, and die.

83

When, killed with grief, Amyntas lies,

And you to mind shall call

The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall;

That welcome hour that ends this smart

Will then begin your pain,

For such a faithful tender heart

A few specimens of Rochester's letters to his wife and son are subjoined:

I am very glad to hear news from you, and I think it very good when I hear you are well; pray be pleased to send me word what you are apt to be pleased with, that I may shew you how good a husband I can be; I would not have you so formal as to judge of the kindness of a letter by the length of it, but believe of everything that it is as you would have it.

'Tis not an easy thing to be entirely happy; but to be kind is very easy, and that is the greatest measure of happiness. I say not this to put you in mind of being kind to me; you have practiced that so long, that I have a joyful confidence you will never forget it; but to shew that I myself have a sense of what the methods of my life seemed so utterly

thank you for the occasion of pleasing you.

Mr. Morgan I have sent in this errand, because he plays the rogue here in town se extremely, that he is not to be endured; pray, if he behaves himself so at Adderbury, send me word, and let him stay till I send for him. Pray, let Ned come up to town; I have a little business with him, and he shall be back in a week.

Wonder not that I have not written to you all this while, for it was hard for me to know what to write upon several accounts; but in this I will only desire you not to be too much amazed at the thoughts my mother has of you, since, being mere imaginations, they will as easily vanish, as they were groundlessly erected; for my own part, I will make it my endeavour they may. What you desired of me in your other letter, shall punctually be performed. You must, I think, obey my mother in her commands to wait on her at Aylesbury, as I told you in my last letter. I am very dull at this time, and therefore think it pity in this humour to testify myself to you any further; only, dear wife, I am your humble servant,

ROCHESTER.

MY WIFE-The difficulties of pleasing your ladyship do increase so fast upon me, and are grown so numerous, that, to a man less resolved than myself never to give it over, it would appear a madness ever to attempt it more; but through your frailties mine ought not to multiply; you may therefore secure yourself that it will not be easy for you to put me out of my constant resolutions to satisfy you in all I can. I confess there is nothing will so much contribute to my assistance in this as your dealing freely with me; for since you have thought it a wise thing to trust me less and have reserves, it has been out of my power to make the best of my proceedings effectual to what I intended them. At a distance, I am likeliest to learn your mind, for you have not a very obliging way of delivering it by word of mouth; if, therefore, you will let me know the particulars in which I may be useful to you, I will shew my readiness as to my own part; and if I fail of the success I wish, it shall not be the fault of your humble servant, ROCHESTER.

I intend to be at Adderbury some time next week.

I hope, Charles, when yon receive this, and know that I have sent this gentleman to be your tutor, you will be very glad to see I take such care of you, and be very grateful, which is best shewn in being obedient and diligent. You are now grown big enough to be a man, and you can be wise enough; for the way to be truly wise is to serve God, learn your book, and observe the instructions of your parents first, and next your tutor, to whom I have resigned you for this seven years, and according as you employ that time, you are to be happy or unhappy for ever; but I have so good an opinion of you, that I am glad to think you will never deceive me; dear child, learn your book and be obedient, and you shall see what a father I will be to you. You shall want no pleasure while you are good, and that you may be so are my constant prayers.

[SIR CHARLES SEDLEY (1639-1701) was one of the brightest satellites of the court of Charles II.-as witty and gallant as Rochester, as fine a poet, and a better man. He was the son of a Kentish baronet, Sir John Sedley of Aylesford. The Restoration drew him to London, and he became such a favourite for his taste and accomplishments, that Charles is said to have asked him if he had not obtained from Nature a patent to be Apollo's viceroy. His estate, his time, and morals, were squandered away at court; but latterly the poet redeemed himself, became a constant attender of parliament, in which he had a seat, opposed the arbitrary measures of James II. and assisted to bring about the Revolution. Sir Charles wrote plays and poems, which were extravagantly praised by his contemporaries. Buckingham eulogized the witchcraft of Sedley, and Rochester spoke of his "gentle prevailing art." His songs are light and graceful, with a more studied and felicitous diction than is seen in most of the court-poets. One of the finest, "Ah !Chloris, that I now could sit," has been often printed as the composition of the Scottish patriot, Duncan Forbes of Culloden, Lord President of the Court of Session: the verses occur in Sedley's play, "The Mulberry Garden," 1668. Sedley's conversation was

highly prized, and he lived on, delighting all his friends, till past his sixtieth year. As he says of one of his own heroines, he

Bloomed in the winter of his days,
Like Glastonbury thorn.]

SONG.

Ah! Chloris, that I now could sit
As unconcerned as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No pleasure, nor no pain.

When I the dawn used to admire,
And praised the coming day,
I little thought the growing fire
Must take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in a mine;

Age from no face took more away,
Than youth concealed in thine.

But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
Fond love as unperceived did fly,
And in my bosom rest.

My passion with your beauty grew,
And Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favoured you,
Threw a new flaming dart.

Each gloried in their wanton part;
To make a lover, he
Employed the utmost of his art-
To make a beauty, she.

Though now I slowly bend to love, Uncertain of my fate,

If your fair self my chains approve, I shall my freedom hate.

Lovers, like dying men, may well
At first disordered be,
Since none alive can truly tell

What fortune they must see.

SONG.

Phillis, men say that all my vows
Are to thy fortune paid;
Alas! my heart he little knows,

Who thinks my love a trade.

Were I of all these woods the lord,
One berry from thy hand
More real pleasure would afford
Than all my large command.