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A ribband and a pension buy the slave :
This bribes the fool about him; that the knave.
And now arriv'd at his meridian glory,
He sinks apace, despis'd by Whig and Tory;
Of independence now he talks no more,
Nor shakes the senate with his patriot roar ;
But silent votes, and with court-trappings
Eyes his own glitt'ring star, and holds his
In craft political a bankrupt made,
He sticks to gaming, as the surer trade;
Turns downright sharper, lives by sucking

And grows, in short, the very thing he wou'd:
llunts out young heirs who have their fortunes

And lends them ready cash at cent. per cent.
Lays wagers on his own and others' lives,
Fights uncles, fathers, grandmothers, and

Till death at length, indignant to be made
The daily subject of his sport and trade,
Veils with his sable hand the wretch's eyes,
And groaning for the betts he loses by 't, he

$211. An Epistle, written in the Country,
to the Right Honourable the Lord Lovelace,
then in Town, September 1785. JENYNS.
days, my Lord, when mother Time,
Tho' now grown old, was in her prime,
When Saturn first began to rule,
And Jove was hardly come from school,
How happy was a country life!
How free from wickedness and strife!
Then each man liv'd upon his farm,
And thought and did no mortal harm;
On mossy banks fair virgins slept,
As harmless as the flocks they kept;
Then love was all they had to do.

And equally detest the strife
And usual joys of country life,
Have by good fortune little share
Of its diversions, or its care;
For seldom I with 'squires unite,
Who hunt all day and drink all night,
Nor reckon wonderful inviting,
A quarter-sessions, or cock-fighting:
But then no farm I occupy
With sheep to rot, and cows to die;
Nor rage I much, or much despair,
Tho' in my hedge I find a snare;
Nor view I, with due admiration,
All the high honours here in fashion;
The great commissions of the quorum,
Terrors to all who come before 'em ;'
Militia scarlet edg'd with gold,
Or the white staff high-sheriff's hold;'
The representative's caressing,
The judge's bow, the bishop's blessing;
Nor can I for my soul delight
In the dull feast of neighb'ring knight,
Who, if you send three days before,
In white gloves meets you at the door,
With superfluity of breeding
First makes you sick, and then with feeding:
Or if, with ceremony cloy'd,
You would next time such plagues avoid,
And visit without previous notice,
John, Johu, a coach!-I can't think who
My lady cries, who spies your coach
Ere you the avenue approach:
"Lord, how unlucky!-washing day!
"And all the men are in the hay!"
Entrance to gain is something hard,
The dogs all bark, the gates are barr'd;
The yard's with lines of linen cross'd,
The hall door's lock'd, the key is lost:
These difficulties all o'ercome,
We reach at length the drawing-room;
Then there's such trampling over-head,


And nymphs were chaste, and swains were true. Madam you'd swear was brought-to-bed;

But now, whatever poets write,
Tis sure the case is alter'd quite :
Virtue no more in rural plains,
Or innocence, or peace remains;
But vice is in the cottage found,
And country girls are oft unsound;
Fierce party rage each village tires,
With wars of justices and 'squires;
Attorneys for a barley straw,
Whole ages hamper folks in law,
And ev'ry neighbour's in a flame
About their rates, or tythes, or game;
Some quarrel for their hares and pigeons,
And some for diff'rence in religions:
Some hold their parson the best preacher,
The tinker some a better teacher;
These, to the Church they fight for strangers,
Have faith in nothing but her dangers;
While those, a more believing people,
Can swallow all things-but a steeple.
But I, my Lord, who, as you know,
Care little how these matters go,

Miss in a hurry bursts her lock,
To get clean sleeves to hide her smock;
The servants run, the pewter clatters,
My lady dresses, calls and chatters;
The cook-maid raves for want of butter,
Pigs squeak, fowls scream, and green geese flut-
Now after three hours tedious waiting, [ter.
On all our neighbours' faults debating,
And having nine times view'd the garden,
In which there's nothing worth a farthing,
In comes my lady, and the pudden :
"You will excuse, sir,-on a sudden”—
Then, that we may have four and four,
The bacon, fowls, and cauliflow'r
Their ancient unity divide,
The top one graces, one each side;
And by and by, the second course
Comes lagging like a distanc'd horse;
A salver then to church and king,
The butler sweats, the glasses ring:
The cloth remov'd, the toasts go round,
Bawdy and politics abound;

3D +


And, as the knight more tipsy waxes,
We damn all ministers and taxes.
At last the ruddy sun quite sunk,
The coachnian tolerably drunk,
Whirling o'er hillock, ruts, and stones,
Enough to dislocate one's bones,
We home return, a wondrous token

Of heaven's kind care, with limbs unbroken.
Afflict us not, ye gods, tho' sinners,
With many days like this, or dinners!
But if civilities thus tease me,
Nor business nor diversions please me;
You'll ask, my Lord, how time I spend?
I answer, with a book or friend;
The circulating hours dividing
'Twixt reading, walking, eating, riding:
But books are still my highest joy,
These earliest please, and latest cloy.
Sometimes o'er distant climes I stray,
By guides experienc'd taught the way;
The wonders of each region view,
From frozen Lapland to Peru;

Bound o'er rough seas, and mountains bare,
Yet ne'er forsake my elbow chair.
Sometimes some fam'd historian's pen
Recalls past ages back agen;
Where all I see, thro' ev'ry page,
Is but how men, with senseless rage,
Each other rob, destroy, and burn,
To serve a priest's, a statesman's turn:
Tho' loaded with a diff'rent aim,
Yet always asses much the same.
Sometimes I view with much delight,
Divines their holy game cocks fight:
Here faith and works, at variance set,
Strive hard who shall the vict'ry get;
Presbytery and episcopacy,

They fight so long, it would amaze ye;
Here free-will holds a fierce dispute
With reprobation absolute;

There sense kicks transubstantiation,
And reason pecks at revelation.
With learned Newton now I fly
O'er all the rolling orbs on high,
Visit new worlds, and for a minute
This old one scorn, and all that 's in it:
And now with lab`ring Boyle I trace
Nature thro' ev'ry winding maze;
The latent qualities admire
Of rapours, water, air, and fire;
With pleasing admiration see
Matter's surprising subtilty;
As how the smallest lamp displays,
For miles around, its scatter'd rays;
Or how (the case still more 't explain)
A fart, that weighs not half a grain,
The atmosphere will oft perfume
Of a whole spacious drawing-room.
Sometimes I pass a whole long day
In happy indolence away,
In fondly meditating o'er

Past pleasures, and in hoping more;

Or wander through the fields and woods,
And gardens bath'd in circling floods;
There blooming flow'rs with raptore view,
And sparkling gems of morning dew,
Whence in my mind ideas rise
Of Celia's cheeks, and Chloe's eyes.

'Tis thus, my Lord, I free from strife
Spend an inglorious country life:
These are the joys I still pursue,
When absent from the town and you;
Thus pass long summer suns away,
Busily idle, calmly gay;

Nor great, nor mean, nor rich, nor poor,
Not having much, nor wishing more;
Except that you, when weary grown
Of all the follies of the town,
And seeing in all public places
The same vain fops and painted faces,
Wou'd sometimes kindly condescend
To visit a dull country friend:
Here you'll be ever sure to meet
A hearty welcome tho' no treat;
One who has nothing else to do,
But to divert himself and you :

A house, where quiet guards the door,
No rural wits smoke, drink, and roar;
Choice books, safe horses, wholesome liqua,
Billiards, backgammon, and the vicar.

$212. Horace. Book II. Ode 10. COWPER
RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse fortune's pow'r :
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treach❜rous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's doot,
Imbitt'ring all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the pow'r
Of wintry blast: the loftiest tow`r
Conies heaviest to the ground:
The bolts that spare the mountain's side
His cloud-capt eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.
The well-inform'd philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes in spite of pain:
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again:

What if thine heaven be overcast,
The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky:
The God that strings the silver bow
Awakes sometimes the muses too,
And lays his arrows by.

See Boyle's Experiments.

hindrances obstruct thy way, hy magnanimity display, And let thy strength be seen: 1t, oh! if fortune fill thy sail ith more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvass in.

$215. A Reflection on the foregoing Ode.


ND is this all? Can reason do no more Than bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore?

veet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,
he Christian has a heart unknown to thee;
e holds no parley with unmanly fears,
here duty bids he confidently steers;
ces a thousand dangers at her call,
d trusting in his God surmounts them all.

14. The Shrubbery. Written in a Time of Affliction.

HAPPY shades! to me unblest, Friendly to peace, but not to me; w ill the scene that offers rest, And heart that cannot rest, agree! is glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze, ght soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please. fix'd unalterable care

Yes, truly-one must scream and baw!;
I tell you, you can't hear at all.
Then with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.

Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd;
CowPER. To gratify a fretful passion,
On every trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear,
And something ev'ry day they live
To pity, and perhaps forgive..
But if infirmities that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish, or a sense-impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spar'd,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state.
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar,
And tumult, and intestine war.
The love that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserv'd by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention,
But lives when that exterior grace
Which first inspir'd the flame, decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure:
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression
Shews love to be a mere profession,
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or soon expels him if it is.

oregoes not what she feels within; w's the same sadness every where, and slights the season and the scene.

all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
While peace possess'd these silent bow'rs,
animating smile withdrawn,
as lost its beauties and its pow'rs.

saint or moralist should tread
his moss-grown alley, musing slow;
y seck, like me, the secret shade,
ut not, like me, to nourish woe.
fruitful scenes and prospects waste
like admonish not to roam:
se tell me of enjoyments past,
nd those of sorrows yet to come.

5. Mutual Forbearance necessary to the
appiness of the Married State. CowPER.
E Lady thus address'd her spouse-
What a mere dungeon is this house!
no means large enough; and, was it,
his dull rooin, and that dark closet,
se hangings with their worn-out Graces,
beards, long noses, and pale faces,
such an antiquated scene,

overwhelm me with the spleen. Humphrey, shooting in the dark, es answer quite beside the mark; oubt, my dear, I bade him come, g'd myself to be at home,

And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four.
You are so deaf, the lady cried,
(And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside)
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make you hear?

Dismiss poor Harry! he replies,
Some people are more nice than wise;
For one slight trespass all this stir!
What if I did ride whip and spur,
Twas but a mile-your fav'rite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.-
Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing!
Child! I am rather hard of hearing.

$216. The Winter Nosegay.

HAT nature, alas! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is deck'd with a smile.
Sec, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed,
Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring.
Though abroad they are frozen and dead.
'Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime,
A fortress to which she retreats
From the cruel assaults of the clime.


While earth wears a mantle of snow, The pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May. See how they have safely surviv'd

The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late blowing rose Seem grac'd with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shews The truth of a friend such as you.


§ 217. Boadicea, an Ode. WHEN the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods; Sage, beneath a spreading oak, Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Ev'ry burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief: Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish-write that word— In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renown'd Tramples on a thousand states, Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates. Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow,
Rush'd to battle, fought and died,
Dying hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance

Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you.


§ 218. Heroism.




HERE was a time when Etna's silent fire Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire When, conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow;


No thunders shook with deep intestine sound
The blooming groves that girdled her around,
Her unctuous olives and her purple vines
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assuré,
In peace upon her sloping sides matur'd.
When on a day, like that of the last doom,
A conflagration lab'ring in her womb,
She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid cana
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ringar,
While through the Stygian veil that blow the

In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play
But, O! what muse, and in what pow'rs of s
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate work of man;
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,
See it an unform'd and an idle mass,
Without a soil to invite the tiller's care,
Or blade that might redeem it from despair.
Yet time at length(what will not time achie
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the ga
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats!
O charming paradise of short-liv'd sweets'
The self-same gale that wafts the fag

Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound: Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd f Again pours ruin on the vale below; Ten thousand swains the wasted scene de That only future ages can restore.

Yemonarchs, whom the lure of honoura Who write in blood the merit of your eWho strike the blow, then plead yourow fence,

Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;
Behold in Etna's einblematic fires
The mischiefs your ambitious pride insp.**
Fast by the stream that bounds your


And tells you where ye have a right to r
A nation dwells, not envious of your thre
Studious of peace, their neighbours and
Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue (
Their only crime, vicinity to you! [2
The trumpet sounds, your legions
Through the ripe harvest lies their destin's
At ev'ry step beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread;
Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness ;
Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son,
Attend to finish what the sword begun ;
And echoing praises such as fiends mighte
And folly pays, resound at your return.
A calm succeeds-but Plenty, with her t
Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again:


"He be de bestest poet, look! "Dat all de vorld must please; "Vor he heb vrite von book,

nd years of pining indigence must shew What scourges are the gods that rule below. Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees Such is his thirst of opulence and ease) lies all the sinews of industrious toil, leans up the refuse of the gen'ral spoil : ebuilds the tow'rs that sinok'd upon the plain, nd the sun gilds the shining spires again. Increasing commerce and reviving art enew the quarrel on the conqu'ror's part ; nd the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, at wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurel'd heroes, say, ut Etnas of the suff'ring world ye sway? veet nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, eplores the wasted regions of her globe, nd stands a witness at truth's awful bar, prove you there destroyers as ye are. O place me in some heav'n-protected isle, here peace, and equity, and freedom smile; here no volcano pours his fiery flood, > crested warrior dips his plume in blood ; here pow'r secures what industry has won, here to succeed is not to be undone; land that distant tyrants hate in vain, Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.

219. Art above Nature. PETER PINDAR. [ATURE's a coarse, vile, daubing jade— I've said it often, and repeat it

e doth not understand her trade- [beat it. Artists, ne'er mind her work; hope you'll ok now, for heav'n's sake, at her skies ! What are they?-Smoke, for certainty, I m chimney-tops, behold! they rise, [know; Made by some sweating cooks below. ok at her dirt in lanes, from whence it


om hogs, and ducks, and geese, and horses' bums

en tell me, Decency, I must request, 10'd copy such a dev'lish nasty beast? nt by the yard-your canvass spread, Broad as the mainsail of a man of warur whale shall eat up ev'ry other head, v'n as the sun licks up each sneaking star! o assure you, bulk is no bad trickBy bulky things both men and maids are


nd, too, to lay the paints like mortar thick, And make your pictures look as red as bacon. folks love size; believe my rhyme; rke says, 'tis part of the sublime. Outchinan, I forget his name,-Van Grout, Van Slabberchops, Van Stink, Van Swab, matter, though I cannot make it outAt calling naines I never was a dab— is Dutchman, then, a man of taste, Holding a cheese that weigh'd a hundred


us, like a burgomaster, spoke with judg

ment vast:

No poet like my broder step de ground.

A Portuguese Johannes.

"So big as all dis cheese!"
If at a distance you would paint a pig,
Let not the caxon a distinctness lack;
Else all the lady critics will so stare,
And angry vow, "Tis not a bit like hair!"
Be smooth as glass-like Denner, finish high;
Then every tongue commends-
For people judge not only by the eye,

But feel your merit by their finger ends!
Make out each single bristle on his back.
Or if your meaner subject be a wig,
Nay, closely nosing, o'er the picture dwell,
As if to try the goodness by the smell.

Claude's distances are too confus'd→→
One floating scene-nothing made out-

For which he ought to be abus'd, Whose works have been so cried about. Give me the pencil, whose amazing style Makes a bird's beak appear at twenty mile; And to my view, eyes, legs, and claws will bring, With ev'ry feather of his tail and wing.

Make all your trees alike, for Nature's wildFond of variety--a wayward child- [sume; To blame your taste soine blockheads may preBut mind, that ev'ry one be like a broom.

Of steel and purest silver form your waters, And make your clouds like rocks and alligators. Whene'er you paint the moon, if you are willing

§ 220. The crooked Sixpence. BRAMSTONŤ. Sing, Maiden Muse,

Sixpence, Hoop-petticoat, and Church on fire.
HAPPY the maid, who, from green sickness

In canvas or in Holland pocket bears [free,
A crooked Sixpence. She envieth not
New-married folks, nor sighs at others banns.
At eve, when Sol this hemisphere forsakes,
She to her needle or her wheel repairs;
Then, not unmindful of the man, dear man,
Whose faith, by promises and am'rous oaths,
And crooked Sixpence, was to her betroth'd,
William or Thomas; at her work she cries,
His year next March is up, and so is mine.
Meanwhile he shoes japans, or buckling wigs,
Sings Durfey's songs by Purcellini set:

But I, who in my head bear pain, and draw Author of the Man of Taste, the Art of Politics, &c.


To gain applause-why,paint her like a shilling:
Or Sol's bright orb-be sure to make him glow
Precisely like a guinea or a "jo.
In short, to get your pictures prais'd and sold,
Convert, like Midas, ev'ry thing to gold.

I see, at excellence you'll come at lastYour clouds are made of very brilliant stuff;

The blues on china mugs are now surpass'd, Your sun-sets yield not to brick-walls nor buff. In stumps of trees your art so finely thrives, They really look like golden-hafted knives! Go on, my lads, leave Nature's dismal hue, And she ere long will come and copy you.

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