The mountain loofen'd by convulfive throe,
With ruin rushing to the vale below,
And the pale wretch, reverfing nature's doom,
Abruptly rifing from the rifted tomb!
What glowing artift with bold hand shall claim
To draw, oh Ariel! they refplendent frame;
Thou trickfy fpirit with benignant smile,
Thou playful meteor of th' enchanted ifle!
Not like a fea-nymph, rob'd in fickly green,
With dappled wings, as on the ftage thou'rt feen,
A gay tranfparency fhalt thou appear,
Thy form celeftial melting into air,
With foot light touching fome fantastic height,
Prompt to depart, and ftretching to thy flight.
Yet, ere we fail from this enchanted ifle,
Let other fcenes our ling'ring fteps beguile :
There stands Anthonia, the fuggefting fiend,
And half reveals his purpose to his friend;
His bofom fwells, his madd'ning eye-balls roll,
And fhew the workings of his inmost foul.
All that his lawless, wild conceptions dare,
In various forms hang hov'ring in the air:
A fword fresh-tainted with Alonzo's blood,
A fceptre fwimming in a crimson flood,
A crown with dazzling ornaments o'erspread;
And lightly floating o'er Sebaftian's head;
While, in the distance, rifing o'er the bay,
Imperial Naples fhall her tow'rs difplay.
EXTRACT from PETER PINDAR'S ODE to his ASS, PETER.
Calmly as Jew old-clothes-men, in their bags,
Mix fome great Man's lac'd coat with dirty rags;
Or fatin petticoat of some sweet maid,
That o'er her beauties caft an envious fhade!
And what's the reafon?-Reason too apparent!
Ah! "quia bate facro carent,"
As Horace fays, that bard divine,
Whose wits fo fortunately jump with mine.
Ah! Peter, I remember, oft, when tir'd,
And most unpleasantly at times bemir'd,
Bold haft thou faid, "I'll budge not one inch further;
"And now, young mafter, you may kick or murther.”
Then have I cudgell'd thee-a fruitless matter!
For 'twas in vain to kick, or flog, or chatter.
Though, Balaam-like, I curs'd thee with a smack;
Sturdy thou dropp'dft thine ears upon thy back,
And trotting retrograde, with wrigling tail,
In vain did I thy running rump affail:
For lo, between thy legs thou putt'dft thine head,
And gaveft me a puddle for a bed.
Now this was fair-the action bore no guile :
Thou duck'dft me not, like Judas, with a smile.
O were the manners of fome monarchs fuch,
Who fmile ev'n in the close infidious hour
That kicks th' unguarded minion from his pow'r!
But this is afking p'rhaps of kings too much.
O Peter, little didst thon think, I ween,
When I a schoolboy on thy back was seen,
Riding thee oft, in attitude uncouth;
For bridle, an old garter in thy mouth,
Jogging and whiftling wild o'er hill and dale,
On floes, or nuts, or ftrawb'ries to regale-
I say, O Peter, little didst thou think,
That I, thy namefake, in immortal ink
Should dip my pen, and rise a wond'rous bard,
And gain fuch praife, fublimity's reward:
But not the laurel- honour much too high;
Giv'n by the king of ifles to mifter Pye,
Who fings his fov'reign's virtues twice a year,
And therefore cannot chronicle small beer.
Yet fimple as Montaigne, I'll tell thee true;
There are, who on my verses look askew,
And call my lyric lucubrations stuff:
But I'm a modeft, not unconnyinge elf,
Or I could fay fuch things about myself-
But God forbid that I should puff!
Yet natural are felfifh predilections!
Like fnakes they writhe about the heart's affections,
And fometimes too infufe a poisonous spirit;
Producing, as by nat'ralifts I'm told,
Torpid infenfibility, fo cold
To every brother's rifing merit.
Wits to each other just like loadstones act,
That do not always like firm friends attract;
Though of the fame rare nature, (strange to tell!
The little harden'd rogues as oft repel.
But lo, of thee I'll fpeak, my long-ear'd friend!
Great were the wonders of thy heels of yore;
Victorious, for lac'd hats didft thou contend;
And ribbons grac'd thy ears-a gaudy store.
Buff breeches too have crown'd a proud proud day,
Not thou, but which thy rider wore away:
Triumphant ftrutting through the world he strode,
Great foul! deferving an Olympic Ode.
Thy bravery often did I much approve ;
Rais'd by that queen of paffions, love.
Whene'er in love's delicous frenzy croft
By long-car'd brothers, lo, wert thou a host !
Love did thy lion-heart with courage steel!
Quicker than that of Veftris mov'd thy heel:
Here, there, up, down, in, out, how thou didst fmite!
And then no alderman could match thy bite!
And is thy race no more rever'd ?
Indeed 'tis greatly to be fear'd!
Yet fhalt thou flourish in immortal song,
To me if immortality belong;
For ftranger things than this have come to pafs-
Pofterity thine hift'ry fhall devour,
And read with pleafure how, when vernal fhow'r
In gay profufion rais'd the dewy grafs,
I led thee forth, thine appetite to please,
And mid the verdure faw thee up to knees!
How, oft I pluck'd the tender blade;
And, happy, how thou cam'ft at my command,
And wantoning around, as though afraid,
With poking neck didft pull it from my hand,
Then fcamper, kicking, frolickfome, away,
With fuch a fafcinating bray!
Where oft I paid thee vifits, and where thou
Didft cock with happiness thy kingly ears,
And grin fo 'witchingly, I can't tell how,
And dart at me fuch friendly leers;
With fuch a smiling head, and laughing tail;
And when I mov'd, how, griev'd, thou feem'dft to fay, "Dear master, let your humble Ass prevail; "Pray, mafter, do not go away".
And how (for what than friendship can be sweeter?)
I gave thee grafs again, O pleafant Peter.
And how when Winter bade the herbage die,
And nature mourn'd beneath the stormy sky;
When waving trees, furcharg'd with chilling rain,
Dropp'd feeming tears upon the harass'd plain,
I gave thee a good stable, warm as wool,
With oats to grind, and hay to pull :
Thus, whilft abroad December rul'd the day,
How plenty fhew'd within, the blooming May!
And lo, to future times it shall be known,
How, twice a day to comb and rub thee down,
And be thy bed-maker at night,
Thy groom attended, both with hay and oat,
By which thy back could boast a handsome coat,
And laugh at many a fine court lord and knight,
Whofe ftrutting coats belong p'rhaps to the tailor,
And probably their bodies to the jailor!
What though no dimples thou hafi got;
Black sparkling eyes (the fashion) are thy lot,
And oft a 'witching fmile and cheerful laugh;
And then thy cleanlinefs! -'tis ftrange to utter !
Like fin, thy heels avoid a pool, or gutter;
And then the stream so daintily doft quaff;
Unlike a country alderman, who blows,
And in the mug baptizeth mouth and nose!
What though I've heard fome voices fweeter;
Yet exquifite thy hearing, gentle Peter!
Whether a judge of mufic, I don't know-
Thou haft th' advantage got of many a score
That enter at the Opera door.
ODE to HYMEN; or, the HECTIC.
[From the Rights of Kings, &c. By the fame Author.]
OD of ten million charming things,
Of whom our Milton fo divinely fings,
Once dove-tail'd to a devil of a wife-
Hymen, how comes it that I am fo flighted?
Why with thy mift'ries am I not delighted,
Which I have try'd to peep on half my life?
God of the down-clad chains, difpel the mist-
O put me speedily upon thy lift!
A civil lift, like that of kings, I'm told,
Bringing in fwelling bags of glorious gold!
What have I done to lofe thy good opinion?
Against thee was I ever known to rail;
And fay, (abufing thus thy fweet dominion)
"Curfe me! if this boy's trap fhall catch my tail?”
No! no!-I praise thy knot with bellowing breath,
Which, like Jack Ketch's, feldom flips till death.
Lo! 'midft the hollow-founding vault of night,
Deep coughing by the taper's lonely light,
The hopeless Hectic rolls his eye-balls, fighing:
"Sleep on," he cries, and drops the tend'reft tear;
Then kiffes his wife's cherub cheek so dear :
"Bleft be thy flumbers, love! though I am dying :
"Ah! whilft thou sleepest with the sweetest breath,
"I pump, for life, the putrid well of death!
"I feel of Fate's hard hand th' oppreffive pow'r ;
"I count the iron tongue of ev'ry hour,
"That feems in fancy's ftartled ear to say -
"Soon must thou wander from thy wife away."
"Dread found! too folemn for the foul to bear,
"Murm'ring deep melancholy on my ear:
"And fullen-ling'ring, as if loth to part,
"And ease the terrors of my fainting heart.
"Yet, though I pant for life, fleep thou, my dove,
"For well thy conftancy deserves my love."
And, lo! all young and beauteous by his fide,
His foft, fresh-blooming, incenfe-breathing bride,
Whofe cheek the dream of rapt'rous kiffes warms,
Anticipates her fpoufe's wifh fo good;
Feels love's wild ardours tingling through her blood,
And pants amidít a fecond husband's arms;
Now opes her eyes, and, turning round her head,
"Wonders the filthy fellow is not dead!"
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