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He for her parents and her lover call'd.

The various scene imagine. How his troops

Look'd dubious on, and wondered what he meant ;
While, stretch'd below, the trembling suppliant lay
Rack'd by a thousand mingling passions-fear,
Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief,
Anxiety and love, in every shape.

To these, as different sentiments succeeded,
As mix'd emotions, when the man divine,
Thus the dread silence to the lover broke.

"We both are young-both charm'd. The right of war
Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power;
With whom I could, in the most sacred ties,
Live out a happy life. But, know that Romans,
Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer;
Then, take her to thy soul and with her, take
Thy liberty and kingdom. In return,

I ask but this-when you behold these eyes,
These charms, with transport, be a friend to Rome."
Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute;

While the loud camp, and all the clust'ring crowd
That hung around, rang with repeated shouts ;
Fame took th' alarm, and through resounding Spain,
Blew fast the fair report; which more than arms,
Admiring nations to the Romans gain’d.

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XII.-Pope's humorous Complaint to Dr. Arbuthnot of the Impertinence of Scribblers.

SHUT, shut the door, good John !-fatigu'd, I said
Tie up the knocker-say, I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dogstar rages! Nay, 'tis past a doubt,

All Bedlam, or Parnassus is let out.

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,

They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?

They pierce my thickets; through my grot they glide :

By land, by water, they renew the charge;

They stop the chariot, and they board the barge:
No place is sacred; not the church is free;
E'en Sunday shines no sabbathday to me.

Then, from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme-
"Happy to catch me just at dinnnertime."
Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma !-either way I'm sped;

If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and ti'd down to judge how wretched I
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.

To laugh were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
I sit, with sad civility; I read,

With serious anguish and an aching head:
Then drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

This saving counsel "Keep your piece nine years."
"Nine years!" (cries he, who, high in Drurylane,
Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends ;)
"The piece, you think is incorrect. Why, take it ;
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."
Three things another's modest wishes bound-
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me-" You know his Grace :
I want a patron-ask him for a place."

"Pitholeon libell'd me." But here's a letter
Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better."
"Bless me a packet!-'Tis a stranger sues
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse."

If I dislike it-"Furies, death and rage,"
If I approve" Commend it to the stage."
There thank my stars, my whole commission ends;
The players and I are luckily, no friends.

Fir'd that the house reject him-"'Sdeath, I'll print it, And shame the fools-Your interest, Sir, with Lintot." "Lintot (dull rogue) will think your price too much." "Not if you, Sir, revise it, and retouch."

All my

demurs but double his attacks ;

At last he whispers" Do, and we go snacks ;"
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door-
"Sir, let me see you and your works no more."

There are, who to my person pay their court;
I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short:
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high;
Such Ovid's nose; and, "Sir you have an eye."
Go on, obliging creatures; make me see,
All that disgrac'd my betters met in me.
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,
Just so immortal Maro held his head;
And when I die, besure you let me know,
Great Homer died-three thousand years ago.

XIII.-Hymn to Adversity.-GRAY.
DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and torturing hour,
The bad affright, afflict the best;
Bound in thy admantine chain,

The proud are taught to taste of pain;

And purple tyrants vainly groan,

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
To thee he gave the heavenly birth,
And bade thee form her infant mind.

Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore

With patience, many a year she bore;
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,

And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

Scar'd at thy frown, terrific, fly

Selfpleasing folly's idle brood,

Wild Langhter, Noise and thoughtless Joy,

And leave us leisure to be good.

Light they disperse, and with them go

The summer Friend, the flatt'ring Foe,

By vain Prosperity receiv'd

To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.
Wisdom, in sable garb array'd,
Immers'd in rapturous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid,

With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend:

Warm Charity, the general friend;
With Justice, to herself severe ;

And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear.

Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread Goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band.

(As by the impious thou art seen)

With thund'ring voice and threat'ning mien,

With screaming Horror's funeral cry,

Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, Oh, Goddess! wear;
Thy milder influence impart ;

Thy philosophic train be there,
To soften, not to wound my heart.
Thy gen'rous spark, extinct, revive;
Teach me to love and to forgive :
Exact my own defects to scan;

What others are, to feel; and know myself a man.

XIV. The Passions.-AN ODE.-COLLINS.

WHEN Music, heavenly Maid! was young,

While yet in early Greece she sung,

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Throng'd around her magic cell;

Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting.
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatch'd her instruments of sound
And, as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each (for madness rul'd the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid ;
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd':
A solemn, strange and mingled air:
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure!
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She call'd on Echo still through all her song:
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft repsonsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope enchanted, smil'd and wav'd her golden hair:
And longer had she sung, but with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose.

He threw his blood stain'd sword in thunder down:
And with a withering look,

The war denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

"Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat:

And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,

While each strain'd ball of sight-seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd ;
Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd:
And, now it courted Love; now, raving, call'd on Hate.

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd;

And, from her wild sequester'd seat,
In notes, by distance made more sweet,
Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul,
And dashing soft from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels join'd the sound;

Through glades and glooms, the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, (Round an holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace, and lonely musing)

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known;
The oak crown'd Sisters, and their chaste ey'd Queen,
Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen,

Peeping forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear;

And Sport leap'd up and seiz'd his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's extatic trial,
He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand address'd-
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol;
Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
(Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound)

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

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