Shines a broad mirror through the fhadowy cave;
Where lingering drops from mineral roofs diftil,
And pointed crystals break the fparkling rill,
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride beflow,
And latent metals innocently glow;
Approach. Great Nature ftudiously behold!
And eye the mine without a wifh for gold.
Approach: but awful! lo! th' Ægerian grọt,
Where, nobly penfive, St. John fat and thought;
Where British fighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was fhot through March-
mont's foul.
Let fuch, fuch only, tread this facred floor,
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
VOL. VIII.
TO MRS. M. B. ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
On, be thou bleft with all that heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend!
Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.
With added years, if life bring nothing new,
But like a fieve let every blefling through,
Some joy fill loft, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, fome fad reflection more;
Is that a birth-day? 'tis alas! too clear,
'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
Let joy or cafe, let affluence or content,
And the gay confcience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, infpirit every grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year.
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In fome foft dream, or ecftasy of joy,
Peaceful fleep out the Sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.
Ver. 15. Originally thus in the MS. And oh, fince death muft that fair frame destroy, Die, by fome fudden ecstasy of joy;
In fome foft dream may thy mild foul remove, And be thy latest gasp a figh of love.
ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742. RESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die, With not one fin, but poetry, This day Tom's fair account has run, (Without a blot) to eighty-one. Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays A table, with a cloth of bays; And Ireland, mother of sweet fingers, Prefents her harp ftill to his fingers. The feaft, his towering genius marks In yonder wild-goofe and the 1rks! The mushrooms fhow his wit was fudden! And for his judgment, lo, a pudden! Roaft beef, though old, proclaims him stout, And grace, although a bard, devout. May Tom, whom heaven fent down to raise The price of prologues and of plays, Be every birth-day more a winner, Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; Walk to his grave without reproach, And fcorn a rafcal and a coach.
TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.
IN beauty, or wit No mortal as yet
OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.
A Modern Imitation.
SAY, St. John, who alone peruse
With candid eye, the mimic muse,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws!
Is then a greater work in hand,
Than all the tomes of Haines's band?
"Or fhoots he folly as it flies?
"Or catches manners as they rise?"
Or, urg'd by unquench'd native heat,
Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat ?
Where (emulous of Chartres' fame)
Ev'n Chartres' felf is fcarce a name.
To you (th' all-envy'd gift of heaven)
Th' indulgent gods, unafk'd, have given
A form complete in every part,
And, to enjoy that gift, the art.
What could a tender mother's care Wish better, to her favourite heir,
Ad Albium Tibullum. Albi, noftrorum fermonum candide judex, Quid nunc te dicam facere in regione Pedana? Scribere, quod Coffi Parmenfis opufcula vincat ?. + - Di tibi formam Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi.
Quid voveat dulci nutricula majus alumno, Quam fapere, et fari poffet quæ fentiat, et cui
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A ftock of health, and golden showers,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?
Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
And gleaming hope, and black despair;
Yet let thy friend this truth impart;
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
(In juftice for your labours paft)
That every day fhall be your last;
That every hour you life renew
Is to your injur'd country due.
In fpight of fears, of mercy spight,
My genius ftill muft rail, and write.
Hafte to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great:
There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There (objects of our mutual hate)
We'll ridicule both church and state.
Twas Friendship-warm as Phoebus, kind as Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, Love,
DEAR, damn'd, distracting town, farewell!
Thy fools no more I'll teaze :
This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,
Ye harlots, fleep at ease!
Soft Band rough C—, adieu!
Earl Warwick make your moan, The lively H-k and you
May knock up whores alone.
To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman toll;
Let Jervais gratis paint, and Frowde
Save threepence and his soul.
Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned fot;
And Garth, the best good Christian he,
Although he knows it not.
For fober, ftudious days! And Burlington's delicious meal,
For fallads, tarts, and pease!
A FRAGMENT.
WHAT are the falling rills, the pendant shades, The morning bowers, the evening colonnades,
"His faltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani " Munere!"
ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET.
In the Church of Withyam in Suffex.
DOLSET, the grace of courts, the muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, dy'd."
The fcourge of pride, though fanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state:
Yet foft his nature, though fevere his lay,
His anger moral, and his wifdom gay.
Bleft fatirift who touch'd the mean so true,
Ashow'd, vice had his hate and pity too.
Bleft courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet facred keep his friendships, and his cafe.
Bieft peer! his great forefathers every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patrons still, or poets, deck the line.
ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT,
Only Son of the Lord Chancellor HARCOURT, at the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordfbire, 1720.
To this fad fhrine, whoe'er thou art! draw near,
Here lies the friend most lov'd, the fon most dear;
Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide,
Or gave his father grief, but when he dy'd.
How vain is reason, eloquence how weak!
If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak,
Oh let thy once-lov'd friend infcribe thy stone,
And, with a father's forrows, mix his own!
ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBALL,
One of the principal Secretaries of State to King Wilham III. who, taving refigned bis place, died in bis Retirement at Easthamfted, in Berkshire, 1716.
A PLEASING form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; conftant, yet refign'd;
Honour unchang'd, a principle profest,
Fr'd to one fide, but moderate to the rest;
An honeft courtier, yet a patroit too;
Jeft to his prince, and to his country true;
F'd with the fenfe of age, the fire of youth,
A corn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth;
A generous faith, from fuperftition free:
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny; [mov'd,
Each this man was: who now, from earth re-
At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd,
JACOBUS CRAGGS.
Regi Magna Britanniæ a Secretis
et Confiliis fan&tioribus,
Principis pariter ac populi amor et deliciæ,
vixit titulis et invidia major
annos, heu paucos, xxxv.
Ob. Feb. xvi. M.DCC.XX.
Statefman, yet friend to truth of foul fincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear !
Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend,
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov❜d.
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