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DEDICATION.

TO THE EARL OF PETERBOROW.

Me LORD, As the Laurel and the Myrtic, are the undoubted trophies of your worth, the Bays is always sure of finding your protection.

And when your Lordship is assured, that, the author of these poems delired they might be placed next to those of his dear friend Mr. Harte, it is but fulfilling his request to ask this favour, which, it is hoped, will not be denied by your Lordship.

If posterity can be told he had the honour to please a Mordaunt, the remainder of his papers fhall specdily be offered up at the shrine of merit; if otherwise, warned by the fate of their predeceflors, it is resolved that, with their author, they shall rest in peace.

I am,

Your Lordship's
Most obedient
Humble servant,

LUCASIA,

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

But when 'tis coin'd, the awful monarch's face ODE.

Makes it a god, and gives it birth;

The world the sudden god adore, Toyobo Tufton, Esg. Nepbew to the Earl of Tbanet.

And humbly own his universal power;
Nor heaps of gold nor monuments as high

Sceptres and kings are in his hand,
As the ambition of the great,

And nature reverences his supreme command.
Can buy one moment tow'rdi eternity,
Or change the fix'd decrees of fate;

To my School-Fellow, Mr. William Pattifon, oper "Tis verse alone can give a name,

bis Departure from Appleby School. And crown our actions with eternal fame : Thus mighty Cæsar's triumphs live,

LEND me thy muse, thy merits to proclaim, Not in his monuments, but those his poets give.

And give thy worth its just intringic fame; In fields of death, the bleeding warriors toil,

My muse too humble, and my lays too low, And brave the loudest storms of fate;

My wings too Nender, and my verse too low.

To me a while, my friend, thy muse impart, They die to make eternal fame their spoil, And pawn their life for being great:

Grief chills my vigour, and disarms my heart ;

Thy verse alone can tell thy boundless praisc, To virtue, verse this fame can give, Virtue by verse, by virtue poets live ;

Thy lays alone are worthy of thy lays. For her they tune their numbers high;

Say, never-dying, ever tuneful nine, For virtuc is the burning glass of poetry.

How oft the bard attended at your fhrine, But, ah! where does this heavenly goddess How oft he sung your fame, -how oft hall ling.

How oft he rais’d the voice, and tun'd the Iringa dwell ? Where does her blessed seat remain ?

Ye verdant trees, that in green order rear We search the palace, and the hermit's cell, Your waving tresses in the huid air; We search, but search, alas, in vain !

In a more formidable prospect stand, Gold is the load. None of the great,

With nodding foilage on poetic land. And vulgar souls must catch the glite'ring bait; Ye purling areams, that run by Cowley's side, The scale of justice sinks with gold,

Have learn'd, by him, in smoother feet to glide; And impious bribes to win the cause, must damn His verse discover'd Hederinda's shade, the soul.

With age and ivy, memorable made : In Tufton, muse behold the deity,

The rock affords her never dying bays, With him begin to grace your song;

To crown her poet with immortal praise. All that is great, and good in him, you see, Your lovely Laura's name shall never die,

To him your voice, and lyre, belong; But live coeval with eternity.
He rais'd you from a low degree,

Venus, and all the goddesses around,
Then let your numbers raise him to the sky; Drest in your verse, with furer light’nings wound
Offer what gifts the muse can give,

The little loves, and smiles in numbers roll, He gave you fame, then make his fame to live. And Cupid's arrows steal upon the soul. But, ah, my muse, your colours are too faint,

But now no more the Naïads prattling play, Your ftrength too weak, your theme too great, But in soft silence plumber ou: the day; Alas: in vain, your pencil strives to paint,

Cupid's full quiver, and the court of love, What mortal cannot imitate :

The chequer d scene of Hederinda's grove, But if he smile, then tretch your wing, No more, alas : its wonted joy displays, And tune his praises on a bolder Itring; He's gone, that dress'd chem in vivific lays: Then ev'ry tongue shall speak his fame,

He's gone-in Homer no delights abound, And critics spare my verle, protected with his No sweet variety in Virgil's found, name.

Nor music which can heal a lover's wound ! Thus gold, at firkt, is but a fuggith mass, Sorrow, like the prismatic glass does show Whitt it lies cover'd in the earth;

Onc undiftinguish'd Spectacle of wee;

AN EPISTLL.

Mis presence ev'ry sweetest joy improv'd

Hark! the soft, balmy, breathing breezes blowStill lov'd, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd. Hark! Hederinda's warbling murmurs flow December 7th, 1723.

Here oft I left the busy world behind,

And found the better part, in you refin'd.
YARICO TO INKLE:

But would you know how I divide my time,
Betwixt my studies, business, and my rhyme ?

Wak'd, by the promise of a day, we rise, Dear, faithless man! if e'er that cruel breast

And with our souls salute the dawning skics;

All summon'd, to devotion's fane repair, Love's pleasing toys, and soft delights, confeft;

And piously begin the day with prayer ; Distress like mine, may sure thy pity move,

Thence, led by reason's glimmering light, descry For tender pity is the child of love!

The dark recesses of philosophy; But can compassion from thy bosom flow?

Through claffic groves the wily wanton trace, Source of my wrongs, and fountain of my woe! Wilt thou repentant, soften at my grief,

And logically urge che puzzling chase, Melt at my tears, and lend a late relief!

But when the sounds of the presaging bell What have I done ? ah! how deserv'd thy hate ? Noon's pleasurable invitation tell; Or was this vengeance treasur'd up by fate? Moods, methods, figures, swim before my light, Then will I mourn my fate's severe decree, And syllogisms wing their airy flight. Nor charge a guilt so black, so base on thee; Consus'd the fairy vision flits awayFor O! I know, ah no! I knew, thy mind And no ideas, but of dinner, Itay. Soft as the dove, and as the curtle kind;

Thus, fabled hags, at midnight's solemn noon, How have I seen thy gentle borom move,

With magic spells enchant the labouring moon; And heave, contagious, to some cale of love!

But when the cock proclaims the springing light, How have I heard thee paint the faithfull’st pair,

Each horrid phantoni disappears in night. Describe their bliss, and e'en their raptures share !

Now, those, whom recreating toils invite, Then have thy lips, with sweet transition swore

Pour'd on the plain, indulge their lov'd delight; Thy love more lasting, and thy pallion more!

Now flies aloft in air the whirling ball, And what, is truth, if signs like these deceive! Anxious, the learned rabble wait its fall; Signs! that might win the wariest to believe. Pursu'd by wafting caps the fury flies,

Rises in height, and leffens in the skies.

Thus healthfully refresh'd, we leave the plain,
THE COLLEGE LIFE.

For pleasure oft repeated, is but pain.
Next we survey the valt capacious ball,

And take long journies o'er the learned wall ;
Sid. Coll. Cantab. Marcb 15. 1724-5. Or from her tender birth Britannia trace, (race.
SIR,

And all her glories center'd in great Brunswick's From sacred shades, and academic groves, The dark original of time renew, Where, lost in thought, a muling fancy rovcs; And bring three thousand wond'ring years to view, What kind endearing numbers shall I send,

Now to the muses soft retirements fly, To meet the critic in the fondling friend?

Or soar with Milton, or with Waller figh; Here learned solitudes salute our eyes,

Each fav'site bard o'erpays my curious view, And the

gay
scenes in real raptures rise ;

For who can fail to please who charms like you. Through clasic shades majestic domes aspire,

To find us thus, Apollo takes his way, And dimly from the piercing eye retire.

To footh the sultry labours of the day; Deep through the groves old Cam serenely flows,

The cuneful muses charm his lift'ning ears,
Free from the pratiling Naiads babbling noise.

And in Toft sounds he bears away his cares.
His nymphs in gentle Glence move along,
And hear their murmurs in some soft'ning rong;

Thus, dearest Florio, thus ny faithful friend, Till by the forcing torrent borne away,

In learned luxury my time I spend; They mourn because they can no longer stay:

Til length’ning shades the secting sun display, Poctic hills the wide horizon bound,

And falling dews lament the falling day : And wall the learned paradise around.

Then, lost in thought, where aged Cam divides But yet—though all things with my soul agree with musing pleasure I reflect around,

Those verdant groves that paint his azure tides, Pallid are my joys, and tasteless without thee;

And stand inchanted on poetic ground.
These visionary pleasures but renew
The real happiness I found in you ;

Straight to myglancing thought those bards appear,

That fillid the world with fame, and charm'd us Where venerable Cowley's facred shade

Here Spenser, Cowley, and that awful name (here: The sweetest scene of folitude is made; When stretch'd at ease, amusingly we lay,

Of mighty Milton, flourish'd into fame;

from these amuling groves, his copious mind, How tunefully the minutes danc'd away.

The blooming shades of paradise design d. Oh! soothe me, fancy, with some pleasing dream, In these retirements, Dryden fann'd his fire, And gently wast me to Ituna's stream- And gende Waller tun'd his tender ly* ;

TO A FRIEND.

Hail! happy bards, whilst thus I think I hear Alas! alas ! that I your love believ'd!
Your tuneful melody improve my ear,

I lov'd, and in my turn am chus deceiv'd,
With rev’rence I approach each sacred shade, Nor dare I of my cruel fate complain,
Perhaps by your creating numbers made.

Or, if I do, alas! 'tis all in vain. Delusion helps my fancy as I walk,

For ever curst be that detefted day, Hears waters murmur, and soft echocs talk; When from the last May-fair we took our way, Through the dim Made its sacred poet sees, Remember how you forg'd a false excuse Or hears his music in the wasted breeze.

Your eafy natur'd lover to abuse. Here Locke and Newton through the world were

No fondling father call'd you back again,

A better reason ! 'twas your fondling (wain; known,

And if I meet him c'er alone, I vow,
And made unravell’d nature's works their own;

I'll surely beat the puppy black and blue.
Too soon we lost those fav'rites of the sky,
Yet, Florio may the double lofs fupply.

I mark'd the watchful coxcomb all the day,
Haflc, then, my friend, nor let nie mourn your stay, Invited him to exercise the ball,

And kept him from his meditated prey; Lo! the world suffers by your long delay

And bravely give, or bravely ward a fall : Let prosp'rous fortune on your will attend,

So should we both our pleading merits show, And in your happy wishes bless your friend.

And you, though blind, the difference might know:

But all I urg'd, I urg'd alas! in vain,
THE JEALOUS SHEPHERD :

Nor would he glory give, nor could he gain.
A PASTORAL.

Ah, Dolly! Dolly! where were all your vows, It happen'd once upon a summer's day,

When cheese-cakes lur'd you to the cavern-house; When lads and lasses go to making hay;

Your vows were as your cheese-cakes (weet, get

weak! 'I he weary mowers laid themselves adown, To take a bottle and a nap at noon;

And can you both alike together break? When Bootyslub (for so was call'd the swain

But if you do fo-you, with equal case, (please

. That languish'd under Dorothy's disdain)

Can make new vows, and cheese-cakes when you While others flept, by love was kept awake, And could you then your Bootyllub forget, To mourn his and mend his Dolly's rake. And in another's lap so kindly fit? Dolt as I am, (complains the love-sick lout)

Around his neck your fondling arms you flung, Not to consider what I am about?

And learn'd the filly catches which he sung.

Whilst unconcern'd at home you hear me ling, Here I employ my little Rock of art, But who, alas! shall mend my broken heart?

Or tunefully torment the rofin d ftring;

Your favour every way I try to gain,
None can that work perform but Dorothy,
And that will ne'er be done by cruelty ;

Buc dance, or fiddle; sing, or pipe; in vain. For still she persecutes me with disdain,

Oh learn at last a flatterer to hate, Laughs at my woes, and banters all my pain. And think on Susan Silly's cruel face: Ah, Dolly! Dolly! can you be so dull,

Her pride poor honeft Hobbinol despis'd, To leave your lover for a fopish fool?

And vainly Tommy Taudry's folly priz'd. A butterfly the cabbages destroys,

But now, too late, she sees herself undone, On you a butterfly his breath employs

Her portion squander'd, and her honour godeI say no more-my meaning you may guess

What better canst thou hope from such a fiame, Perhaps you had been pleas’d, had I said less. But love refuses what my rage would name.

But yet there was a time, or else I dream'd, How chang'd is Dolly now, from what she was When Bootyflub in your good graces seem'd; When first-Ah, had I never spy'd the lafs ! Then, if you knew I kiss'd a lass at town,

The very time I perfectly can tell, How have I seen you pout, and fret, and frown? For love remembers every ching too well! Nay, once you told me, that I need not roam,

Sure, I can ne'er forget the Sunday morn, For charity should still begin at home.

Though from her mem'ry so soon 'tis worn: These jealous hints, or I mistake them, prove A goodly bible in my hand I took, The greatest and the surest signs of love;

And very gravely thought to read my book; Yet, if you lov'd, methinks you cou'd not be

When through the window, by a luckless Chance, So kind to Floripert, so cross to me.

Heedless, I cast a customary glance; Remember, how, to jealousy betray'd,

'Twas there I saw the pretty Dally walk, You scolded at the parson's pretty maid ;

Fair, and upright as roses on their ftalk: When with inquiring looks you pass'd the house, So trimly was the tidy damfel dress'd, And catch'd me keeping up the damfel's cows; That, spite of all the flowers, the seem'd the best. Your scornful eyes with jealous fury burn'd, Sometimes to smell a pretty rose the stoppid, On her they glanc'd, and then on me they Pleas'd with the smell

, the pretty rose she cropp'd; turn'd;

Then in her snowy breast the fav’rite plac'd, I took the hint, and fear'd what might cnsue, Her sweeter breast the blushing fav'rite gracid; So stooping, secm'd co buckle up my shoe,

But then! how did I wish myself between Then left the lass, and Incak'd away to you. Her swelling bosom, and the dowcr, unseen?

But as I wish'd, I found a pleasing smart, Taught by thy touch, the lily fairer blows,
I know not how, begin to niclt my heart :

A foster damaik blushes in the rose,
Nay, all my limbs with such a thio'ring shook, And a more gay creation from thy pencil flows.
That I the chillness for an ague took.

Nor flowers, nor fruits alone, improv'd we see, Ah, had it been one, I had felt less harm,

But beauty owes her empire half to thee : For I can cure an ague with a charm!

How bloom Belinda's never-fading charms! Now, all my spells and charms but triles prove, How, in thy paint, the fair perfection warms! Far Itronger are the magic charms of love.

What pure

vermillion tinctures every grace! But when I found the smild to see me look,

How all the goddess brightens in her face! I pleas'd as well, foon laid aside my book,

The mimic rolling eye, now seems to move, And, boldly blithsome, to the garden went,

Dawns into life, and kindles into love;

Struck, at each look, a captive of thy art, Where she, as well as 1, knew what I meant,

I ligh! and fancy arrows in my heart: Yet seemingly niy searching fight to fhun,

Confounded at thy nice creative hand, (stand. Behind an apple-tree the gipsy run ; But foon I found the amorous deceit,

Think the draught lives, and, like fome picture, And forc'd a kiss, to reconcile the cheat.

Would thus cach nymph, with providential care, But forc'd it so, that when she seem'd to strive Ensure her charms, and thinc for ever fair, To keep it most, the more she seem'd to give. How might be brave the dire, detested rage, Remember then, my lovely faithless maid, Of spleen, small-pox, or all-devouring age! What caths, what vows, what promises, you made; Then, whın old time should bid the roles die, Think for your own, if not your lover's sake, Pale the red pouting lip and dim the sparkling eyes How bad it is a binding oath to break.

Then might the fair a bright reversion save,

Bloom in her death, and triumph in her grave: But while I thus these silly tales repcat, Then Cælia, spight of that bewitching frown, I find myself already in a sweat :

Would see thy paint more lasting than her own. What fall I do, too well she knows my love, And her coy coldness does the scorner prove.

But lo! more glorious aims thy hand pursues,

More glorious scenes attract the ravilh'd muse: Well then--when shadows length’ning o'er the Silent I stand, and, loft in wonder see, vale,

A godhead Throuded in mortality!
Call forth tke milk-maid, with her cleanly pail, What majeily eclips'd the shades display!
To my old sweat heart Cicily will I go,

How the light kindles with eternal day!
And more than all my former kindness show; What beams of love! what pitying tears are seen!
Conduct the girl along the crowded mead, Meltingly sad, yet solemnly forene!
And to teaze Dolly, through the pasture lead;

O happy artist : live for ever blest! [thy breast? Perhaps I'll whisper out some secret place,

Whence dawn'd this heaven-sprung image in And kiss her too before her jealous face ;

Sure some kind angel, ftudious in thy art, Then let her rival cry, and frown, and fret,

Ting'd the bright dyes, and quicken'd every part; And in my cruelty her own forget.

Hence, like their great original they shine, Then let her be as much, or more afraid

Appear as human, but are all divine ! of Cicily, than she was the parson's maid.

What may not now thy lively touch command? So fhall my scorn, and counterfeit difdain

What may not owe new glories to thy hand! Revive her love, if any love remain.

Thy wondrous hand not only nature drew, Sid. Col. April 5. 1725.

But copied ev'n the Lord of Nature too.

Sid. Col. Feb. 9. 1725-6. .
TO MR. JOHN SAUNDERS,
Occasioned by a fight of fome of bis Paintings et Cam-

TO MR. SAUNDERS,
bridge.

Occafioned by the breaking of the Glass of Mr. Euflet's WAEN nature, from her unexhaused mine,

Picture, Resolves to make some mighty science Mine; Ort have I thought thy wonder-working art, Her embryo feeds inform the future birth

Could niore than nature's outward fori impart, Improve the soul, and animate the earth;

But now my eyes convinc'd the truth believe, : I'rom thence, an Homer, or Apelles, rise,

For lo! the picture more than seems to live, A Shakspeare, or a Saunders, strike our eyes; Pleas'd to decide mistrusting reason's strife, And, lo! the promis'd wonder charms my view, Breaks through the glass, and startles into life. The old Apelles rivall'd in the new! See! like the sun, his beams their pow'r disclose,

BURLESQUE.
Like him, he paints his progress, as he goes ;

Dear HULSE,
Renews the opening spring's enlivening dye,
Or bids rich autumn ripen to the eye.

When Ovid in his exilc wrote,

Low was his verse, and barren was his thought; Let some, claborately vain, impart

My case is just the same, and for to mock it, The cold effects of industry, and art,

The muse keeps equal tenor with my pocket; The warmer draughts deserve a nobler name, And for th' assurance of a moderate poet, Nature's thy art, as nature is thy theme,

I think these lines are proof enough to fhow it,

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