Purer every fountain flows,
Stronger every wildling grows.
Let those toil for gold who please,
Or for fame renounce their ease.
What is fame? an empty bubble.
Gold? a transient shining trouble.
Let them for their country bleed,
What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed?
Man 's not worth a moment's pain,
Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain.
Then let me, sequester'd fair,
To your sibyl grot repair;
On yon hanging cliff it stands,
Scoop'd by nature's salvage hands,
Bosom'd in the gloomy shade
Of cypress not with age decay'd.
Where the owl still-hooting sits,
Where the bat incessant flits,
There in loftier strains I'll sing
Whence the changing seasons spring;
Tell how storms deform the skies,
Whence the waves subside and rise;
Trace the comet's blazing tail,
Weigh the planets in a scale;
Bend, great God, before thy shrine,-
The bournless macrocosm 's thine.
Dr. Granger.-Born 1721, Died 1766.
Oft has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finish'd tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop:
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-
I've seen-and sure I ought to know."
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.
Two travellers of such a cast, As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talk'd of this, and then of that; Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, Of the Chameleon's form and nature. "A stranger animal," cries one, "Sure never lived beneath the sun : A lizard's body lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its foot with triple claw disjoin'd; And what a length of tail behind! How slow its pace! and then its hueWho ever saw so fine a blue?"
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warm'd it in the sunny ray;
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd,
And saw it eat the air for food."
"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast survey'd
Extended in the cooling shade."
""'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye."
"Green!" cries the other in a fury:
'Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" "Twere no great loss," the friend replies; "For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use."
So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows: When luckily came by a third; To him the question they referr'd; And begg'd he'd tell them, if he knew, Whether the thing was green or blue. "Sirs," cries the umpire, cease your
The creature's neither one nor t'other.
I caught the animal last night,
And view'd it o'er by candle-light;
I mark'd it well, 'twas black as jet-
You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it."
-66 Pray, sir, do; I'll lay my life the thing is blue." "And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." "Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." He said; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo!-'twas white. Both stared; the man look'd wondrous wise
"My children," the Chameleon cries
(Then first the creature found a tongue),
"You all are right, and all are wrong:
When next you talk of what you view,
Think others see as well as you:
Nor wonder if you find that none
Prefers your eye-sight to his own."
James Merrick-Born 1720, Died 1769.
1017.-THE WISH.
How short is life's uncertain space!
Alas! how quickly done!
How swift the wild precarious chase!
And yet how difficult the race!
How very hard to run!
Youth stops at first its wilful ears
To wisdom's prudent voice;
Till now arrived to riper years,
Experienced age, worn out with cares,
Repents its earlier choice.
What though its prospects now appear
So pleasing and refined ?
Yet groundless hope, and anxious fear,
By turns the busy moments share,
And prey upon the mind.
Since then false joys our fancy cheat
With hopes of real bliss;
Ye guardian powers that rule my fate,
The only wish that I create
Is all comprised in this :
May I, through life's uncertain tide,
Be still from pain exempt!
May all my wants be still supplied,
My state too low t' admit of pride,
And yet above contempt!
But should your providence divine
A greater bliss intend;
May all those blessings you design
(If e'er those blessings shall be mine),
Be centred in a friend!
James Merrick.-Born 1720, Died 1769.
1018. THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING.
There's grandeur in this sounding storm,
That drives the hurrying clouds along
That on each other seem to throng,
And mix in many a varied form ;
While, bursting now and then between,
The moon's dim misty orb is seen,
And casts faint glimpses on the green.
Beneath the blast the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies,
And wide the shower of foliage flies;
The lake's black waves in tumult blend,
Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er,
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.
The sight sublime enrapts my thought,
And swift along the past it strays,
And much of strange event surveys,
What history's faithful tongue has taught,
Or fancy form'd, whose plastic skill
The page with fabled change can fill
Of ill to good, or good to ill.
But can my soul the scene enjoy,
That rends another's breast with pain?
O hapless he, who, near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy !
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend!
John Scott.-Born 1730, Died 1783.
1019.-ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM. I hate that drum's discordant sound, Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, And lures from cities and from fields, To sell their liberty for charms Of tawdry lace, and glitt'ring arms; And when ambition's voice commands, To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. I hate that drum's discordant sound, Parading round, and round, and round: To me it talks of ravaged plains, And burning towns, and ruin'd swains, And mangled limbs, and dying groans, And widows' tears, and orphans' moans; And all that misery's hand bestows, To fill the catalogue of human woes.
John Scott.-Born 1730, Died 1783.
1020.-ODE ON PRIVATEERING.
How custom steels the human breast
To deeds that nature's thoughts detest!
How custom consecrates to fame
What reason else would give to shame!
Fair spring supplies the favouring gale,
The naval plunderer spreads his sail,
And ploughing wide the wat'ry way,
· Explores with anxious eyes his prey.
The man he never saw before,
The man who him no quarrel bore,
He meets, and avarice prompts the fight;
And rage enjoys the dreadful sight
Of decks with streaming crimson dyed,
And wretches struggling in the tide,
Or 'midst th' explosion's horrid glare,
Dispersed with quivering limbs in air.
The merchant now on foreign shores
His captured wealth in vain deplores;
Quits his fair home, O mournful change!
For the dark prison's scanty range;
By plenty's hand so lately fed,
Depends on casual alms for bread;
And with a father's anguish torn,
Sees his poor offspring left forlorn.
And yet, such man's misjudging mind,
For all this injury to his kind,
The prosperous robber's native plain
Shall bid him welcome home again;
His name the song of every street,
His acts the theme of all we meet,
And oft the artist's skill shall place
To public view his pictured face!
If glory thus be earn'd, for me
My object glory ne'er shall be;
No, first in Cambria's loneliest dale
Be mine to hear the shepherd's tale!
No, first on Scotia's bleakest hill
Be mine the stubborn soil to till!
Remote from wealth, to dwell alone,
And die, to guilty praise unknown!
John Scott.-Born 1730, Died 1783.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;
And they are fools who roam :
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut-our home.
Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing she left
That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explored the sacred bark.
Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.
Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutored right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise:
We'll form their minds, with studious care, To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.
While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue every day;
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.
No borrow'd joys, they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs! we envy not your state;
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humbler lot.
Our portion is not large, indeed;
But then how little do we need!
For nature's calls are few:
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.
To be resigned when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,
And pleased with favours given;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part;
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heaven. We'll ask no long protracted treat, Since winter-life is seldom sweet; But when our feast is o'er, Grateful from table we'll arise, Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes The relics of our store.
Thus, hand in hand, through life we'll go;
Its chequered paths of joy and wo
With cautious steps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead:
While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.
Nathaniel Cotton.-Born 1721, Died 1788.
1025.-A PUBLIC BREAKFAST.
What blessings attend, my dear mother, all those
Who to crouds of admirers their persons expose!
Do the gods such a noble ambition inspire;
Or gods do we make of each ardent desire ?
O generous passion! 'tis yours to afford
The splendid assembly, the plentiful board;
To thee do I owe such a breakfast this morn,
As I ne'er saw before, since the hour I was
born;
'Twas you made my Lord Raggamuffenn come here,
Who they say has been lately created a Peer; And to-day with extreme complaisance and respect ask'd
All the people at Bath to a general breakfast.
You've heard of my Lady Bunbutter, no doubt,
How she loves an assembly, fandango, or rout; No lady in London is half so expert
At a snug private party, her friends to divert ; But they say that of late she's grown sick of the town,
And often to Bath condescends to come down.
Her Ladyship's favourite house is the Bear:
Her chariot, and servants, and horses are there;
My Lady declares that retiring is good,
As all with a separate maintenance should;
For when you have put out the conjugal fire,
'Tis time for all sensible folk to retire ;
If Hymen no longer his fingers will scorch,
Little Cupid for others can whip in his torch,
So pert is he grown, since the custom began
To be married and parted as quick as you can.
One would think to be wet must be very good fun;
For by waggling their tails, they all seem'd to take pains
To moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains ;
And 'twas pretty to see how, like birds of a feather,
The people of quality flock'd all together;
All pressing, addressing, caressing, and fond,
Just the same as those animals are in a
pond.
You've read all their names in the news I suppose,
But, for fear you have not, take the list as it goes:
There was Lady Grease wrister,
And Madam Van-Twister,
Her Ladyship's sister.
Lord Cram, and Lord Vulter,
Sir Brandish O'Culter,
With Marshal Carouzer,
And Old Lady Mouzer; And the great Hanoverian
Besides many others, who all in the rain went,
On purpose to honour this grand entertain
The company made a most brilliant appear
And ate bread and butter with great perse
All the chocolate, too, that my Lord set before 'em,
The ladies dispatch'd with the utmost de
Soft musical numbers were heard all around, The horns and the clarions echoing sound :Sweet were the strains, as od'rous gales that blow
O'er fragrant banks where pinks and roses grow.
The Peer was quite ravish'd, while close to his side
Sat Lady Bunbutter, in beautiful pride!
Oft turning his eyes, be with rapture survey'd
All the powerful charms she so nobly display'd.
As when at the feast of the great Alexander,
Timotheus, the musical son of Thersander,
Breath'd heavenly measures:—
The prince was in pain,
And could not contain,
While Thais was sitting beside him;
But, before all his peers,
Was for shaking the spheres,
Such goods the kind gods did provide him.
Grew bolder and bolder,
And cock'd up his shoulder,
Like the son of great Jupiter Ammon,
Till at length quite opprest,
He sunk on her breast,
And lay there as dead as a salmon.
O had I a voice that was stronger than steel,
With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel,
And as many good mouths, yet I never could utter
All the speeches my Lord made to Lady Bunbutter!
So polite all the time, that he ne'er touch'd a bit,
While she ate up his rolls and applauded his wit;
For they tell me that men of true taste, when they treat,
Should talk a great deal, but they never should eat;
And if that be the fashion, I never will give
Any grand entertainment as long as I live:
For I'm of opinion 'tis proper to chear
The stomach and bowels, as well as the ear.
Nor me did the charming concerto of Abel
Regale like the breakfast I saw on the table:
I freely will own I the muffins preferr'd
To all the genteel conversation I heard,
E'en tho' I'd the honour of sitting between
My Lady Stuff-damask, and Peggy Moreen,
Who both flew to Bath in the London
machine.
Cries Peggy, "This place is enchantingly pretty;
We never can see such a thing in the city: You may spend all your life-time in Cateaton street,
And never so civil a gentleman meet; You may talk what you please, you may search London through,
You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almanac s too,
And I'll give you my head if you find such a host,
For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast: How he welcomes at once all the world and
And how civil to folk he ne'er saw in his life!"
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