Is it glad Suminer's balmy breath, that blows For her despising, when she deign'd to sing,
From the fair jasmine and the blashing rose?

The sweetest songsters of the spring:
Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
Of rural bliss, was here before :

The nightingale was mute, Oft have I met her ou the verdant side

And every shepherd's flute Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow mcads,

Was cast in silent scorn away, Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,

While all attended to ber sweeter lay. Array'd in all her flowery pride.

Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song, No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,

And thou, melodious Philomel, No brighter colours paint th' enameld field.

Again thy plaintive story tell;

For Death has stopt that tuneful tongie, Is it to Love these new delights I owe?

Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel. Four times has the revolving Sun His annual circle through the zodiac run;

In vain I look around Since all that Love's indulgent power

O'er all the well-known ground, On favour'd mortals can bestow,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; Was given to me in this auspicious bower.

Where oft we us'd to walk,

Where oft in tender talk
Here first my Lucy, sweet in virgin charms, We saw the summer Sun go down the sky;
Was yielded to my longing arms;

Nor by yon fountain's side,
And round our nuptial bed,

Nor where its waters glide Hovering with purple wings, th' Idalian boy Along the valley, can she now be found : Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound Of innocent desires,

No more iny mournful eye While Venus scatter'd myrtles o'er her head.

Can aught of her espy, Whence then this strange increase of joy? But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. He, only he, can tell, who, match'd like me, (If such another happy man there be)

O shades of Ilagley, where is now your boast ? Has by his own experience tried

Your bright inhabitant is lost.
How much the wife is dearer than the bride. You she preferrd to all the gay resorts

Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye:

To your sequesterd dales

And flower embroider'd vales MEMORY OF THE SAME LADY. From an admiring world she chose to fly:

With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,

The silent paths of wisdom trod,

And banish'd every passion from her breast,
Ipse cavà solans ægrum testudine amorem, But those, the gentlest and the best,
Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum,

Whose holy flames with energy divine
Te venierte die, te decedente canebat.

The virtuous heart enliven and improve,

The conjugal and the maternal love.
Ar length escap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,

Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry ;

By your delighted mother's side, Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,

Who now your infant steps shall guide ? This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,

Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care I now may give my burden'd heart relief,

To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And pour forth all my stores of grief;

And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of Of grief surpassing every other woe,

truth? Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love

O loss beyond repair! Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,

O wretched father! left alone, Exceeds the vulgar joys that move

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe,

And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,

Perform the duties that you doubly owe! Ye high o'ershadowing hills,

Now she, alas! is gone, Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,

From folly and from vice their helpless age to sare! Oft have you my Lucy seen! But never shall you now behold her more:

Where were ye, Muses, when relentless Fate Nor will she now with fond delight

From these fond arms your fair disciple tore; And taste refind your rural charms explore.

From these fond arms, that vainly strove Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night,

With hapless ineflectual love Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine To guard her bosom from the mortal blow? Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine.

Could not your favouring power, Aonian

maids, Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice Could not, alas! your power prolong ber date, To hear her heavenly voice;

For whom so oft in these inspiring shades,

TO THE

A MONODY.

A. D. 1747.

1

Or ander Camden's moss-clad mountains hoar, And made each charm of polish'd courts agree You open'd all your sacred store,

With candid Truth's simplicity, Whate'er your ancient sages taught,

And uncorrupted Innocence ! Your ancient bards sublimely thought,

Tell how to more than manly sense And bade her raptur'd breast with all your spirit She join'd the softening influence glow?

Of more than female tenderness:

How, in the thoughtless days of wealth and Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,

joy, Or Aganippe's fount your steps detain,

Which oft the care of others' good destroy,
Nor in the Thespian vallies did you play;

Her kindly-melting heart,
Nor then on Mincio's bank'

To every want and every woe,
Beset with osiers dank,

To guilt itself when in distress,
Nor where Clitumnus: rolls his gentle stream, The balm of pity would impart,
Nor where through hanging woods,

And all relief that bounty could bestow! Steep Anio 3 pours his floods,

Ev'n for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life Nor yet wbere Meles 4 or Dissus s stray.

Beneath the bloody knife,
Ill does it now beseem,

Her gentle tears would fall,
That, of your guardian care bereft,

Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to To dire disease and death your darling should be left.

all.

Now what avails it that in early bloom,

Not only good and kind,
When light fantastic toys

But strong and elevated was her mind :
Are all her sex's joys,

[Rome ; A spirit that with noble pride With you she search'd the wit of Greece and Could look superior down And all that in her latter days

On Fortune's smile or frown;
To emulate her ancient praise

That could without regret or pain
Italia's happy genius could produce;

To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice
Or what the Gallic fire

Or Interest or Ambition's highest prize,
Bright sparkling could inspire,

That, injur'd or offended, never tried
By all the Graces temper'd and refin'd;

Its dignity by vengeance to maintain, Or what in Britain's isle,

But by magnanimous disdain. Most favour'd with your smile,

A wit that, temperately bright, The powers of Rea on and of Fancy join'd

With inofensive light To full perfection have conspir'd to raise ?

All pleasing shone; nor ever past Ah! what is now the use

The decent bounds that Wisdom's sober hand, Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind, And sweet Benevolence's mild command, To black Oblivion's glooin for ever now consign’d. And bashful Modesty, before it cast.

A prudence undeceiving, undeceivid, At least, ye Nine, her spot less name

That nor too little nor too much believ'd, 'Tis yours from death to save,

That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear, And in the temple of immortal Fame

And without weakness knew to be sincere. With golden characters her worth engrave.

Such Lucy was, when, in her fairest days, Come then, ye virgin sisters, come,

Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise, And strew with choicest flowers her ballow'd tomb:

In life's and glory's freshest bloom, But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad, Death came remorseless on, and sunk her to the With accents sweet and sad,

tomb. Thou, plaintive Muse, whom o'er his Laura's urn Unhappy Petrarch callid to mourn;

So, where the silent streams of Liris glide, O come, and to this fairer Laura pay

In the soft bosom of Campania's vale, A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.

When now the wintry tempests all are fled,

And genial Summer breathes her gentle gale, Tell how each beauty of her mind and face

The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head: Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace! From every branch the balmy Aowerets rise, Hoy eloquent in every look

(spoke! On every bough the golden fruits are seen; Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies, Tell how her manners, by the world refin'd,

The wood-nymphs tend, and th’ Idalian queen. Left all the taint of modish Vice behind,

But, in the midst of all its blooming pride,
A sudden blast from Apenninus blows,

Cold with perpetual snows: The Mintio runs by Mantua, the birth place The tender blighted plant shrinks up its leaves, and of Virgil.

dies. * The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius.

Arise, O Petrarch, from th' Elysian bowers, 3 The Anio runs through Tibur or Tivoli, where

With never-fading myrtles twin'd, Horace had a villa.

And fragrant with ambrosial powers,

Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd; 4 The Meles is a river of Jonia, from whence

Arise, and bither bring the silver lyre,
Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Tund by thy skiful hand,
Melisigenes.

To the soft notes of elegant desire,
The Ilissus is a river at Athens.

With which o'er many a land

Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love; Nor dare the all-wise Disposer to arraign,
To me resign the vocal shell,

Or against his supreme decree
And teach my sorrows to relate

With impious grief complain.
Their melancholy tale so well,

That all thy full blown joys at once should fade;
As may ev'n things inanimate,

Was his most righteous will--and be that will obey'd. Rough mountain oaks and desert rocks, to pity move.

Would thy fond love his grace to her control,

And in these low abodes of sin and pain What were, alas! thy woes compar'd to mine? l'o thee thy mistress in the blissful band

Her pure exalted soul

Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?
Of Hymen never gave her hand;

Nomrather strive thy groveling mind to raise The joys of wedded love were never thine:

Up to that unclouded blaze,
In thy domestic care

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
She never bore a share,

In which enthron'd she now with pity sees
Nor with endearing art

How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Would heal thy wounded heart

Is every mortal bliss;
Of every secret grief that fester'd there:

Ev'n love itself, if rising by degrees Nor did her fond affection on the bed

Beyond thc bounds of this imperfect state, Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head

Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,

It does not to its sorereign good ascend.
And charm away the sense of pain:

Rise then, my soul, with hope elate,
Nor did she crown your mutual flame

And seek those regions of serene delight,
With pledges dear, and with a father's tender name.

Whose peaceful path and ever-open gate

No feet but those of harden'd Guilt shall miss. O best of wives ! O dearer far to me

There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore, Than when thy virgin charms

There yield up all his power ne'er to divide you more,
Were yielded to my arms,
How can my soul endure the loss of thee?
How in the world, to me a desert grown,

ON THE SAME LADY.
Abandon'd and alone,

To the
Without my sweet companion can I live?

Memory of Lucy Lyttelton,
Without thy lovely smile,

Daughter of Hugh Fortescue of Filleigh
The dear reward of every virtuous toil,

In the county of Devon, esq. What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give?

Father to the present earl of Clinton, Ev'n the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise,

By Lucy his wife, Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts

The daughter of Matthew lord Aylmer, could raise.

Who departed this life the 19th of Jan. 1746-7,

Aged twenty-nine,
For my distracted mind

Having employed the short time assigned to
What succour can I find ?

her here On whom for consolation shall I call ?

In the uniform practice of religion and virtue,
Support me, every friend;
Your kind assistance lend,

Made to engage all hearts, and charm all

eyes; To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. Though meek, magnanimous; though witty, wise; · Alas! each friend of mine,

Polite, as all her life in courts had been ;
My dear departed love, so much was thine, Yet good, as she the world had never seen ;
That none has any comfort bestow.

The noble fire of an exalted inind,
My books, the best relief

With gentle female tenderness combin'd.
In every other grief,

Her speech was the melodious voice of Love, Are now with your idea sadden'd all :

Her song the warbling of the vernal grove; Each favourite author we together read Her eloquence was sweeter than her song, My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy Soft as her heart, and as her reason strong; dead.

Her form each beauty of her mind express'd,

Her mind was Virtue by the Graces dress'd.
We were the happiest pair of human kind:
The rolling year its varying course perform’d,

And back return'd again;
Another and another smiling came,

HORACE. BOOK IV. ODE IV.
And saw our happiness unchang'd remain:

WRITTEN AT OXFORD 1725 1.
Still in her golden chain

Qualem ministrum fulminis alitem, &c.
Harmonious Concord did our wishes bind :
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same. As the wing'd minister of thundering Jove,
O fatal, fatal stroke,

To whom he gave his dreadful bolts to bear, That all this pleasing fabric Love had rais'd Faithful assistant 2 of his master's love, Of rare felicity,

King of the wandering nations of the air, On which ev'n wanton Vice with envy gaz'd, And every scheme of bliss our hearts bad form'd, First printed with Mr. West's translation of With soothing hope, for many a future day, Pindar. See the preface to that gentleman's In one sad moment broke!

poems. Yet, O my soul, thy rising murmurs stay; * In the rape of Ganymede, who was carried up

TO THE COUNTESS OF ECREMONT.

When balmy breezes fannd the vernal sky, “ Not Hydra sprouting from her mangled head On doubtful pinions left his parent nest,

So tir'd the baffled force of Hercules; In slight essays bis growing force to try,

Nor Thebes, nor Colchis, such a monster bred, While inborn courage fir'd his generous breast ; Pregnant of hills, and fam'd for prodigies. Then, darting with impetuous fury down,

“ Plunge her in ocean, like the morning Sun, The flocks he slaughter'd, an unpractis'd foe; Brighter she rises from the depths below: Now his ripe valour to perfection grown

To earth with unavailing ruin thrown, The scaly snake and crested dragon know : Recruits her strength, and foils the wondering foe. Or, as a lion's youthful progeny,

“ No more of victory the joyful fame Wean'd from his savage dam and milky food, Shall from my camp to haughty Carthage fly; The gazing kid beholds with fearful eye,

Lost, lost, are all the glories of her name! Doom'd first to stain his tender fangs in blood : With Asdrubal her hopes and fortune die ! Such Drusus, young in arms, his foes beheld, “ What shall the Claudian valour not perform

The Alpine Rhæti, long unmatch'd in fight : Which Power Divine guards with propitious care, 80 were their hearts with abject terrour quell'd; Which Wisdom steers through all the dangerous So sunk their haugbty spirit at the sight.

storm,

[war?"

Through all the rocks and shoals of doubtful Tam'd by a boy, the fierce barbarians find

How guardian Prudence guides the youthful flame, And how great Cæsar's fond paternal mind

Each generous Nero forms to early fame;
A valiant son springs from a valiant sire :

VIRTUE AND FAME.
Their race by mettie sprightly coursers prove;
Nor can the warlike eagle's active fire
Degenerate to form the timorous dove.

Virtue and Fame, the other day,
Bat education can the genius raise,

Happen'd to cross each other's way;
And wise instructions native virtue aid ;

Said Virtue, Hark ye! madam Fame,
Nobility without them is disgrace,
And honour is by vice to shame betray'd.

Your ladyship is much to blame;

Jove bids you always wait on me, Let red Metaurus, stain'd with Pupic blood,

And yet your face I seldom see: Let mighty Asdrubal subdued, confess

The Paphian queen employs your trumpet,

And bids it praise some handsome strumpet ; How much of empire and of fame is ow'd By thee, O Rome, to the Neronian race.

Or, thundering through the ranks of war,

Ambition ties you to her car.”
Of this be witness that auspicious day,

Saith Fame, “Dear madam, I protest,
Which, after a long, black, tempestuous night, I never find myself so blest
First smil'd on Latium with a milder ray, [light. As when I humbly wait behind you !
And cheer'd our drooping hearts with dawning But 'tis so mighty hard to find you !

In such obscure retreats you lurk!
Since the dire African with wasteful ire

To seek you is an endless work." Pode o'er the ravag'd towns of Italy;

“Well," answer'd Virtue, “ I allow As through the pine-trees flies the raging fire, Your plea. But hear, and mark me now. Or Eurus o'er the vext Sicilian sea.

I know (without offence to others)

I know the best of wives and mothers;
From this bright era, from this prosperous field,
The Roman glory dates her rising power ;

Who never pass'd an useless day

In scandal, gossiping, or play : From hence 'twas given her conquering sword to

Whose modest wit, chastis'd by sense, wield,

Is lively cheerful innocence; Raise her fall'n gods, and ruin'd shrines restore.

Whose heart nor envy knows, nor spite, Thus Hannibal at length despairing spoke :

Whose duty is her sole delight; “ Like stags to ravenous wolves an easy prey,

Nor ruld by whim, nor slave to fashion, Our feeble arms a valiant foe provoke,

Her parents' joy, her husband's passion.” Whom to elude and 'scape were victory:

Fame smil'd and answer'd, “ On my life,

This is some country parson's wife, "A dauntless nation, that from Trojan fires, Who never saw the court nor town, Hostile Ausonia, to thy destin'd shore

Whose face is homely as her gown ; Her gods, her infant sons, and aged sires,

Who banquets upon eggs and bacon—" Through angry seas and adverse tempests bore : “ No, madam, no--you’re much mistaken

I beg you'll let me set you right" As on high Algidas the sturdy oak,

'Tis one with every beauty bright; Whose spreading boughs the axe's sharpness feel, Adorn’d with every polish'd art Improves by loss, and, thriving with the stroke, That rank or fortune can impart: Draws health and vigour from the wounding steel. 'Tis the most celebrated toast

That Britain's spacious isle can boast; to Jupiter by an eagle, according to the Poetical 'Tis princely Petworth's noble dame; History.

'Tis Egremont-Go, tell it, Fame."

BY EARL HARDWICKE.

For you alone I now think fit
ADDITION, EXTEMPORE,

To turn a poet and a wit-
For you whose charms, I know not how,

Have power to smooth my wrinkled brow,
Fame heard with pleasure-straight replied,

And make me, though by nature stupid, “ First on my roll stands Wyndham's bride;

As brisk, and as alert, as Cupid. My trumpet oft I've rais'd, to sound

These obligations to repay, Her modest praise the world around !

Whene'er your happy nuptial day But notes were wanting-Canst thou find

Shall with the circling years return, A Muse to sing her face, her mind ?

For you my torch shall brighter burn Believe me, I can name but one,

Than when you first my power ador'd,
A friend of yours—'tis Lyttelton."

Nor will I call myself your lord,
But am, (as witness this my hand)
Your humble servant at command.

HYMEN.

a

CUPID.

ON

LETTER TO EARL HARDWICKE:

Dear child, let Hymen not beguile
OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING VERSES.

You, who are such a judge of style,
MY LORD,

To think that he these verses made,

Without an abler penman's aid;
A THOUSAND thanks to your lordship for your ad-Observe them well, you 'll plainly see,
dition to my verses. If you can write sich extem- That every line was writ by me.
pore, it is well for other poets, that you chose to
be lord chancellor, rather than laureat. They ex-
plain to me a vision I had the night before.

Methought I saw before my feet,
With countenance serene and sweet,
The Muse, who, in my youthful days,

READING MISS CARTER'S POEMS Had oft inspir'd my careless lays.

IN MANUSCRIPT.
She smil'd, and said, “ Once more I see
My fugitive returns to me;

Such were the notes that struck the wondering ear Long had I lost you from my bower,

Of silent Night, when, on the verdant banks You scorn'd to own my gentle power;

Of Siloë's hallow'd brook, celestial harps, With me no more your genius sported,

According to seraphic voices, sung The grave historic Muse you courted ;

Glory to God on high, and on the earth Or, rais'd from Earth, with straining eyes;

Peace and good-will to men !- Resume the lyre, Pursued Urania through the skies;

Chauntress divine, and every Briton call But now, to my forsaken track,

Its melody to hear-so shall thy strains, Fair Egremont has brought you back:

More powerful than the song of Orpheus, tame Nor blush, by her and Virtue led,

The savage heart of brutal Vice, and bend That soft, that pleasing path, to tread;

At pure Religion's shrine the stubborn knees For there, beneath to morrow's ray,

Of bold Impiety.-Greece shall no more Ev'n Wisdom's self shall deign to play.

Of Lesbian Sappho boast, whose wanton Muse, Lo! to my flowery groves and springs

Like a false Syren, while she charm’d, seduc'd Her favourite son the goddess brings,

To guilt and ruin. For the sacred head The council's and the senate's guide,

Of Britain's poetess, the Virtues twine Law's oracle, the nation's pride:

A nobler wreath, by them from Eden's grove He comes, he joys with thee to join,

Unfading gather'd, and direct the hand
In singing Wyndham's charms divine:

Of to fix it on her brows.
To thine he adds his nobler lays;
Ev'n thee, my friend, he deigns to praise.
Enjoy that praise, nor envy Pitt
His fame with burgess or with cit;

MOUNT EDGECUMBE.
For sure one line from such a bard,
Virtue would think her best reward.”

The gods, on thrones celestial seated,
By Jove, with bowls of nectar heated,
All on Mount Edgecumbe turn'd their eyes;

“ That place is inine,” great Neptune cries : HYVEN TO ELIZA.

“ Bebold ! how proud o'er all the main

Those stately turrets seem to regn! Madam, before your feet I lay

No views so grand on Earth you see! This ode upon your wedding-day,

The master too belongs to me: The first indeed I ever made,

I grant him my domain to share, For writing odes is not my trade :

I bid his hand my trident bear.” My head is full of household cares,

“ The sea is your's, but mind the land,” And necessary dull affairs;

Pallas replies; “ by me were plann'd Besides that sometimes jealous frumps

Those towers, that hospital, those docks, Will put me into doleful dumps.

That fort, which crowns those island rocks: And then no clown beneath the sky

The lady too is of my choir, Was e'er more ungallant than I;

I taught her hand to touch the lyre;