So, Bernard! must a Miscellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;
The Muses' olio, which all tastes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Wouldst thou for Miscellanies raise thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Muses in the piece conspire;
The lyric bard must strike th' harmonious lyre;
Heroic strains must here and there be found,
And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound:
Let elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill some pages with melodious woe:
Let not your am'rous songs too num'rous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love:
Satire must interfere, whose pointed rage
May lash the madness of a vicious age;
Satire, the Muse that never fails to hit,
For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Those swell the piece, but very seldom please:
Let short-breath'd Epigram its force confine,
And strike at follies in a single line:
Translations should throughout the work be sown,
And Homer's godlike Muse be made our own:
Horace in useful numbers should be sung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue:
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain:
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the list'ning ear with tales of love.
Let ev'ry Classic in the volume shine,
And each contribute to thy great design:
Thro' various subjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change;
Variety 's the source of joy below,
From whence still fresh-revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.
Where Buckingham will condescend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times must live:
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings,
The little loves rejoice, and clap their wings:
Anacreon lives, they cry; th' harmonious swain
Re-tunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain;
Tis he---our lost Anacreon lives again.
But when the illustrious poet soars above
The sportive revels of the god of love,
Like Maro's Muse he takes a loftier flight,
And tow'rs beyond the wond'ring Cupid's sight.
If thou wouldst have thy volume stand the test,
And of all others be reputed best,
Let Congreve teach the list'ning groves to mourn,
As when he wept o'er fair Pastora's urn.
Let Prior's Muse with soft'ning accents move,
Soft as the strains of constant Emma's love;
Or let his fancy chuse some jovial theme,
As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream:
Prior th' admiring reader entertains
With Chaucer's humour and with Spenser's strains.
Waller in Granville lives: when Mira sings,
With Waller's hand he strikes the sounding strings;
With sprightly turns his noble genius shines,
And manly sense adorns his easy lines.
On Addison's sweet lays Attention waits,
And silence guards the place while he repeats:
His Muse alike on ev'ry subject charms,
Whether she paints the god of Love or Arms:
In him pathetic Ovid sings again,
And Homer's Iliad shines in his Campaign.
Whenever Garth shall raise his sprightly song,
Sense flows in,easy numbers from his tongue;
Great Phoebus in his learned son we see,
Alike in physic as in poetry.
When Pope's harmonious Muse with pleasure roves Amidst the plains, the murm'ring streams and groves, Attentive Echo pleas'd to hear his songs,
Thro' the glad shade each warbling note prolongs;
His various numbers charm our ravish'd ears,
His steady judgment far outshoots his years,
And early in the youth the god appears.
From these successful bards collect thy strains, And praise with profit shall reward thy pain: Then, while calves' leather binding bears the sway, And sheep-skin to its sleeker gloss gives way; While neat old Elzevir is reckon'd better
Then Pirate Hill's brown sheets and scurvy letter;
While print-admirers careful Aldus chuse,
Before John Morphew, or the weekly news;
So long shall live thy praise in books of Fame,
And Tonson yield to Lintott's lofty name.
FRIEND of my youth, shedd'st thou the pitying tear
O'er the sad relics of my happier days?
Of nature tender, as of soul sincere,
Pour'st thou for me the melancholy lays?
Oh! truly said !---the distant landscape bright,
Whose vivid colours glitter'd on the eye,
Is faded now, and sunk in shades of night,
As on some chilly eve the closing flow'rets die.
Yet had I hop'd, when first, in happier times,
I trod the magic paths where Fancy led,
The Muse to foster in more friendly climes,
Where never Mis'ry rear'd its hated head.
*Written by Mr. Gay, when he labour'd under a dejection of spirits.
How vain the thought! hope after hope expires!
Friend after friend, joy after joy, is lost;
My dearest wishes feed the fun'ral fires,
And life is purchas'd at too dear a cost.
Yet could my heart the selfish comfort know,
That not alone I murmur and complain,
Well might I find companions in my woe,
All born to grief, the family of Pain!
Full well, I know in life's uncertain road,
The thorns of mis'ry are profusely sown;
Full well I know in this low vile abode,
Beneath the chast'ning rod what numbers groan.
Born to a happier state, how many pine
Beneath th' oppressor's pow'r, or feel the smart
Of bitter want, or foreign evils join
To the sad symptoms of a broken heart!
How many, fated from their birth to view
Misfortunes growing with their rip'ning years,
The same sad tract, thro' various scenes, pursue,
Still journeying onward thro' a vale of tears.
To them, alas! what boots the light of heav'n,
While still new mis'ries mark their destin'd way,
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