The useful dome, which secret stood,
Embosom'd in the yew tree's wood,
The traveller with amazement sees
A temple Gothic or Chinese,
With many a bell and tawdry rag on,
And crested with a sprawling dragon;
A wooden arch is bent astride
A ditch of water, four feet wide,
With angles, curves, and zig-zag lines,
From Halfpenny's exact designs;
In front a level lawn is seen,
Without a shrub upon the green;
Where taste would want its first great law,
But for the skulking sly ha-ha;
By whose miraculous assistance
You gain a prospect two fields' distance.
And now from Hyde-park Corner come
The gods of Athens and of Rome.
Here squabby Cupids take their places,
With Venus, and the clumsy Graces;
Apollo there, with aim so clever,
Stretches his leaden bow for ever,
And there, without the power to fly,
Stands fix'd a tip-toe Mercury.

The villa thus completely grac'd, All own that Thrifty has a taste; And Madam's female friends and cousins, With common-council men by dozens, Flock every Sunday to the scat, To stare about them and to eat.

cause

With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; [laws, While chief baron Ear sat to balance the So fam'd for his talent in nicely discerning. In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,

That the Nose has had spectacles always in

wear,

Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the courtYour lordship observes they are made with a straddle,

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. Again, would your lordship a moment sup

pose

("Tis a case that has happen'd and may be again)

That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,

Pray who would or who could wear spectacles then?

That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,

And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side, as the lawyer knows how,
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were the arguments few people know,
For the world did not think they were equal-
ly wise.

So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,

Decisive and clear, without one if or butThat whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By day-light or candle-light-Eyes should

be shut.

$178. On the Birth-Day of Shakspeare. A Cunto. Taken from his Works. BERENGER. Natura lapsa valere, et mentis viribus excitari, et quasi quodam divino spiritu afflari.

-PEACE to this meeting!

Joy and fair time, health and good wishes:
Now, worthy friends, the cause why we are met,
Is in celebration of the day that gave
Immortal Shakspeare to this favor'd isle,
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
Which from the prime creation e'er she fram'd.
O thou divinest Nature! how thyself thou
blazon'st

In this thy son! form'd in thy prodigality,
To hold thy mirror up, and give the time
Its very form and pressure! When he speaks
Each aged ear plays truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished,
So voluble is his discourse-gentle
As Zephyr blowing beneath the violet,
Not wagging its sweet head-yet as rough
(His noble blood enchaf'd) as the rude wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine
And make him stoop to th' vale-Tis wonder-

ful

That an invisible instinct should frame him

To loyalty, unlearn'd; honor, untaught;
Civility, not seen in others; knowledge
That wildly grows in him, but yields a crop
As if it had been sown. What a piece of work!
How noble in faculty! infinite in reason!
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal!
Heaven has him now-yet let our idolatrous
Still sanctify his relics; and this day [fancy
Stand aye distinguish'd in the kalendar
To the last syllable of recorded time:
We ne'er shall look upon his like again.
For, if we take him but for all in all,

$179. On the Invention of Letters.
TELL me what Genius did the art invent,
The lively image of the voice to paint;
Who first the secret how to colour sound,
And to give shape to reason, wisely found;

For to what class a writer may be doom'd, When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff, Must give us pause. There's the respect that makes

Th' unwilling poet keep his piece nine years. For who would bear the impatient thirst of fame,

The pride of conscious merit, and, 'bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? Who would fardels
bear,

To groan and sweat under a load of wit,
But that the tread of sweet Parnassus' hill
(That undiscover'd country, with whose bays
Few travellers return) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown,
Than run the hazard to be known and damn'd.
Thus critics do make cowards of us all;
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is sicklied o'er with a pale manuscript;
And enterprises of fire and spirit
great
With this regard from Dodsley turn away,
And lose the name of Authors..

§ 185. To the Memory of George Lewis Langton, Esq. who died on his Travels to Rome. SHIPLEY.

LANGTON, dear partner of my soul,
Accept what pious passion meditates
To grace thy fate. Sad memory,
And grateful love and impotent regret,
Shall wake to paint thy gentle mind,
The wise good-nature, friendship delicate;
In secret converse, native mirth
And sprightly fancy, sweet artificer

Of social pleasure; nor forgot

The noble thirst of knowledge and fair fame
That led thee far through foreign climes
Inquisitive, but chief the pleasant banks
Of Tiber, ever-honor'd stream,
Detain'd thee visiting the last remains
Of ancient art; fair forms exact
In sculpture, columns, and the mould'ring bulk
Of theatres. In deep thought wrapp'd
Of old renown, thy mind survey'd the scenes
Delighted where the first of men
Once dwelt, familiar: Scipio, virtuous chief,
Stern Cato, and the patriot mind
Of faithful Brutus, best philosopher.

Well did the gen'rous search employ
Thy blooming years by virtue crown'd, though

death

Unseen oppress'd thee, far from home,
A helpless stranger. No familiar voice,

No pitying eye cheer'd thy last pangs.
O worthy longest days! for thee shall flow
The pious solitary tear,

And thoughtful friendship sadden o'er thine

urn.

$186. The Brewer's Coachman. TAYLOR. HONEST William, an easy and good-natur'd fellow,

Would a little too oft get a little too mellow. Body coachman was he to an eminent brewerNo better e'er sat on a box to be sure.

nurses

more,

His coach was kept clean, and no mothers or [his horses. Took that care of their babes that he took of He had these-aye, and fifty good qualities [o'er. But the business of tippling could ne'er be got So his master effectually mended the matter, By hiring a man who drank nothing but water. Now, William, says he, you see the plain case; Had you drank as he does, you had kept a good place. [done so,

Drink water! quoth William-had all men You'd never have wanted a coachman, I trow. They're soakers, like me, whom you load with reproaches, [coaches. That enable you brewers to ride in your

§ 187. Ode on the Death of Matzel, a favorite Bullfinch. Addressed to Philip Stanhope, Esq. (natural Son of the Earl of Chesterfield) to whom the Author had given the Reversion of it when he left Dresden. WILLIAMS.

TRY not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain,
To stop your tears, or hide your pain,

Or check your honest rage:
Give sorrow and revenge their scope,
My present joy, your future hope,
Lies murder'd in his cage.
Matzel's no more! Ye graces, loves,
Ye linnets, nightingales, and doves,
Attend th' untimely bier;

Let every sorrow be express'd,
Beat with your wings each mournful breast,
And drop the natʼral tear.

In height of song, in beauty's pride,
By fell Grimalkin's claws he died-

But vengeance shall have way;
On pains and tortures I'll refine;
Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine
His nine will ill repay.

For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine,
Who lov'd thy tuneful notes, shall join

In thy funereal verse:
My painful task shall be to write
Th eternal dirge which they indite,
And hang it on thy hearse.
In vain I lov'd, in vain I mourn
My bird, who never to return
Is fled to happier shades,
Where Lesbia shall for him prepare
The place most charming and most fair,
Of all th' Elysian glades.

There shall thy notes in cypress grove
Soothe wretched ghosts that died for love;
There shall thy plaintive strain
Lull impious Phædra's endless grief,
To Procris yield some short relief,

And soften Dido's pain:

Till Proserpine by chance shall hear
Thy notes, and make thee all her care,
And love thee with my love;
While each attendant soul shall praise
The matchless Matzel s tuneful lays,
And all his songs approve.

§ 188. To-morrow. COTTON.
Pereunt et imputantur.
TO-MORROW, didst thou say?
Methought I heard Horatio

say, To-morrow. Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow! 'Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash, And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises,

The currency of idiots-injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as

baseless

As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend-arrest the present mo

ment;

For be assur'd they all are arrant tell-tales;
And though their flight be silent, and their path
Trackless, as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly,
Because, though station'd on th' important
watch,

Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou slumb'rest on the
guard,

Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar
For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Justice, who shall tell thy
audit?

Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio, Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings. 'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious

Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
O! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast until he bless thee.

§ 189. On Lord Cobham's Gardens. COTTON.

IT puzzles much the sages' brains,

Where Eden stood of yore:
Some place it in Arabia's plains;
Some say, it is no more.

But Cobham can these tales confute,
As all the curious know;
For he has prov'd beyond dispute
That Paradise is Stowe.

§ 190. To a Child five Years old. COTTON.

FAIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling

Which in Eden's garden grew, Flow'rs of Eve's embowered dwelling Are, my fair one, types of you. Mark, my Polly, how the roses Emulate thy damask cheek;

* Gilbert West, Esq. the author's cousin.

How the bud its sweets discloses ;
Buds thy opening bloom bespeak.
Lilies are, by plain direction,
Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,
Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty,
Blossom, fade, and die away:
Then pursue good sense and duty,
Evergreens that ne'er decay.

§ 191. To Miss Lucy Fortescue. Lyttelton. ONCE by the Muse alone inspir'd,

I sung my am'rous strains: No serious love my bosom fir'd; Yet every tender maid, deceiv'd, The idly mournful tale believ'd,

And wept my fancied pains.
But Venus now, to punish me,

For having feign'd so well,
Has made my heart so fond of thee,
Can accents soft enough inspire
That not the whole Aonian quire

Its real name to tell.

§ 192. To Mr. West*, at Wickham↑. 1740. LYTTELTON.

FAIR Nature's sweet simplicity,
With elegance refin'd,
Well in thy seat, my friend, I see,
But better in thy mind.

To both from courts and all their state
Eager I fly, to prove
Joys far above a courtier's fate,
Tranquillity and love.

§ 193. The Temple of the Muses. To the Countess Temple.

THE Muses and Graces to Phoebus com-
plain'd,

That no more on the earth a Sappho remain'd:
That their empire of wit was now at an end,
And on beauty alone the sex must depend:
To the men he had given all his fancy and fire,
Art of healing to Armstrong, as well as his
lyre:

When Apollo replied, "To make you amends, In one Fair you shall see wit and virtue, good friends;

The Grecian high-spirit and sweetness I'll join With a true Roman virtue, to make it divine: Your pride and my boast, thus form'd, would you know,

You must visit the earthly Elysium of Stowe."

§ 194. To a Lady who sung in too low a Voice.
WHEN beauteous Laura's gentle voice
Divides the yielding air,

Fix'd on her lips, the fatt'ring sounds
Excess of joy declare.

+ Near Croydon.

There, lingering round the rosy gate,
They view their fragrant cell;
Unwilling to depart that mouth
Where all the Graces dwell.

Some tuneful accents strike the sense
With soft imperfect sound;
While thousand others die within,
In their own honey drown'd.

Yet through this cloud, distinct and clear,
Sweet sense directs its dart;
And, while it seems to shun the ear,
Strikes full upon the heart.

$195. To Miss Wilkes, on her Birth-day, Aug. 16th, 1767. Written in France, WILKES.

AGAIN I tune the vocal lay
On dear Maria's natal day.
This happy day I'll not deplore
My exile from my native shore.
No tear of mine to-day shall flow
For injur'd England's cruel woe,
For impious wounds to Freedom given,
The first, most sacred gift of Heaven.
The Muse with joy shall prune her wing;
Maria's ripen'd graces sing:

And, at seventeen, with truth shall own
The bud of beauty's fairly blown.
Softness and sweetest innocence
Here shed their gentle influence;
Fair modesty comes in their train,
To grace her sister virtue's reign.
Then, to give spirit, taste, and ease,
The sov'reign art, the art to please;
Good-humour'd wit, and fancy gay,
To-morrow cheerful as to-day,
The sun-shine of a mind serene,
Where all is peace within, are seen.
What can the grateful Muse ask more?
The gods have lavish'd all their store.
Maria shines their darling care;
Still, keep her, Heaven, from every snare:
May still unspotted be her fame,
May she remain through life the same,
Unchang'd in all-except in name!

§ 196. To Miss Wilkes on her Birth-day, Aug. 16th. 1768. Written in Prison. WILKES.

How shall the Muse in prison sing,
How prune her drooping ruffled wing?
Maria is the potent spell,

E'en in these walls, all grief to quell ;
To cheer the heart, rapture inspire,
And wake to notes of joy the lyre,
The tribute verse again to pay
On this auspicious festive day.
When doom'd to quit the patriot band,
And exil'd from my native land,
Maria was my sure relief;

Her presence banish'd every grief.

Pleasure came smiling in her train,
And chas'd the family of Pain.
Let lovers every charm admire,
The easy shape, the heav'nly fire
That from those modest beaming eyes
The captive heart at once surprise.
A father's is another part;

I praise the virtues of the heart,
And wit so elegant and free,
Attemper'd sweet with modesty.
And may kind Heaven a lover send
Of sense, of honor, and a friend,
Those virtues always to protect,
Those beauties-never to neglect!

$197. An Ode in imitation of Alcaus. SIR WILLIAM JONES.

WHAT Constitutes a state?

Not high-rais'd battlements or labor'd mound, Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crown'd; Not bays and broad-arm'd ports,

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starr'd and spangled courts,

Where low-brow'd baseness wafts perfume to pride.

No-MEN, high-minded MEN,

With powers as far above dull brutes endu'd
In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude:
Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain ;

Prevent the long-aim'd blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain: These constitute a state;

And Sovereign Law, that State's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill :
Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend Discretion* like a vapour sinks,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.
Such was this heaven-lov'd isle,

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore!

No more shall freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

§ 198. The Choice of a Wife by Cheese. CAPTAIN THOMPSON.

THERE liv'd in York, an age ago,
A man whose name was Pimlico:
He lov'd three sisters passing well,
But which the best he could not tell.
These sisters three, divinely fair,
Show'd Pimlico their tenderest care:
For each was elegantly bred,
And all were much inclin'd to wed;