Waked by the cries, th' Athenian chief arose, The knightly forms of combat to dispose ; And passing through th'obsequious guards, he sate Conspicuous on a throne, sublime in state; There, for the two contending knights he sent ; Arm'd cap-a-pee, with reverence low they bent. He smiled on both, and with superior look Alike their offer'd adoration took. The people press on every side, to see Their awful prince, and hear his high decree. Then signing to their heralds with his hand, They gave his orders from their lofty stand. Silence is thrice enjoin'd; then thus aloud The king at arms bespeaks the knights and listening crowd.

Our sovereign lord has ponder'd in his mind
The means to spare the blood of gentle kind;
And of his grace, and inborn clemency,

He modifies his first severe decree!
The keener edge of battle to rebate,
The troops for honour fighting, not for hate.
He wills not death should terminate their strife;
And wounds, if wounds ensue, be short of life:
But issues, ere the fight his dread command,
That slings afar, and poniards hand to hand,
Be banish'd from the field; that none shall dare
With short'ned sword to stab in closer war;
But in fair combat fight with manly strength,
Nor push with biting point, but strike at length.
The tourney is allow'd but one career,
Of the tough ash, with the sharp-grinded spear,
But knights unhorsed may rise from off the plain,
And fight on foot their honour to regain ;
Nor, if at mischief taken, on the ground
Be slain, but prisoners to the pillar bound,
At either barrier placed; nor (captives made)
Be freed, or arm'd anew the fight invade.
The chief of either side, bereft of life,
Or yielded to his foe, concludes the strife..
Thus dooms the lord: now valiant knights and
young

Fight each his fill with swords and maces long.

The herald ends; the vaulted firmament With loud acclaims and vast applause is rent : Heaven guard a prince so gracious and so good, So just, and yet so provident of blood! This was the general cry. The trumpets sound, And warlike symphony is heard around. The marching troops through Athens take their way, The great earl-marshal orders their array. The fair from high the passing pomp behold; A rain of flowers is from the windows roll'd, The casements are with golden tissue spread, And horses' hoofs, for earth, on silken tapestry tread; The king goes midmost, and the rivals ride In equal rank, and close his either side: Next after these there rode the royal wife, With Emily, the cause and the reward of strife. The following cavalcade, by three and three, Proceed by titles marshall'd in degree. Thus through the southern gate they take their way, And at the list arrived ere prime of day.

There, parting from the king, the chiefs divide,
And, wheeling east and west, before their many ride,
Th' Athenian monarch mounts his throne on high,
And after him the queen and Emily:

Next these the kindred of the crown are graced
With nearer seats, and lords by ladies placed.
Scarce were they seated, when with clamours loud
In rush'd at once a rude promiscuous crowd;
The guards and them each other overbear,
And in a moment throng the spacious theatre.
Now changed the jarring noise to whispers low,
As winds forsaking seas more softly blow;
When at the western gate, on which the car
Is placed aloft, that bears the god of war,
Proud Arcite entering arm'd before his train,
Stops at the barrier, and divides the plain.
Red was his banner, and display'd abroad
The bloody colours of his patron God.

At that self-moment enters Palamon
The gate of Venus, and the rising sun;
Waved by the wanton winds, his banner flies,
All maiden white, and shares the people's eyes.
From east to west, look all the world around,
Two troops so match'd were never to be found:
Such bodies built for strength, of equal age,
In stature fix'd; so proud an equipage:
The nicest eye could no distinction make,
Where lay th' advantage, or what side to take.

FROM ་་ CYMON AND IPHIGENIA."

In that sweet isle where Venus keeps her court,
And every Grace, and all the Loves, resort;
Where either sex is form'd of softer earth,
And takes the bent of pleasure from their birth;
There lived a Cyprian lord, above the rest
Wise, wealthy, with a numerous issue bless'd;
But as no gift of fortune is sincere,
Was only wanting in a worthy heir ;
His eldest born, a goodly youth to view,
Excell'd the rest in shape, and outward show,
Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion join'd,
But of a heavy, dull, degenerate mind.
His soul belied the features of his face ;
Beauty was there, but beauty in disgrace.
A clownish mien, a voice with rustic sound,
And stupid eyes that ever loved the ground.
He look'd like nature's error, as the mind
And body were not of a piece design'd,
But made for two, and by mistake in one were
join'd.

The ruling rod, the father's forming care,
Were exercised in vain on wit's despair;
The more inform'd, the less he understood,
And deeper sunk by floundering in the mud.
Now scorn'd of all, and grown the public shame,
The people from Galesus changed his name,
And Cymon call'd, which signifies a brute;
So well his name did with his nature suit.

His father, when he found his labour lost, And care employ'd that answer'd not the cost,

Chose an ungrateful object to remove,

And loathed to see what nature made him love;
So to his country farm the fool confined;
Rude work well suited with a rustic mind.

Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went,

A squire among the swains, and pleased with banishment.

His corn and cattle were his only care,
And his supreme delight, a country fair.

It happen'd on a summer's holiday,
That to the green-wood shade he took his way;
For Cymon shunn'd the church, and used not much
to pray.

His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake,
Hung half before, and half behind his back.
He trudged along, unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went for want of thought.
By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain'd,
The deep recesses of the grove he gain'd;
Where, in a plain defended by the wood,
Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood,
By which an alabaster fountain stood;
And on the margin of the fount was laid
(Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid.
Like Dian and her nymphs, when tired with sport,
To rest by cool Eurotas they resort :
The dame herself the goddess well express'd,
Not more distinguish'd by her purple vest,
Than by the charming features of her face,
And ev'n in slumber a superior grace :
Her comely limbs composed with decent care,
Her body shaded with a slight cymar;
Her bosom to the view was only bare,
Where two beginning paps were scarcely spied,
For yet their places were but signified.
The fanning wind upon her bosom blows,
To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose ;
The fanning wind, and purling streams, continue
her repose.

The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes,
And gaping mouth, that testified surprise,
Fix'd on her face, nor could remove his sight,
New as he was to love, and novice to delight:
Long mute he stood, and leaning on his staff,
His wonder witness'd with an idiot laugh ;
Then would have spoke, but by his glimmering

sense

First found his want of words, and fear'd offence:
Doubted for what he was he should be known,
By his clown accent, and his country tone.
Through the rude chaos thus the running light
Shot the first ray that pierced the native night;
Then day and darkness in the mass were mix'd,
Till gather'd in a globe the beams were fix'd.
Last shone the sun, who, radiant in his sphere,
Illumined heaven and earth, and roll'd around the
So reason in his brutal soul began,
[year.

Love made him first suspect he was a man ;
Love made him doubt his broad barbarian sound;
By love his want of words and wit he found;
That sense of want prepared the future way
To knowledge, and disclosed the promise of a day.

FROM "THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF."

ATTENDING long in vain, I took the way,
Which through a path but scarcely printed lay;
In narrow mazes oft it seem'd to meet,
And look'd as lightly press'd by fairy feet.
Wandering I walk'd alone, for still methought
To some strange end so strange a path was wrought:
At last it led me where an arbour stood,
The sacred receptacle of the wood;

This place unmark'd, though oft I walk'd the green,
In all my progress I had never seen;

And, seized at once with wonder and delight, Gazed all around me, new to the transporting sight.

'Twas bench'd with turf, and goodly to be seen,
The thick young grass arose in fresher green:
The mound was newly made, no sight could pass
Betwixt the nice partitions of the grass,
The well-united sods so closely lay,

And all around the shades defended it from day;
For sycamores with eglantine were spread,
A hedge about the sides, a covering over head.
And so the fragrant brier was wove between,
The sycamore and flowers were mix'd with green,
That nature seem'd to vary the delight,
And satisfied at once the smell and sight.
The master workman of the bower was known
Through fairy-lands, and built for Oberon;
Who twining leaves with such proportion drew,
They rose by measure, and by rule they grew;
No mortal tongue can half the beauty tell,
For none but hands divine could work so well.
Both roof and sides were like a parlour made,
A soft recess, and a cool summer shade;
The hedge was set so thick, no foreign eye
The persons placed within it could espy;
But all that pass'd without with ease was seen,
As if nor fence nor tree was placed between.
'Twas border'd with a field; and some was plain
With grass, and some was sow'd with rising grain,
That (now the dew with spangles deck'd the ground)
A sweeter spot of earth was never found.

I look'd and look'd, and still with new delight,
Such joy my soul, such pleasures fill'd my sight;
And the fresh eglantine exhaled a breath,
Whose odours were of power to raise from death.
Nor sullen discontent, nor anxious care,
Ev'n though brought thither, could inhabit there;
But thence they fled as from their mortal foe,
For this sweet place could only pleasure know.
Thus as I mused, I cast aside my eye,
And saw a medlar-tree was planted nigh;
The spreading branches made a goodly show,
And full of opening blooms was every bough:
A goldfinch there I saw with gaudy pride
Of painted plumes, that hopp'd from side to side,
Still pecking as she pass'd, and still she drew
The sweets from every flower, and suck'd the dew ;

Sufficed at length, she warbled in her throat,
And tuned her voice to many a merry note,
But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear,
Yet such as sooth'd my soul, and pleased my ear.
Her short performance was no sooner tried,
When she I sought, the nightingale, replied:
So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung,
That the grove echoed, and the valleys rung;
And I so ravish'd with her heavenly note,
I stood intranced, and had no room for thought,
But, all o'er-power'd with ecstacy of bliss,
Was in a pleasing dream of paradise.

At length I waked, and, looking round the bower,
Search'd every tree, and pried on every flower,
If anywhere by chance I might espy
The rural poet of the melody,

For still methought she sung not far away;
At last I found her on a laurel spray.
Close by my side she sat, and fair in sight,
Full in a line against her opposite ;
Where stood with eglantine the laurel twined,
And both their native sweets were well conjoin'd.
On the green bank I sat, and listen'd long,
(Sitting was more convenient for the song)
Nor till her lay was ended could I move,
But wish'd to dwell for ever in the grove;
Only methought the time too swiftly pass'd,
And every note I fear'd would be the last.
My sight, and smell, and hearing, were employ'd,
And all three senses in full gust enjoy'd ;
And what alone did all the rest surpass,
The sweet possession of the fairy place:
Single, and conscious to myself alone

Of pleasures to the excluded world unknown;
Pleasures which nowhere else were to be found,
And all Elysium in a spot of ground.

Thus while I sat intent to see and hear,
And drew perfumes of more than vital air,
All suddenly I heard th' approaching sound
Of vocal music, on the enchanted ground;
An host of saints it seem'd, so full the quire,
As if the bless'd above did all conspire
To join their voices, and neglect the lyre.
At length there issued from the grove behind
A fair assembly of the female kind;
A train less fair, as ancient fathers tell,
Seduced the sons of heaven to rebel.

I pass their form, and every charming grace,
Less than an angel would their worth debase;
But their attire, like liveries of a kind
All rich and rare, is fresh within my mind:
In velvet white as snow the troop was gown'd,
The seams with sparkling emeralds set around;
Their hoods and sleeves the same, and purfled o'er
With diamonds, pearls, and all the shining store
Of eastern pomp ; their long descending train,
With rubiesedged, and sapphires, swept the plain;
High on their heads, with jewels richly set,
Each lady wore a radiant coronet.

Beneath the circles, all the quire was graced
With chaplets green on their fair foreheads placed;
Of laurel some, of woodbine many more,
And wreaths of Agnus castus others bore:
These last, who with those virgin crowns were
dress'd,

Appear'd in higher honour than the rest.
They danced around; but in the midst was seen
A lady of a more majestic mien,

By stature and by beauty mark'd their sovereign

queen.

She in the midst began with sober grace; Her servants' eyes were fix'd upon her face, And, as she moved or turn'd, her motions view'd, Her measures kept, and step by step pursued. Methought she trod the ground with greater

grace,

With more of godhead shining in her face;
And as in beauty she surpass'd the quire,
So, nobler than the rest, was her attire.
A crown of ruddy gold inclosed her brow,
Plain without pomp, and rich without a show;
A branch of Agnus castus in her hand
She bore aloft (her sceptre of command :)
Admired, adored by all the circling crowd,

For wheresoe'er she turn'd her face, they bow'd:
And as she danced, a roundelay she sung,

In honour of the laurel, ever young:

She raised her voice on high, and sung so clear, The fawns came scudding from the groves to

hear:

And all the bending forest lent an ear.
At every close she made, th' attending throng
Replied, and bore the burden of the song:
So just, so small, yet in so sweet a note,
It seem'd the music melted in the throat.

Thus dancing on, and singing as they danced,
They to the middle of the mead advanced,
Till round my arbour a new ring they made,
And footed it about the secret shade.
O'erjoy'd to see the jolly troop so near,
But somewhat awed, I shook with holy fear;
Yet not so much, but that I noted well
Who did the most in song or dance excel.

UPON THE EARL OF DUNDEE. FROM THE LATIN OF DR. PITCAIRN.

O LAST and best of Scots! who didst maintain
Thy country's freedom from a foreign reign;
New people fill the land now thou art gone,
New gods the temples, and new kings the throne.
Scotland and thee did each in other live ;
Nor wouldst thou her, nor could she thee, survive.
Farewell, who dying didst support the state,
And couldst not fall but with thy country's fate.

SONG IN " BELLAMIRA, OR THE MISTRESS."

THYRSIS, unjustly you complain,
And tax my tender heart
With want of pity for your pain,
Or sense of your desert.

By secret and mysterious springs,
Alas! our passions move;
We women are fantastic things,
That like before we love.

You may be handsome and have wit,
Be secret and well bred:

The person love must to us fit,
He only can succeed.

Some die, yet never are believed;

Others we trust too soon, Helping ourselves to be deceived, And proud to be undone.

TO A VERY YOUNG LADY.

AH Chloris! that I now could sit
As unconcern'd, as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No pleasure, nor no pain.

When I the dawn used to admire,

And praised the coming day; I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away.

Your charms in harmless childhood lay,
Like metals in the mine,

Age from no face took more away,
Than youth conceal'd in thine.

But as your charms insensibly

To their perfection prest,

Fond Love, as unperceived did fly,
And in my bosom rest.

My passion with your beauty grew,
And Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favour'd you,
Threw a new flaming dart.

Each gloried in their wanton part,
To make a lover, he
Employ'd the utmost of his art,
To make a Beauty, she.

Though now I slowly bend to love
Uncertain of my fate,

If your fair self my chains approve, I shall my freedom hate.

Lovers, like dying men, may well

At first disorder'd be,
Since none alive can truly tell

What fortune they must see*.

SONG.

LOVE still has something of the sea,
From whence his mother rose;
No time his slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.

They are becalm'd in clearest days,
And in rough weather toss'd;
They wither under cold delays,
Or are in tempests lost.

[* From the Mulberry Garden, a comedy written by the Honourable Sir Charles Sidley," 4to, 1668. This song is commonly printed as the production of "the Right Honourable Duncan Forbes, Lord President of the Court of Session," and is said to have been composed in 1710. See Motherwell's Ancient Minstrelsy, p. 65; and another Editor of Old Songs has said that these "tender and pathetic stanzas were addressed to Miss Mary Rose, the elegant and accomplished daughter of Hugh Rose, Esq. of Kilravock." Ritson commences his Collection of English Songs with Sedley's verses; both Ritson and Park were ignorant of their Author; and Mr. Chambers, in his Scottish Songs, starts with it as a genuine production of old Scotland! Burns has ascribed it to Sir Peter Halket of Pitferran. Forbes was born in 1685, seventeen years after the appearance of Sedley's comedy.-See Songs of England and Scotland, vol. i. p. 122.]

One while they seem to touch the port,
Then straight into the main
Some angry wind, in cruel sport,
The vessel drives again.

At first Disdain and Pride they fear,
Which if they chance to 'scape,
Rivals and Falsehood soon appear,
In a more cruel shape.

By such degrees to joy they come,
And are so long withstood;
So slowly they receive the sum,
It hardly does them good.

"Tis cruel to prolong a pain;
And to defer a joy,
Believe me, gentle Celemene,
Offends the winged boy.

An hundred thousand oaths your fears,
Perhaps, would not remove;
And if I gazed a thousand years,
I could not deeper love.

SONG.

PHILLIS, you have enough enjoy'd

The pleasures of disdain ;

Methinks your pride should now be cloy'd,

And grow itself again :

Open to love your long-shut breast,
And entertain its sweetest guest.

Love heals the wound that Beauty gives,

And can ill usage slight;

He laughs at all that Fate contrives,
Full of his own delight:

We in his chains are happier far,
Than kings themselves without 'em are.

Leave, then, to tame philosophy

The joys of quietness;

With me into love's empire fly,
And taste my happiness,

Where even tears and sighs can show
Pleasures the cruel never know.

COSMELIA'S charms inspire my lays, Who, fair in Nature's scorn, Blooms in the winter of her days, Like Glastenbury thorn.

Cosmelia's cruel at threescore ;

Like bards in modern plays, Four acts of life pass guiltless o'er, But in the fifth she slays.

If e'er, in eager hopes of bliss,
Within her arms you fall,
The plaster'd fair returns the kiss,
Like Thisbe—through a wall.

JOHN POMFRET was minister of Malden, in Bedfordshire. He died of the small-pox in his thirty-sixth year. It is asked, in Mr. Southey's Specimens of English Poetry, why Pomfret's

Choice is the most popular poem in the English language it might have been demanded with equal propriety, why London bridge is built of Parian marble*.

CUSTOM, the world's great idol, we adore;
And knowing this, we seek to know no more.
What education did at first receive,
Our ripen'd age confirms us to believe.
The careful nurse, and priest, are all we need,
To learn opinions, and our country's creed :
The parent's precepts early are instill'd,
And spoil'd the man, while they instruct the child.
To what hard fate is human kind betray'd,
When thus implicit faith a virtue made;
When education more than truth prevails,
And nought is current but what custom seals!
Thus, from the time we first began to know,
We live and learn, but not the wiser grow.

We seldom use our liberty aright, Nor judge of things by universal light :

[* Why is Pomfret the most popular of the English Poets? The fact is certain, and the solution would be useful.-Southey's Specimens, vol. i. p. 91.

Pomfret's Choice" exhibits a system of life adapted to common notions, and equal to common expectations; such a state as affords plenty and tranquillity, without exclusion of intellectual pleasures. Perhaps no composition in our language has been oftener perused than Pomfret's Choice.-JOHNSON.

Johnson and Southey have written of what was; Mr. Campbell of what is. Pomfret's" Choice" is certainly not now perused oftener than any other composition in our language, nor is Pomfret now the most popular of English poets.]