Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest*, To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep oppress'd, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, Heaving his sides, and snored night and day; To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway: He led, I wot, the softest way to death, And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath.

Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft, swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldy man; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;

For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit†,
Mother of spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit ;

And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.

A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,

Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low;
She felt, or fancy'd in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,
And still new leeches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro;

For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.

Fast by her side a listless maiden pined,

With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings ; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet loved in secret all forbidden things. And here the tertian shakes his chilling wings; The sleepless gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; Whilst apoplexy cramm'd intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.

TO FORTUNE.

FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love,
And when we meet a mutual heart,
Come in between, and bid us part.

[* The four last verses were written by Armstrong at Thomson's desire. Thomson, however, made a few verbal alterations.]

[ In Armstrong and in the first edition of the poem : And here a moping mystery did sit.]

Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish, and wish the soul away;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of love is gone!

But busy, busy still art thou,
To bind the loveless, joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
And join the gentle to the rude.

For pomp and noise, and senseless show,
To make us Nature's joys forego,
Beneath a gay dominion groan,
And put the golden fetter on!

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;
All other blessings I resign,
Make but the dear Amanda mine.

RULE, BRITANNIA!

WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of her land,
And guardian angels sung this strain :
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves !"

The nations, not so bless'd as thee,
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall;
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak.

These haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame :
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame;
But work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine ;
All thine shall be the subject main:
And every shore it circles thine.

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:
Bless'd isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair:
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves !"

DR. WATTS's devotional poetry was for the most part intentionally lowered to the understanding of children. If this was a sacrifice of taste, it was at least made to the best of intentions. The sense and sincerity of his prose writings, the excellent method in which he attempted to connect the study of ancient logic with common sense, and the conciliatory manner in which he allures the youthful mind to habits of study and reflection, are probably remembered with gratitude by nine men out of ten, who have had proper books put into their hands at an early period of their education. Of this description was not poor old Percival Stockdale,

who in one of his lucubrations gives our author the appellation of "Mother Watts." The nickname would not be worth mentioning if it did not suggest a compassionate reflection on the difference between the useful life and labours of Dr. Watts, and the utterly useless and wasted existence of Percival Stockdale. It might have been happy for the frail intellects of that unfortunate man, if they had been braced and rectified in his youth by such works as Watts's Logic and Improvement of the Mind. The study of them might possibly have saved even him from a life of vanity, vexation, and oblivion*.

SAY, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,

And who the happy pairs

Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,

As custom leads the way:
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold
To dull embraces move;
So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires
The purer bliss destroy;
On Etna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:
Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are married just like Stoic souls,
With osiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless :
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould, The rugged and the keen: Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, With firebrands tied between.

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For Love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.

[* Of Watts's poetry one can praise the design, but not the execution, though Cowper professed to find excellent poetry in his verse. The author of the Olney Hymns, which are about the level of Watts's, may be pardoned for such natural blindness.]

AMBROSE PHILIPS, the pastoral rival of Pope, was educated at Cambridge, and distinguished for many years in London as a member of clubs witty and political, and as a writer for the Whigs. By the influence of that party he was put into the commission of the peace soon after the accession of George I., and, in 1717, was appointed one of the commissioners of the lottery. When his friend Dr. Boulter was appointed primate of Ireland, he accompanied the prelate,

TO THE EARL OF DORSET t.

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day. The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain : There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise.

And yet but lately have I seen, even here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.

Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow,
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow,
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd every object to my eyes:

The Freethinker, in which A. Philips wrote, began its career on Monday, March 24, 1718, was published twice a week, and terminated with the 159th paper, Monday, September 28th, 1719. Dr. Drake speaks in praise of its easy and perspicuous diction, and thinks a very interesting selection might be made from it.-Essay on Periodical Papers.

[t The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling.-GOLDSMITH.]

received considerable preferments, and was elected member for Armagh in the Irish Commons. He returned to England in the year 1748, and died in the following year, at his lodgings near Vauxhall. The best of his dramatic writings is the Distrest Mother, a translation of Racine's Andromache. His two other tragedies, the Briton, and Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, are not much better than his pastorals.

For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass:
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield,
Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field.
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,
Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arise,

The brittle forest into atoms flies,

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journeys sad beneath the drooping trees:
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads
Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious

meads.

While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear,
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

A HYMN TO VENUS.

FROM THE GREEK OF SAPPHO.

O VENUS, Beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles,
O, goddess! from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferr'd,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
O, gentle goddess hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confess'd.

Thou once didst leave almighty Jove,
And all the golden roofs above:
The car thy wanton sparrows drew;
Hovering in air they lightly flew ;
As to my bower they wing'd their way,
I saw their quivering pinions play.

The birds dismiss'd (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again :
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smiled,
And ask'd what new complaints I made,
And why I call'd you to my aid?

What frenzy in my bosom raged,
And by what care to be assuaged?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?

Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;
Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.

Celestial visitant, once more,
Thy needful presence I implore?
In pity come and ease my grief,
Bring my distemper'd soul relief :
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.

A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO.

BLESS'D as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

"Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast; For while I gazed, in transport toss'd, My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glow'd: the subtle flame Ran quickly through my vital frame; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd, My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd; My feeble pulse forgot to play,

I fainted, sunk, and died away *.

[* Joseph Warton thinks that Addison lent a helping hand to Philips in these translations. He was fond of rendering such assistance, and may have done so; but it is idle to indulge in conjectures and plausible perhapses.]

SMILE, my Hephestion, smile, no more be seen
This dupe to anger, and this slave to spleen;
No more with pain ambition's trappings view;
Nor envy the false greatness, nor the true.
Let dull St. Bevil dream o'cr felons' fates,
Bright Winnington in senates lead debates,
Vain Bulbo let the sheriff's robe adorn,
And Holles

wake to bless the times unborn.

The palm excels that trembles o'er the brooks,
The bastard rose not half so gaudy looks,
The myrrh is worth, that scents Arabia's sky,
An hundred gourds, yet rises not so high.

* Welsted's great patron, the Duke of Newcastle.

This not disturbs you, nor your bliss alloys,
Then why should fortune's sports and human toys?
What is 't to us if Clod the self-same day
Trolls in the gilded car and drives the dray?
If Richvil for a Roman patriot pass,
And half the Livery vote for Isinglass?
With grateful mind let's use the given hour,
And what's our own enjoy and in our power.
To his great chiefs the conqueror Pyrrhus spoke,
Two moons shall wane, and Greece shall own our
'Tis well, replied the friend; admit it so, [yoke.
What next? Why next to Italy I'll go,
And Rome in ashes lay.-What after that?
Waste India's realms.-What then? Then sit and

chat;

Then quaff the grape, and mirthful stories tell.Sir, you may do so now, and full as well.

Look through but common life, look o'er mankind,
A thousand humbler madmen there you'll find;
A thousand heroes of Epirus view;

Then scorn to beat this hackney'd path anew.
In search of fancied good forget to roam,
Nor wander from your safer, better home.

See Heartgood, how he tugs for empty praise ;
He's got the vine, yet scrambles for the bays:
A friendly neighbour born, his vain desire
Prompts him to get a little cubit higher;
When all unvex'd, untroubled, he might live,
And all that nature ask'd his farm would give.

Colville and Madge one field, one cow possess'd,
Had dwelt unanxious many years and blest;
A quiet conscience, and their neighbours' praise
They held-It was in Friar Bacon's days.
No thief alarm'd the lowly cottage roof,
And pride and base contention kept aloof.
At length the rumour all about was flown
The monk had found the philosophic stone.
Quoth Colville, be't-in comfort, peace we live,
For his arcanum not a hair I'll give;
To me all wealth contentment does impart,
I have this chemic secret in my heart.

Let Munich bow the haughty Othman crest,
Among my humble teams I'll be as blest ;
Let the great Schach o'er trembling Ganges ride,
I'll boast more conquests by my chimney side.
What post you stand in, trust me, my Hephestion,
The part you bear in life is not the question;
But how you act it, how your station grace,
There is the matter; that's the point in case.
All one if peer or pedlar you sustain,
A laurel'd victor be or shepherd swain;

For social weal alike each state was made,
And every calling meant the others' aid;
Together all in mystic numbers roll,
All in their order act, and serve the whole,
Who guard the laws, or bid the orchat bloom,
Who wield the sceptre, and who guide the loom.

An easy and contented mind is all,

On whom and where it will let glory fall;
Let us the soul in even balance bear,
Content with what we have and what we are.

On rapt'rous visions long had Berkley fed,
The lemon groves were ever in his head;
He hangs on Waller*, and the landscape aids,
Sees in Bermuda blooming Ida's shades.

"Tis said 'tis done-the project quick prevails;
He gets the promised freight-he weds-he sails.
The storms loud rattle, but on storms he smiles,
They will but waft me to Bermuda's isles.
At length the port he gains, when all his dreams
He vanish'd views, and owns the airy schemes:
The orange branch had lost its fragrant load,
The cedar waved not, nor the citron blow'd;
In Eden's stead he sees a desert stand,
For figs and vines a poor unpeopled land;
For balmy breezes, and for cloudless skies,
He hears around the whistling tempest rise.
And is this all? said the good Dean of Down,
Is this the end, my hope and labour's crown?
Too blest the swain o'er Ormond's flowery dales
Who roves at ease, or sleeps in Derry's vales.
Henceforth I'll gratulate my native shore,
In search of bright delusions range no more,
Content to be, to cure this rambling itch,
An humble Bishop, and but barely rich.
*Waller's poem on the Summer Islands.