Others I see, as noble and more true,

By no court-badge distinguish'd from the rest: First see I Methuen, of sincerest mind, As Arthur grave, as soft as womankind. What lady's that to whom he gently bends? [eyes:

Who knows not her? ah! those are Wortley's How art thou honour'd, number'd with her friends!

For she distinguishes the good and wise. The sweet-tongued Murray near her side attends;

Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies; Now Harvey, fair of face, I mark full well, With thee, youth's youngest daughter, sweet Lepell. I see two lovely sisters, hand in hand,

The fair-hair'd Martha, and Teresa brown; Madge Bellenden, the tallest of the land;

And smiling Mary, soft and fair as down. Yonder I see the cheerful duchess stand, [known:

For friendship, zeal, and blithesome humours Whence that loud shout in such a hearty strain ? Why, all the Hamiltons are in her train! See next the decent Scudamore advance,

With Winchelsea, still meditating song: With her perhaps Miss Howe came there by chance,

Nor knows with whom or why she comes along. Far off from these see Santlow, famed for dance;

And frolic Bicknell, and her sister young; With other names by me not to be named, Much loved in private, not in public famed! But now behold the female band retire,

And the shrill music of their voice is still'd! Methinks I see famed Buckingham admire

That in Troy's ruin thou hadst not been kill'd.
Sheffield, who knows to strike the living lyre

With hand judicious, like thy Homer skilld;
Bathurst, impetuous, hastens to the coast,
Whom you and I strive who shall love the most.

See generous Burlington, with goodly Bruce

(But Bruce comes wafted in a soft sedan); Dan Prior next, beloved by every Muse,

And friendly Congreve, unreproachful man! (Oxford by Cunningham hath sent excuse);

See hearty Watkins comes with cup and can; And Lewis, who has never friend forsaken; And Laughton whispering asks, Is Troy town taken? Earl Warwick comes, of free and honest mind; Bold, generous Craggs, whose heart was ne'er dis

guised: Ah why, sweet St. John, cannot I thee find !

St. John, for every social virtue prized. Alas! to foreign climates he's confined,

Or else to see thee here I well surmised: Thou too, my Swift, dost breathe Bæotian air; When wilt thou bring back wit and humour here? Harcourt I see, for eloquence renown'd,

The mouth of justice, oracle of law! Another Simon is beside him found,

Another Simon, like as straw to straw. How Lansdown smiles, with lasting laurel crown'd!

What mitred prelate there commands our awe! See Rochester approving nods his head, And ranks one modern with the mighty dead. Carleton and Chandos thy arrival grace;

Hanmer, whose eloquence th' unbias'd sways; Harley, whose goodness opens in his face,

And shows his heart the seat where virtue stays. Ned Blount advances next with busy pace,

In haste, but sauntering, hearty in his ways: I see the friendly Carylls come by dozens, [ins. Their wives, their uncles, daughters, sons, and cousArbuthnot there I see, in physic's art,

As Galen learn'd or famed Hippocrate; Whose company drives sorrow from the heart,

As all disease his medicines dissipate ;

Kneller amid the triumph bears his part,

Who could (were mankind lost) a new create :
What can th' extent of his vast soul confine ?
A painter, critic, engineer, divine!
Thee Jervas hails, robust and debonair,

Now have [we] conquer'd Homer, friends, he cries : Darteneuf, grave joker, joyous Ford is there,

And wondering Maine so fat, with laughing eyes (Gay, Maine, and Cheney, boon companions dear,

Gay fat, Maine fatter, Cheney huge of size), Yea Dennis, Gildon (hearing thou hast riches), And honest, hatless Cromwell, with red breeches. Oh Wanley, whence com’st thou with shorten'd hair,

And visage from thy shelves with dust besprent? “Forsooth (quoth he) from placing Homer there,

For ancients to compyle is myne entente :
Of ancients only hath Lord Harley care ;

But hither me hath my meeke lady sent :
In manuscript of Greeke rede we thilke same,
But book yprint best plesyth myn gude dame.”
Yonder I see, among th' expecting crowd,

Evans with laugh jocose, and tragic Young;
High-buskind Booth, grave Mawbert, wandering

Frowde,
And Titcomb's belly waddles slow along,
See Digby faints at Southern talking loud,

Yea Steele and Tickell mingle in the throng :
Tickell, whose skiff (in partnership, they say)
Set forth for Greece, but founder'd in the way.
Lo the two Doncastles, in Berkshire known!

Lo Bickford, Fortescue, of Devon land! Lo Tooker, Eckershall, Sykes, Rawlinson!

See hearty Morley takes thee by the hand; Ayrs, Graham, Buckridge, joy thy voyage done ;

But who can count the leaves, the stars, the sand! Lo Stoner, Fenton, Caldwell, Ward, and Broome! Lo thousands more ; but I want rhyme and room!

How loved! how honour'd thou! yet be not vain:

And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say, All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's strain,

On whose strong pinions I exalt my lay. What from contending cities did he gain?

And what rewards his grateful country pay? None, none were paid; why then all this for me? These honours, Homer, had been just to thee.

THOMAS TICKELL.

1686-1740.

COLIN AND LUCY.

Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair,

Pright Lucy was the grace ;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream

Reflect so sweet a face:
Till luckless love and pining care

Impair'd her rosy hue,
Her coral lips, and damask cheeks,

And eyes of glossy blue.
Oh! have you seen a lily pale,

When beating rains descend?
So drooped the slow-consuming maid,

Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warn’d, of flattering swains

Take heed, ye easy fair :
Of vengeance due to broken vows,

Ye perjured swains, beware.
Three times, all in the dead of night,

A bell was heard to ring;
And, shrieking at her window thrice,

The raven flapp'd his wing.
Too well the lovelorn maiden knew

The solemn boding sound:
And thus, in dying words, bespoke

The virgins weeping round:

“I hear a voice you cannot hear,

Which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,

Which beckons me away.
By a false heart and broken vows,

In early youth I die :
Was I to blame, because his bride

Was thrice as rich as I ?

“Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,

Vows due to me alone :
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,

Nor think him all thy own.
To-morrow, in the church to wed,

Impatient, both prepare !
But know, fond maid, and know, false man,

That Lucy will be there! “ Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,

This bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding-trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet. She spoke, she died, her corse was borne

The bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding-trim so gay,

She in her winding sheet.
Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts ?

How were these nuptials kept ?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,

And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell :
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,

He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
From the vain bride, ah, bride no more!

The varying crimson fled,
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,

She saw her husband dead.