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“ Of vanity the mirror” this was callid.

To number up the thousands dwelling here, Here you a muckworm of the town might see, An useless were, and eke an endless task ; At his dull desk, amid his leigers stallid,

From kings, and those who at the helm appear, Eat up with carking care and penurie ;

To gipsies brown in summer-glades who bask. Most like to carcase parch'd on gallow-tree. Yea, many a man perdie I could unmask, “A penny saved is a penny got ;”

Whose desk and table make a solemn show, Firm to this scoundrel maxim keepeth he, With tape-tied trash, and suits of fools that ask Ne of its rigour will he bate a jot,

For place or pension laid in decent row; Till it has quench'd his fire, and banished his pot. But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe. Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold ! Of all the gentle tenants of the place, Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir, There was a man of special grave remark: All glossy gay, enamel'd all with gold,

A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, The silly tenant of the summer-air,

Pensive, not sad, in thought involved, not dark, In folly lost, of nothing takes he care ;

As soot this man could sing as morning-lark, Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile, And teach the noblest morals of the heart : And thieving tradesmen him among them share: But these his talents were yburied stark ; His father's ghost from limbo-lake the while, Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile. Which or boon Nature gave,or nature-painting Art.

This globe portray'd the race of learned men,
Still at their books, and turning o'er the page,
Backwards and forwards: oft they snatch the pen,
As if inspired, and in a Thespian rage ;
Then write and blot, as would your ruth engage.
Why, authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore?
To lose the present, gain the future age:
Praised to be when you can hear no more,
And much enrich'd with fame, when useless worldly

store.

To noontide shades incontinent he ran,
Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound ;
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began,
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground,
Where the wild thyme and camomile are found:
There would he linger, till the latest ray
Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound;
Then homeward through the twilight shadows

stray,
Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day.

Then would a splendid city rise to view,

Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they passid: With carts and cars, and coaches roaring all : For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd Wide pour'd abroad behold the giddy crew ;

Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast, See how they dash along from wall to wall ! And all its native light anew reveald: At every door, hark, how they thundering call ! Oft as he traversed the cerulean field, Good Lord ! what can this giddy rout excite?

And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind, Why, on each other with fell tooth to fall ; Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, A neighbour's fortune, fame, or peace, to blight, Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind ; (hind. And make new tiresomne parties for the coming night. But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace beThe puzzling sons of party next appear'd, With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk In dark cabals and nightly juntos met ;

(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke), And now they whisper'd close, now shrugging rear'd One shyer still, who quite detested talk : Th’ important shoulder; then, as if to get Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke, New light, their twinkling eyes were inward set. To groves of pine, and broad o'ershadowing oak; No sooner Lucifer recals affairs,

There, inly thrillid, he wander'd all alone; Than forth they various rush in mighty fret; And on himself his pensive fury wroke, When, lo ! push'd up to power, and crown'd their Ne ever utter'd word, save when first shone cares,

The glittering star of eve—“ Thank heaven ! the In comes another set, and kicketh them down stairs.

day is done t."

But what most show'd the vanity of life,
Was to behold the nations all on fire,
In cruel broils engaged, and deadly strife :
Most Christian kings, inflamed by black desire,
With honourable ruffians in their hire,
Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour:
Of this sad work when each begins to tire,
They sit them down just where they were before,
Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force

restore.

Here lurk'd a wretch, who had not crept abroad
For forty years, ne face of mortal seen ;
In chamber brooding like a loathly toad :
And sure his linen was not very clean.
Through secret loop-holes, that had practised
Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took ; [been
Unkempt, and rough, of squalid face and mien,
Our castle's shame! whence, from his filthy nook,
We drove the villain out for fitter lair to look,

[* Paterson, the poet's friend, and the author of Arminius a tragedy.]

[t Dr. Armstrong.)

One day there chaunced into these halls to rove A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems $;
A joyous youth *, who took you at first sight; Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,
Before the sprightly tempest tossing light: Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain :
Certes, he was a most engaging wight,

The world forsaking with a calm disdain,
Of social glee, and wit humane, though keen, Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat ;
Turning the night to day, and day to night: Here quaff'd encircled with the joyous train,
For him the merry bells had rung, I ween, Oft moralizing sage ; his ditty sweet
If in this nook of quiet bells had ever been. He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.
But not even pleasure to excess is good :

Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod,
What most elates then sinks the soul as low : Of clerks great plenty here you mote espy.
When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood, A little, round, fat, oily man of God,
The higher still th' exulting billows flow,

Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry:
The farther back again they flagging go,

He had a roguish twinkle in his eye,
And leave us groveling on the dreary shore : And shone all glittering with ungodly dew,
Taught by this son of joy we found it so ;

If a tight damsel chaunced to trippen by ;
Who, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar

Which when observed, he shrunk into his mew, Our madden'd castle all, th’abode of sleep no more. And straight would recollect his piety anew. As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly, Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought Sprungfrom the meads,o'er which hesweeps along, (Old inmates of the place) but state affairs : Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky, They look’d, perdie, as if they deeply thought ; Tunes up amid these airy halls his song,

And on their brow sat ev'ry nation's cares. Soothing at first the gay reposing throng : The world by them is parcell'd out in shares, And oft he sips their bowl; or, nearly drown'd, When in the hall of smoke they congress hold, He, thence recovering, drives their beds among, And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears (rolld, And scares their tendersleep, with trumpprofound; Has clear'd their inward eye : then, smoke.enThen out again he fies, to wing his mazy round. Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old. Another guest there was t, of sense refined, Here languid beauty kept her pale-faced court : Who felt each worth, for every worth he had ; Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree, Serene, yet warm ; humane, yet firm his mind, From every quarter hither made resort; As little touch'd as any man's with bad :

Where, from gross mortal care and business free, Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury. To him the sacred love of nature lent,

Or should they a vain show of work assume, And sometimes would he make our valley glad ; Alas ! and well-a-day! what can it be?

When as we found he would not here be pent, To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom ;
To him the better sort this friendly message sent. But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and

[loom. “ Come, dwell with us! true son of virtue, come ! Their only labour was to kill the time; But if, alas ! we cannot thee persuade,

And labour dire it is, and weary woe. To lie content beneath our peaceful dome, They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme ; Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade ;

Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Yet when at last thy toils but ill apaid

Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow. Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark, This soon too rude an exercise they find ; Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade, Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw. There to indulge the Muse, and nature mark: Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclined, We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley-Park.” | And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the

[wind. Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age I ; Now must I mark the villany we found, But call’d by Fame, in soul ypricked deep, But ah ! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown. A noble pride restored him to the stage,

A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground; And roused him like a giant from his sleep. Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown, Even from his slumbers we advantage reap : Diseased, and loathsome, privily were thrown ; With double force th’ enliven'd scene he wakes, Farfrom the light of heaven, they languish'd there, Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows to keep Unpity'd, uttering many a bitter groan ; Each due decorum : now the heart he shakes, For of these wretches taken was no care : And now, with well-urged sense, th' enlighten's Fierce fiends, and hagsofhell, theironly nurses were. judgment takes.

[$ Thomson himself. This stanza was written by Lord (* Young John Forbes of ('ulloden, the only son of

Lyttelton.) Duncan Forbes.]

[+ Lord Lyttelton.) (The Rev. Patrick Murdoch, the poet's friend and (Quin, whom a quarrel with Garrick had driven tem

biographer. His sleek, rosy visage, and roguish eye, are porarily off the stage.]

preserved on canvas at Culloden.)

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RULE, BRITANXIA!

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!”

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.

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 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. ] [t In Armstrong and in the first edition of the poem :

And here a moping mystery did sit.]

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 !”

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Dr. Watts's devotional poetry was for the who in one of his lucubrations gives our author most part intentionally lowered to the under the appellation of “ Mother Watts." The nickstanding of children. If this was a sacrifice of name would not be worth mentioning if it did taste, it was at least made to the best of inten not suggest a compassionate reflection on the tions. The sense and sincerity of his prose difference between the useful life and labours of writings, the excellent method in which he at Dr. Watts, and the utterly useless and wasted tempted to connect the study of ancient logic existence of Percival Stockdale. It might have with common sense, and the conciliatory manner been happy for the frail intellects of that unforin which he allures the youthful mind to habits tunate man, if they had been braced and rectified of study and reflection, are probably remem in his youth by such works as Watts's Logic and bered with gratitude by nine men out of ten, Improvement of the Mind. The study of them who have had proper books put into their hands might possibly have saved even him from a life at an early period of their education. Of this of vanity, vexation, and oblivion*. description was not poor old Percival Stockdale,

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AMBROSE PHILIPS.

[Born, 1671. Died, 1749.)

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 Ireland, he accompanied the prelate,

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.

TO THE EARL OF DORSET .

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.

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

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,
0, goddess! from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.

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