STROPHE.

In Fortune's car behold that minion ride,

With either India's glittering spoils oppress'd: So moves the sumpter-mule, in harness'd pride, That bears the treasure which he cannot taste. For him let venal bards disgrace the bay,

And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string; Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay; And all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring; Disquiet, Doubt, and Dread shall intervene; And Nature, still to all her feelings just, In vengeance hang a damp on every scene, Shook from the baleful pinions of Disgust.

ANTISTROPHE.

Nature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts

By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell, Where the poised lark his evening ditty chants, And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation dwell. There Study shall with Solitude recline;

And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains; And Toil and Temperance sedately twine

The slender cord that fluttering Life sustains:
And fearless Poverty shall guard the door;
And Taste, unspoil'd, the frugal table spread;
And Industry supply the humble store;

And Sleep, unbribed, his dews refreshing shed:
White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night;
And Independence o'er the day preside,
Propitious power! my patron and my pride.

TO MIRTH.

PARENT of joy! heart-easing Mirth!
Whether of Venus or Aurora born;
Yet goddess sure of heavenly birth,
Visit benign a son of Grief forlorn:
Thy glittering colours gay,
Around him, Mirth, display;
And o'er his raptured sense
Diffuse thy living influence:

So shall each hill, in purer green array'd,

And, flower-adorn'd, in new-born beauty glow; The grove shall smooth the horrors of the shade, And streams in murmurs shall forget to flow Shine, goddess, shine with unremitted ray, And gild (a second sun) with brighter beam our day. Labour with thee forgets his pain, And aged Poverty can smile with thee; If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain, And weak the' uplifted arm of Tyranny. The Morning opes on high

His universal eye;

And on the world doth

pour

His glories in a golden shower!

Lo! Darkness trembling 'fore the hostile ray, Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn:

The brood obscene, that own her gloomy sway Troop in her rear, and fly the' approach of morn. Pale shivering ghosts, that dread the' all-cheering light, Quick as the lightning's flash glide to sepulchral night. But whence the gladdening beam

That pours his purple stream

O'er the long prospect wide?

'Tis Mirth. I see her sit
In majesty of light,

With Laughter at her side.
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering near
Wide waves her glancing wing in air;
And young Wit flings his pointed dart,
That guiltless strikes the willing heart.
Fear not now Affliction's power,
Fear not now wild Passion's rage,
Nor fear ye aught in evil hour,
Save the tardy hand of Age.

Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant Poet's prayer;
No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the troubled air

TO SLEEP.

SOFT Sleep, profoundly pleasing power,
Sweet patron of the peaceful hour,

O, listen from thy calm abode,
And hither wave thy magic rod;

Extend thy silent, soothing sway,
And charm the canker Care away.
Whether thou lovest to glide along
Attended by an airy throng

Of gentle dreams and smiles of joy,
Such as adorn the wanton boy;
Or to the monarch's fancy bring
Delights that better suit a king;
The glittering host, the groaning plain,
The clang of arms, and victor's train;
Or should a milder vision please,
Present the happy scenes of peace;
Plump Autumn, blushing all around;
Rich Industry, with toil embrown'd;
Content, with brow serenely gay,
And genial Art's refulgent ray.

TO LEVEN-WATER.

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love;
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the' Arcadian plain.
Pure stream! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,

With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par.1
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

1 The par is a small fish, not unlike the smelt, which it rivals ir delicacy and flavour.

Still on thy banks, so gaily green, "May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry imbrown'd with toil, And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard.

WHEN the rough North forgets to howl,
And Ocean's billows cease to roll;
When Libyan sands are bound in frost,
And cold to Nova Zembla's lost!
When heavenly bodies cease to move,
My blue-eyed Ann I'll cease to love.

No more shall flowers the meads adorn;
Nor sweetness deck the rosy thorn;
Nor swelling buds proclaim the spring;
Nor parching heats the dogstar bring;
Nor laughing lilies paint the grove,
When blue-eyed Ann I cease to love.

No more shall joy in hope be found;
Nor pleasures dance their frolic round;
Nor Love's light god inhabit earth;
Nor beauty give to passion birth;
Nor heat to summer sunshine cleave,
When blue-eyed Nanny I deceive.

When rolling seasons cease to change,
Inconstancy forgets to range;

When lavish May no more shall bloom,
Nor gardens yield a rich perfume;
When Nature from her sphere shall start,
I'll tear my Nanny from my heart.

BURLESQUE ODE.1

WHERE wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate
From these weak arms mine aged grannam tore:
These pious arms essay'd too late,

To drive the dismal phantom from the door.
Could not thy healing drop, illustrious quack,
Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days;
For whom so oft to Mary'bone, alack!
Thy sorrels dragg'd thee through the worst of ways!

Oil-dropping Twickenham did not then detain
Thy steps, though tended by the Cambrian maids;
Nor the sweet environs of Drury Lane;

Nor dusty Pimlico's embowering shades;
Nor Whitehall by the river's bank,

Beset with rowers dank;

Nor where the' Exchange pours forth its tawny sons;
Nor where to mix with offal, soil and blood,
Steep Snow Hill rolls the sable flood;

Nor where the Mint's contaminated kennel runs:

Ill doth it now beseem,

That thou shouldst doze and dream,

When Death in mortal armour came,

And struck with ruthless dart the gentle dame.

Her liberal hand and sympathizing breast

The brute creation kindly bless'd:

Where'er she trod grimalkin purr'd around,
The squeaking pigs her bounty own'd;

Nor to the waddling duck or gabbling goose.
Did she glad sustenance refuse;

The strutting cock she daily fed,
And turkey with his snout so red;

Of chickens careful as the pious hen,

Nor did she overlook the tomtit or the wren;
While redbreast hopp'd before her in the hall,
As if she comnion mother were of all.

For my distracted mind,

What comfort can I find?

1 Dr. Smollett imagining himself ill treated by Lord Lyttelton, wrote the above burlesque on that nobleman's monody on the death of his lady.