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Unbless'd the man whom philosophic rage
Shall tempt to lose the Christian in the Sage :
Not Art, but Goodness, pour'd the sacred ray
That cheer'd the parting hours of humble Grey.

TO MISS HICKMAN,

PLAYING ON THE SPINNET.

10

BRIGHT Stella ! form’d for universal reign,
Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain :
When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,
Awed into love our conquer'd hearts obey,
· And yield reluctant to despotic sway :
But when your music soothes the raging pain,
We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign,
We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.

When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,
Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king :
Unbounded projects labouring in his mind,
He pants for room, in one poor world confined.
Thus waked to rage, by Music's dreadful power,
He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.
Had Stella’s gentler touches moved the lyre,
Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire :
No more delighted with destructive war,
Ambitious only now to please the fair ;
Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms,
And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms.

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PARAPHRASE

OF PROVERBS, CHAP. IV. VERSES 6–11.

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Turn on the prudent ant thy heedless eyes,
Observe her labours, sluggard ! and be wise.
No stern command, no monitory voice
Prescribes her duties or directs her choice ;
Yet, timely provident, she hastes away,
To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day ;
When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain,
She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.

How long shall Sloth usurp thy useless hours,
Unnerve thy vigour, and unchain thy powers ?
While artful shades thy downy couch inclose,
And soft solicitation courts repose,
Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,
Year chases year with unremitted flight;
Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow,
Shall spring to seize thee like an ambush'd foe.

10

HORACE,

LIB. IV. ODE VII. TRANSLATED.

THE snow, dissolved, no more is seen,
The fields and woods, behold! are green.
The changing year renews the plain,
The rivers know their banks again ;
The sprightly Nymph and naked Grace
The mazy dance together trace ;

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The changing year's successive plan
Proclaims mortality to man.
Rough Winter's blasts to Spring give way,
Spring yields to Summer's sovereign ray;
Then Summer sinks in Autumn's reign,
And Winter chills the world again :
Her losses soon the moon supplies,
But wretched man, when once he lies
Where Priam and his sons are laid,
Is nought but ashes, and a shade.
Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,
Will toss us in a morning more?
What with

your
friend

you nobly share,
At least you rescue from your heir.
Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome,
When Minos once has fix'd your doom,
Or eloquence, or splendid birth,
Or virtue, shall restore to earth.
Hippolytus, unjustly slain,
Diana calls to life in vain ;
Nor can the might of Theseus rend
The chains of Hell that hold his friend.

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ON SEEING A BUST OF MRS MONTAGUE.

Had this fair figure which this frame displays,
Adorn'd in Roman time the brightest days,
In every dome, in every sacred place,
Her statue would have breathed an added

grace,
And on its basis would have been enroll’d,
• This is Minerva, cast in Virtue's mould.'

ANACREON, ODE NINTH.

10

LOVELY courier of the sky!
Whence and whither dost thou fly?
Scattering, as thy pinions play,
Liquid fragrance all the way;
Is it business? is it love?
Tell me, tell me, gentle dove !

Soft Anacreon's vows I bear,
Vows to Myrtalè the fair ;
Graced with all that charms the heart,
Blushing nature, smiling art.
Venus, courted by an ode,
On the bard her dove bestow'd :
Vested with a master's right,
Now Anacreon rules my flight;
His the letters that you see,
Weighty charge, consign’d to me:
Think not yet my service hard,
Joyless task without reward ;
Smiling at my master's gates,
Freedom my return awaits ;
But the liberal grant in vain
Tempts me to be wild again.
Can a prudent dove decline
Blissful bondage such as mine?
Over hills and fields to roam,
Fortune's guest without a home;
Under leaves to hide one's head,
Slightly shelter'd, coarsely fed :
Now my better lot bestows
Sweet repast, and soft repose :

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30 31

Now the generous bowl I sip,
As it leaves Anacreon's lip :
Void of care and free from dread,
From his fingers snatch his bread;
Then with luscious plenty gay,
Round his chamber dance and play ;
Or from wine as courage springs,
O'er his face extend my wings;
And when feast and frolic tire,
Drop asleep upon his lyre.
This is all, be quick and go,
More than all thou canst not know;
Let me now my pinions ply,
I have chatter'd like a pye.

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LINES

WRITTEN IN RIDICULE OF CERTAIN POEMS PUBLISHED

IN 1777.

WHERESOE'ER I turn my view,
All is strange, yet nothing new;
Endless labour all along,
Endless labour to be wrong ;
Phrase that time has flung away,
Uncouth words in disarray,
Trick'd in antique ruff and bonnet,
Ode, and elegy, and sonnet.

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