TO A BEAUTIFUL LADY,

PLAYING ON THE ORGAN.

WHEN fam'd Cæcilia on the Organ play'd,
And fill'd with moving sounds the tuneful frame,
Drawn by the charm, to hear the sacred maid
From heav'n, 'tis said, a list'ning angel came.

Thus ancient legends would our faith abuse;
In vain---for were the bold tradition true,
While your harmonious touch that charm renews,
Again the seraph would appear to you.

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O happy fair! in whom, with purest light,
Virtue's united beams with beauties shine!
Should heav'nly guests descend to bless our sight,
What form more lovely could they wear than thine?

TO A PAINTER.

PAINTER! if thou canst safely gaze
On all the wonders of that face;

If thou hast charms to guard a heart
Secure by secrets of thy art;

O! teach the mighty charm, that we
May gaze securely too, like thee.

Canst thou Love's brightest lightning draw,
Which none e'er yet unwounded saw ?

S

To what then wilt thou next aspire,
Unless to imitate Jove's fire ?
Which is a less advent'rous pride,
Tho' 't was for that Salmoneus dy'd.
That beauteous, that victorious fair,
Whose chains so many lovers wear,
Who with a look can arts infuse,
Create a Painter or a Muse;
Whom crowds with awful rapture view
She sits serene, and smiles on you!
Your genius, thus inspir'd, will soar
To wondrous heights unknown before,
And to her beauty you will own
Your future skill and fix'd renown.
So when of old great Ammon's son,
Adorn'd with spoils in battle won,
In graceful picture chose to stand,
The work of fam'd Apelles' hand;
"Exert thy fire," the monarch said,
"Now be thy boldest strokes display'd,
"To let admiring nations see

"Their dreaded victor drawn by thee;
"To others thou may'st life impart,
"But I'll immortalize thy art!"

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TO THE AUTHOR OF

FATAL FRIENDSHIP,

A TRAGEDY, 1698.

As when Camilla oncé, a warlike dame,
In bloody battles won immortal fame,
Forsook her female arts, and chose to bear
The pond'rous shield and heave the massy spear,
Superior to her sex; so swift she flew

Around the field, and such vast numbers slew,
That friends and foes, alike surpris'd, behold
The brave virago desperately bold,
And thought her Pallas in a human mould.
Such is our wonder, matchless Maid! to see
The tragic laurel thus deserv'd by thee.

Still greater praise is your's; Camilla shines
For ever bright in Virgil's sacred lines,

You in your own.--

Nor need you to another's bounty owe

For what yourself can on yourself bestow;
So monarchs, in full health, are wont to rear,
At their own charge, their future sepulchre.

Who thy perfections fully would commend,
Must think how others their vain hours mispend,
In trifling visits, pride, impertinence,
Dress, dancing, and discourse devoid of sense;
To twirl a fan, to please some foolish beau,
And sing an empty song, the most they know:

In body weak, more impotent of mind.
Thus some have represented womankind,

But you, your sex's champion, are come forth

To fight their quarrel, and assert their worth:

Our Salic law of wit you have destroy'd,

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Establish'd female claim, and triumph'd o'er our pride.
While we look on, and with repining eyes
Behold you bearing off so rich a prize,
Spite of ill-nature we are forc'd t' approve
Such dazzling charms, and spite of envy love.
Nor is this all th' applause that is your due;
You stand the first of stage-reformers too:
No vicious strains pollute your moral scene;

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Chaste are your thoughts, and your expression clean : Strains such as your's the strictest test will bear;

Sing boldly then, nor busy censure fear;

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Your virgin voice offends no virgin ear.
Proceed in tragic numbers to disclose

Strange turns of fate and unexpected woes.
Reward and punish; awfully dispense

Heav'n's judgments, and declare a Providence.
Nor let the comic Muse your labours share,
'Tis meanness, after this, the sock to wear:
Tho' that too merit praise, 'tis nobler toil
T' extort a tear than to provoke a smile.
What hand, that can design a history,
Would copy lowland boors at Snic-a-Snee?

Accept this tribute, Madam, and excuse

The hasty raptures of a stranger Muse.

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TO MOLINDA.

TH' aspiring Muses and the god of Love

Which most should grace the fair Molinda strove;
Love arm'd her with his bow and keenest darts,
The Muses more enrich'd her mind with arts.
Tho' Greece in shining temples heretofore
Did Venus and Minerva's pow'rs adore,
The Ancients thought no single goddess fit
To reign at once o'er beauty and o'er wit;
Each was a sep❜rate claim; till now we find
The diff'rent titles in Molinda join'd.

From hence, when at the court, the Park, the play,
She gilds the ev'ning, or improves the day;

All eyes regard her with transporting fire;

Qne sex with envy burns, and one with fierce desire.
But when, withdrawn from public show and noise, 15
In silent works her fancy she employs,

A smiling train of Arts around her stand,
And court improvement from her curious hand.
She, their bright patroness, o'er all presides,
And with like skill the pen and needle guides;
By this we see gay silken landscapes wrought,
By that the landscape of a beauteous thought.
Whether her voice in tuneful airs she moves,
Or cuts dissembled flow'rs and paper groves,
Her voice transports the ear with soft delight,
Her flow'rs and groves surprise the ravish'd sight,

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Which ev'n to Nature's wonders we prefer,

All but that wonder Nature form'd in her.

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