If faith produce no works, I see,
That faith is not a living tree.
Thus faith and works together grow,

No separate life they e'er can know: They're soul and body, hand and heart, What God hath join'd let no man part.'

To thee, fair creature, SALLY HORNE,
And sure a fairer ne'er was born;
A grave biographer I send,

By NEWBERRY in the church-yard penn'd ;
(Or if to truth my phrase I stinted,
By NEWBERRY in the church-yard printed ;)
Might Mother Bunch-a worthier sage,
Ne'er fill'd, I ween th' historic page;
For she, of kings and queens can prate,
As fast as patriotic KATE ;*

Nor vents like her, her idle spleen,
Merely because 'tis king or queen.
KATE, who each subject makes a slave,
Would make each potentate a knave;
Though Britons can the converse prove,
A king who reigns and rules by love.
While Mother Bunch's honest story,

Unaw'd by WHIG, unwarp'd by TORY;

Paints sovereigns with impartial pen,
Some good, some bad, like other men.

Oh, there are few such books as these,
Which only mean to teach or please;
Read Mother Bunch, then charming SALLY,
Her writings, with your taste will tally.
No pride of learning she displays,
Nor reads one word an hundred ways;
To please the young she lays before 'em
A simple tale, sans variorum;
With notes and margins unperplext,
And comments which confuse the text.
No double senses interfere

To puzzle what before was clear.
Here no mistaken dates deceive ye,
Which oft occur from HUME to LIVY.
Her dates, more safe and more sublime,
Seize the broad phrase-' Once on a time.'
Then Mother Bunch is no misleader
In citing authors who precede her;
Unlike our modern wits of note,
Who purposely and oft misquote;
Who injure history, or intend it,
As much as KENNICOT to mend it;
And seek no less the truth to mangle,
Than he to clear and disentangle.

These short digressions we apply
Our author's fame to magnify:
She seeks not to bewilder youth,
But all is true she gives for truth:
And still, to analyze you're able,
Fable is safe while given as fable;
As mere invention you receive it,
You know 'tis false, and disbelieve it;
While that bad chemistry which brings
And mixes up incongruous things,

See Mrs. Macaulay's History of England.

With genuine fact invention blending
As if true history wanted mending ;
Or flav'ring, to mislead our youth,
Mere fable with a dash of truth ;
In all these heterogeneous tales
The injudicious project fails;
Of truth you do not get your measure,
And of pure fiction lose the pleasure.
But Mother Bunch rejects such arts,
A sounder taste her work imparts.

Then if for prosperous turns you look,
There's no such other history book.
Old authors show, nor do I wrong 'em,
How tyrants shar'd the world among 'em
And all we learn of ancient times,
Are human woes and human crimes.
They tell us naught but dismal tales,
How virtue sinks, and vice prevails;
And all their labours but declare
The miseries of the good and fair;
How one brave captive in a quarrel
Was tumbled down hill in a barrel!
In fiery flames how some did fry,
Only because they dar'd not lie!
How female victims meet their doom,
At Aulis one, and more at Rome!
How ease the hero's laurels stain'd
HOW CAPUA lost what CANNE gain'd!
How he, whom long success attends,
Is kill'd at home among his friends!
How ATHENS, him who serv'd so well,
Rewarded with an oyster-shell!
How NERO stabb'd a mother's breast
Ah, barbarous CLIO, spare the rest;
Conceal these horrors, if thou'rt able,
If these be truth, oh give me fable!
Till real deed are fit to mention,
Regale my feelings with invention.

But Mother Bunch's morals tell How blest all were who acted well! How the good little girl's regarded, And boy who learns his book rewarded. How loss of favour follows rudeness, While sugar-plumbs repay all goodness; How she who learns to read or write, Will get a coach or chariot by't; And not a faggot-maker's daughter But has it at her christening taught her,

By some invited fairy guest,

That she shall wed a prince at least ;

And thro' the whole this truth's pursu'd

That to be happy 's to be good.

If these to life be contradictions,
Mark the morality of fictions;
Axioms more popular they teach,

That to be good is to be rich!

For all the misses marry kings,

And diamonds are but common things;
While dames in history hardly get 'em,
Our heroines ope their mouths and spit 'em.
Oh, this is profitable learning,
Past cold historians' dull discerning,
Who, while their annals they impart,
Expose, but seldom mend the heart.
I grant, they teach to know mankind,
To learn we're wretched, weak, and blind:
But till the heart from vice is clear,
Who wants to know what passes there?
Till Hercules to cleanse was able,
No doubt they shut th' Augean stable.
Here too in high emphatic tone
The power of female worth is shown;
Ev'n enterprising Joan of Arc
Falls short of true heroic mark:
THALESTRIS was a mere home-keeper,
And swift CAMILLA but a creeper.
Here deeds of valour are as common
As song or dance to real woman ;
And meekest damsels find it facile
To storm a giant's moated castle;
Where drawbridges do open fly
If virgin foot approaches nigh;
And brazen-gates with twenty locks,
At which an army vainly knocks,
Fly ope, nor on their hinges linger,
At touch of virgin's little finger.

Then slow attacks, and tiresome sieges,
Which history makes the work of ages,
Are here, by means of fairy power,
Achiev'd with ease in half an hour.
Tactics! they prove, there's nothing in it,
Who conquer kingdoms in a minute :
They never hear of ten years jars,
(For TROY's the average length of wars.)
And diplomatic form and rule
Might learn from Mother Bunch's school,
How rapidly are state intrigues
Convey'd with boots of seven long leagues.

Here farther too, our great commanders,
Who conquer'd France, and rescued Flanders,
From Mother Bunch's Tales might he
Some secrets worth a general's ear;

How armies need not stop to bait,
And heroes never drink or eat;
Wrapt in sublimer occupation
They scorn such vulgar renovation.
Your British generals cannot keep
Themselves and fellows half so cheap;
For men and horses, out of books,
Call, one for corn, and one for cooks;
And dull historic nags must stay
For provender of oats and hay;
While these bold heroes wing their flight
Through twenty kingdoms in a night;
Of silvery dews they snatch a cup,
Or on a slice of moonshine sup;

And while they fly to meet their queen,
With half the convex world between,
Their milk-white palfreys, scorning grass,
Just crop a rose-leaf as they pass.

Then Mother Bunch's morals strike,
By praising friend and foe alike.
What virtue to the world is lost,
Because on thy ill-fated coast,
O Carthage! sung alone by foes,
The sun of history never rose !
Fertile in heroes, didst thou own

The muse that makes those heroes known;
Then had the bright reverse appear'd
And Carthaginian truth been clear'd:
On Punic faith, so long revil'd,
The wily African had smil'd;
And, possibly, not much had err'd,
If we of Roman fraud had heard.

Then leave your Robertson's and Bryants,
For John, the murderer of giants;
Since all mythology profane

Is quite as doubtful, quite as vain.
Though Bryant, learned friend of youth
His fable consecrates to truth:
And Robertson with just applause
His finish'd portraits fairly draws.
Yet history, great Raleigh knew,
And knowing, griev'd, may not be true:
For how the facts are we to know
Which pass'd a thousand years ago
When he no just account could get
Of quarrel in the adjacent street;
Though from his chair the noise he heard,
The tale of each relater err'd.

But if the fact's recorded right,
The motive seldom comes in sight;
Hence, while the fairest deed we blame,
We often crown the worst with fame.
Then read, if genuine truth you'd glean,
Those who were actors in the scene;
Hear, with delight, the modest Greek,
Of his renown'd ten thousand speak :
His commentaries* read again
Who led the troops and held the pen;
The way to conquest best he show'd,
Who trod ere he prescrib'd the road.
Read him, for lofty periods fam'd,
Who Charles's age adorn'd and sham'd;
Read Clarendon; unaw'd, unbrib'd,
Who rul'd th' events his pen describ'd;
Who law and courts, and senates knew,
And saw the sources whence he drew.

Yet, lovely SALLY, be not frighten'd,
Nor dread to have thy mind enlighten'd;
Admire with me the fair alliance

Which mirth, at Maudlin,† makes with science:
How humour may with learning dwell,
Go ask papa-for he can tell.

* Cesar:

MARGERY TWO-SHOES.

Dr. Horne was at this time president of Magdalen College, Oxford, where this little poem was written.

ACCEPT, BOSCAWEN! these unpolished lays,
Nor blame too much the verse you cannot praise.

For you, far other bards have wak'd the string, Far other bards for you were wont to sing;

Yet on the gale their parting music steals,
Yet your charm'd ear the lov'd impression feels:
You heard the lyres of Littleton and Young,
And this a grace, and that a seraph strung.
These are no more! but not with these decline
The attic chasteness or the vig'rous line.
Still sad Elfrida's poet* shall complain,
Still, either Warton breathe his classic strain:
While for the wonders of the Gothic page,
Otranto's fame shall vindicate the age,
Nor tremble lest the tuneful art expire,
While Beattie strikes anew old Spencer's lyre;
He best to paint the genuine minstrel knew,
Who from himself, the living portrait drew.

Though Latian bards had gloried in his name,
When in full brightness burnt the Latian flame;
Yet fir'd with loftier hopes than transient bays,
See Lowth† despise the meed of mortal praise;
Spurn the cheap wreath by human science won,
Borne on the wing sublime of Amos' son!
He seiz'd the mantle as the prophet flew,
And with his mantle caught his spirit too.
To snatch bright beauty from devouring fate,
And lengthen nature's transitory date;
At once the critic's and the painter's art,
With Fresnoy's skill and Guido's grace impart :
To form with code correct the graphic school,
And lawless fancy curb by sober rule;
To show how genius fires, how taste restrains,
While, what both are, his pencil best explains ;
Have we not REYNOLDS ?‡ lives not JENYNS yet,
To prove his lowest title was a wit?§

Though purer flames thy hallow'd zeal in-
spire

Than e'er were kindled at the Muse's fire,
Thee, mitred Chester !|| all the Nine shall boast;
And is not Johnson ours? himself a host!

Yes, still for you your gentle stars dispense:
The charm of friendship and the feast of sense:
Yours is the bliss, and Heav'n no dearer sends,
To call the wisest, brightest, best, your friends.
And while to these I raise the votive line,
O! let me grateful own these friends are mine;
With Carter trace the wit to Athens known,
Or view in Montague that wit our own:
Or mark, well pleas'd, Chapone's instructive
page,

Intent to raise the morals of the age:

Or boast, in Walsingham, the various power,
To cheer the lonely, grace the letter'd hour;
Delany too is ours, serenely bright,
Wisdom's strong ray, and virtue's milder light:
And she who bless'd the friend, and grac'd the
lays

Of poignant Swift, still gilds our social days;
Long, long protract thy light, O star benign!
Whose setting beams with milder lustre shine.
Nor, Barbauld, shall my glowing heart refuse

* Milton calls Euripides sad Electra's poet. †Then bishop of London.

See Sir Joshua Reynold's very able notes to Du Fresnoy's poem on the art of painting, translated by Mr. Mason. Also, his series of Discourses to the academy. which, though written professedly on the subject of painting, contain the principles of general art, and are delivered with so much perspicuous good sense, as to be admirably calculated to assist in forming the taste of the general reader.

§ Mr. Soame Jenyns had just published his work On the internal Evidence of the Christian Religion. Now bishop of London-See his admirable poem on death. VOL. I.

Its tribute to thy virtues, or thy muse;
This humble merit shall at least be mine,
The poet's chaplet for thy brow to twine;
My verse thy talents to the world shall teach,
And praise the genius it despairs to reach.

Yet what is wit, and what the poet's art?
Can genius shield the vulnerable heart?
Ah no! where bright imagination reigns,
The fine wrought spirit feels acuter pains;
Where glow exalted sense and taste refin'd,
There keener anguish rankles in the mind;
There, feeling is diffus'd through ev'ry part,
Thrills iu each nerve, and lives in all the heart;
And those whose gen'rous souls each tear would
keep

From other's eyes, are born themselves to weep.
Can all the boasted pow'rs of wit and song,
Of life one pang remove, one hour prolong?
Fallacious hope! which daily truths deride;
For you, alas! have wept, and Garrick dy'd!
O shades of Hampton ! witness, as I mourn,
Could wit or song elude your fav'rite's urn?
Though living virtue still your haunt endears,
Yet buried worth shall justify my tears.
Who now with spirit keen, yet judgment cool,
The errors of my orphan muse shall rule?
With keen acumen how his piercing eye,
The fault conceal'd from vulgar view would
While with a generous warmth he strove to
hide,

Nay vindicate the fault his taste had spy'd.
So pleas'd could he detect a happy line
That he would fancy merit ev'n in mine.

spy

His wit so pointed it ne'er miss'd its end,
And so well temper'd it ne'er lost a friend;
How his keen eye, quick mind, and ardent heart,
Impov'rish'd nature, and exhausted art,
A muse of fire has sung,* if muse could trace,
Or verse retrieve the evanescent grace!
How rival bards with rival statesmen strove,
Who most should gain his praise or win his
love!

Opposing parties to one point he drew,
Thus Tully's Atticus was Cæsar's too.

Tho' time his mellowing hand across has
stole,

Soft'ning the tints of sorrow on the soul;
The deep impression long my heart shall fill,
And ev'ry fainter trace be perfect still.

Forgive, my friend, if wounded memory melt,
You best can pardon who have deepest felt,
You, who for Britain's hero† and your own,
The deadliest pang which rend the soul have
known;

You, who have found how much the feeling heart

Shapes its own wound, and points itself the dart ;
You, who are call'd the varied loss to mourn;
You, who have clasp'd a son's untimely urn;
You, who from frequent fond experience feel
The wounds such minds receive can never heal;
That grief a thousand entrances can find,
Where parts superior dignify the mind;
Yet would you change that sense acute to gain
A dear bought absence from the poignant pain;
Commuting ev'ry grief whose feelings give
In loveless, joyless apathy to live?

* See Mr. Sheridan's beautiful monody.
† Admiral Boscawen.

!

For though in souls where energies abound, Pain through its numerous avenues can wound; Yet the same avenues are open still, To casual blessings as to casual ill. Nor is the trembling temper more awake To every wound calamity can make, Than is the finely fashion'd nerve alive To ev'ry transport pleasure has to give.

Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain, Their jests the tender anguish would profane. Yet these some deem the happiest of their kind, Whose low enjoyments never reach the mind; Who ne'er a pain but for themselves have known,

Who ne'er have felt a sorrow but their own:
Who deem romantic ev'ry finer thought
Conceiv'd by pity, or by friendship wrought;
Whose insulated souls ne'er feel the pow'r
Of gen'rous sympathy's extatic hour;
Whose disconnected hearts ne'er taste the bliss
Extracted from another's happiness;
Who ne'er the high heroic duty know,
For public good the private to forego.

Then wherefore happy? where's the kindred mind?

Where the large soul which takes in human kind?
Yes-'tis the untold sorrow to explain,
To mitigate the unsuspected pain;
The rule of holy sympathy to keep,
Joy for the Joyful, tears for them that weep:
To these the virtuous half their pleasures owe,
Pleasures, the selfish are not born to know;
They never know in all their coarser bliss,
The sacred rapture of a pain like this.
Then take ye happy vulgar take your part
Of sordid joy which never touch'd the heart.

Benevolence, which seldom stays to choose, Lest pausing Prudence tempt her to refuse; Friendship, which once determin'd, determin'd, never

And soft-ey'd Pity, and Forgiveness bland,
And melting Charity with open hand;
And artless love, believing and believ'd,
And honest Confidence which ne'er deceiv'd;
And mercy, stretching out ere Want can speak,
To wipe the tear which stains Affliction's
cheek;

These ye have never known-then take your part

Of sordid joy which never touch'd the heart.
You who have melted in bright glory's flame,
Or felt the grateful breath of well-earn'd fame;
Or you, the chosen agents from above,
Whose bounty vindicates Almighty love;
You, who subdue the vain desire of show,
Not to accumulate but to bestow;
You who the dreary haunts of sorrow seek,
Raise the sunk heart, and flush the fading cheek;
You, who divide the joys and share the pains,
When merit triumphs, or oppress'd complains;
You, who with pensive Petrarch, love to mourn,
Or weave the garland for Tibullus' urn;
You, whose touch'd hearts with real sorrows
swell,

Or feel, when genius paints those sorrows well,
Would you renounce such energies as these
For vulgar pleasures or for selfish ease?
Would you to 'scape the pain, the joy forego,

And miss the transport to avoid the wo?
Would you the sense of actual pity lose,
Or cease to share the mournings of the muse?
No, Greville,* no!-thy song, tho' steep'd in
tears,

Though all thy soul in all thy strain appears; Yet would'st thou all thy well sung anguish choose,

And all th' inglorious peace thou begg'st re fuse:

And while discretion all our views should guide,

Beware, lest secret aims and ends she hide; Though 'midst the crowd of virtues, 'tis her

part,

Like a firm sentinel-to guard the heart;
Beware, lest Prudence 'self become unjust,
Who never was deceiv'd, I would not trust;
Prudence must never be suspicion's slave,
The World's wise man is more than half a
knave.

And you, Boscawen, while you fondly melt,
In raptures none but mothers ever felt;
And as you view, prophetic, in your race,
All Levison's sweetness, and all Beaufort's
grace;

Yet dread what dangers each lov'd child may share,

;

The youth, if valiant, or the maid, if fair;
You who have felt, so frail is mortal joy!
That, while we clasp the phantom, we destroy;
That perils multiply as blessings flow,
That sorrows grafted on enjoyments grow;
That clouds impending dim our brightest views,
That who have most to love have most to lose
Yet from these fair possessions would you part,
To shelter from contingent ills your heart?
Would you forego the objects of your prayer
To save the dangers of a distant care?
Renounce the brightness op'ning to your view
For all the safety dulness ever knew?
Would you consent, to shun the fears you prove
That they should merit less, or you less love.

Yet while we claim the sympathy divine,
Which makes, O man, the woes of others thine;
While her fair triumphs swell the modish page,
She drives the sterner virtues from the stage:
While Feeling boasts her ever tearful eye,
Fair Truth, firm Faith, and manly Justice fly:
Justice, prime good! from whose prolific law,
All worth, all virtue, their strong essence draw;
Justice, à grace quite obsolete we hold,
The feign'd Astrea of an age of gold :
The sterling attribute we scarcely own,
While spurious Candour fills the vacant throne.

Sweet Sensibility! Thou secret pow'r Who shed'st thy gifts upon the natal hour, Like fairy favours; Art can never seize, Nor Affectation catch thy power to please; Thy subtle essence still eludes the chains Of Definition, and defeats her pains. Sweet Sensibility! thou keen delight! Unprompted moral ! sudden sense of right! Perception exquisite ! fair Virtue's seed! Thou quick precursor of the lib'ral deed! Thou hasty conscience! reason's blushing morn! Instinctive kindness e'er reflection 's born! Prompt sense of equity! to thee belongs The swift redress of unexamin'd wrongs

* See her beautiful Ode to Indifference.