Pleasure was hunted through each impious mode;
An Ifis fhe, and he the vine-crown'd god.
Old Nile, aftonifh'd, on his bofom bore
Monsters more ftrange than e'er deform'd his fhore;
For what fo monftrous fight beneath the skies
As felf-created human deities?—
But heaven, for vengeful retribution, means
The fword and afp fhould close these frantic fcenes.
Spectators mute the forrowing captains ftand,
While empire moulders from his palfied hand:
But rous'd at length, unwilling, to the fight,
His ftar at Actium funk in endless night.
With equal pomp, as when down Cydnus' stream
Her burnish'd prow ftruck back the fun's bright beam,
The enchantrels bade her bloated train prepare
To meet the horrors of the naval war;
But the first shouts her trembling fpirits quail;
She flies, and he pursues her shameful fail:
His heart-ftrings to the harlot's rudder tied,
What luft began, his dotage ratified:
In Alexandria's towers he veil'd his head,
Where, felf-expell'd, the vital fpirit fled.
He tried all vices, and furpafs'd in all,
Luxurious, cruel, wild, and prodigal ;
Lavish of hours, of character, and gold,
But warlike, hardy, and in dangers bold;
His mind was fuited to the boift'rous times,
A foldier's virtues, and a tyrant's crimes,
A Proteftant Uncle to his Proteftant Nieces, on their visiting Wardour, Cafile, in Wilts, the Seat of Lord Arundel, on St. Peter's day, 1794,
'Tis not the pricft's, in glittering fhew,
That at the fanctuary bow,
Whilft, offspring of their magic hands,
A prefent deity acknowledg'd fands:
'Tis not the young and beauteous band,
Before the holy place who ftand,
Like Samuel's fons of early grace,
Th' Acolothifts' well-nurtur'd race,
Who, taught from life's first blushing morn
Thefe facred functions to adorn,
With steady step and decent mien
Add luftre to the folemn scene;
'Tis not each efort to exprefs
The charms and grace of holinefs,
That, to its deftination true,
This lovely fpot can bring to view;
'Tis not Ribera's + wond'rous art
Such power to canvas to impart,
As grand in form, and bright in hue,
To bring to our aftonifh'd view
The Lord of Life, torn, pale, and dead,
Who for vile man's tranfgreffions bled,
Whilft weeping angels hovering o'er,
The mystery of love explore:
'Tis not, my girls, fuch things as thefe
That for your faith deftroy my ease ;-
Your minds, I know, from earliest youth,
So trained to wifdom and to truth,
From your externals can command
The proper notice they demand.
Yet one thing frightens me, I own,
Secure of all, but that alone-
The noble tenants of the place
My fears alarm, my quiet chafe;
Their piety without pretence,
Their goodness, their benevolence;
Their minds unspoil'd by wealth or state
(Thofe common tempters of the great);
Their charity, that knows no bound,
Where man and mifery are found,
And cherishes, in thefe fad times,
The unfortunate of other climes;
Priefts, from their native altars torn,
Their ruffian country's jeft and scorn.
The attendants on the priests at the altar, fo called.
Spagnolet, fo called.
Your hearts, dear girls, fo well I know,
To fympathize at other's woe,
Of worth fo fond, fo good, so true,
So charm'd with Virtue's every view,
That I am fure you will enquire
What principles fuch acts infpire?
What faith fo fervent and fo bright
Keeps lives fo fully in the right?
Nay, more, my tortur'd foul to vex,
The more to harrafs and perplex,
Of manners kind, demeanour meek,
See * Forrefter the pulpit feek,
(And on St. Peter's very day),
Of Rome's fam'd head the prop and stay,
So candidly his fubject treats
(How fitted for religious heats),
That, with attention's well-pleas'd air,
Sarum's good prelate's felf might hear.
At Wardour then no longer stay,
There all we meet will fears convey.
Then fly ye courfers fleet as air,
Tot Bemerton we must repair,
Fam'd long for paftors of good learning,
Of great acutenefs and difcerning,
Who in polemics deep and ftrong,
Rome's faith have labour'd to prove wrong;
Where Herbert, Norris, Homes, and Coxe,
Have giv'n the Catholics fome knocks.
'Tis this will fave ye from the lurch,
And keep ye true to mother-church.
Verses, tranflated from the Perfian, by fir William Jones.
EAR how yon reed, in fadly-pleafing tales,
Departed blifs and prefent woe bewails-
"With me, from native banks untimely torn,
Love-warbling youths and foft-eye'd virgins mourn!
Oh! let the heart, by fatal absence rent,
Feel what I fing, and bleed when I lament;-
Who roams in exile from his parent bow'r,
Pants to return, and chides each ling'ring hour!
* Domestic chaplain to lord Arundel.
+ Bemerton, near Salisbury. Its incumbents have been occafionally very distinguished perfons, as Mr. Herbert, the poet, the ideal Norris, the learned Mr. Homes, and the cellebrated traveller, Mr. Coxe.
My notes, in circles of the great and gay,
Have hail'd the rifing, cheer'd the closing, day:
Each in my fond affections claim'd a part,
But none difcern'd the fecret of my heart;-
What though my ftrains and forrows flow combin'd,
Yet ears are flow, and carnal eyes are blind.
Free thro gh each mortal form the fpirits roll,
But fight avails not; can we fee the foul?"
Such notes breath'd gently from yon vocal frame:
Breath'd, faid I?-no: 'twas all-enliv'ning flame.
'Tis love that fills the reed with warmth divine!
"Tis love that sparkles in the racy wine.
Me, plaintive wand'rer from my peerless maid,
The reed has fir'd, and all my foul betray'd.
He gives the bane, and he with balfam cures,
Afflicts, yet foothes; impaffions, yet allures.
Delightful pangs his am'rous tales prolong,
And Laili's frantic lover lives in fong.
Not he who reasons best this wisdom knows;
Ears only drink what rapt'rous tongues difclofe;
Nor fruitless deem the reed's heart-piercing pain;
See fweetnefs dropping from the parted cane.
Alternate hope and fear my days divide,
I courted grief, and anguifh was my bride.
Flow on fad ftream of life, I fmile fecure;
Thou liveft-thou the pureft of the pure.
Rife, vig'rous youth, be free, be nobly bold;
Shall chains confine you, though they blaze with gold;
Go, to your vafe the gather'd main convey,
What were your ftores? the pittance of a day;
New plans for wealth your fancies would invent,
Yet fhells, to nourish pearls, must be content.
The man whofe robe love's purple arrows rend,
Bids av'rice reft, and toils tumultuous end.
Hail, heavenly Love! true fource of endless gains,
Thy balm reftores me, and thy kill fuftains.
Oh, more than Galen learn'd, than Plato wife,
My guide, my law, my joy fupreme, arife;
Love warms this frigid clay with myftic fire,
And dancing mountains leap with young defire.
Bleft is the foul that fwims in feas of love,
And long the life tuftain'd by food above.
With forms imperfect can perfection dwell?
Here paufe, my fong;-and thou, vain world, farewel!
Sonnet on the death of Robert Riddell, efq. of Glenriddell.
[O more, ye warblers of the wood, no more;
Nor pour your defcant grating on my foul:
Thou, young-ey'd Spring, gay in thy verdant ftole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildeft roar.
How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the foil that wraps my friend!
How can I to the tuneful ftrain attend?
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddell lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe,
And foothe the virtues weeping o'er his bier:
The man of worth, who hath not left his peer,
Is in his narrow house for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joys fhall others greet;
Me, mem'ry of my lofs will only meet.
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