The towering eagles to the realms of light
By their strong pounces claim a regal right;
The swan, contented with a humbler fate,
Low on the fishy river rows in state:
Gay starry plumes thy length of train bedeck,
And the green emerald twinkles on thy neck,
But the poor nightingale in mean attire,
1s made chief warbler of the woodland choir;
These various bounties were dispos'd above,
And ratify'd the unchanging will of Jove:
Discern thy talent and his laws adore;
Be what thou wert design'd, nor aim at more."
Prologue to SOUTHERN's Spartan Dame.
When realms are ravag'd with invasive foes,
Each bosom with heroic ardour glows;
Old chiefs, reflecting on their former deeds,
Disdain to rust with batter'd invalids;
But active in the foremost ranks appear,
And leave young smock-faced beaux to guard the rear.
So, to repel the Vandals of the stage,
Our veteran bard resumes his tragic rage:
He throws the gauntlet Otway us'd to wield,
And calls for Englishmen to judge the field:
Thus arm'd, to rescue nature from disgrace,
Messieurs! lay down your minstrels and grimace;
The brawniest youths of Troy the combat fear'd,
When old Etellus in the lists appear'd.
Yet what avails the champion's giant size,
When pigmies are made umpires of the prize?
Your fathers (men of sense, and honest bowlers)
Disdain'd the mummery of foreign strollers:
By their examples would you form your taste,
The present age might emulate the past.
We hop'd that art and genius had secur'd you;
But soon facetions Harlequin allur'd you:
The muses blush'd, to see their friends exalting
Those elegant delights of jig and vaulting:
So charm'd you were, you ceas'd awhile to dote
On nonsense, gurgled in an eunuck's throat;
All pleas'd to hear the chattering monsters speak,
As old wives wonder at the parson's Greek.
Such light ragoûts and mushrooms may be good,
To wet your appetites for wholesome food:
But the bold Briton ne'er in earnest dines
Without substantial haunches and surloins.
In wit, as well as war, they give us vigour ;
Cressy was lost by kickshaws and soup-meagre.
Instead of light desserts and luscious froth,
Our poet treats to-night with Spartan broth;
To which, as well as all his former feasts,
The ladies are the chief-invited guests.
Crown'd with a kind of Glastonbury bays,
That bloom amid the winter of his days,
He comes, ambitious in his green decline
To consecrate his wreath at beauty's shrine,
His Oroonoko never fail'd t' engage
The radiant circles of the former age:
Each bosom heav'd, all eyes were seen to flow,
And sympathise with Isabella's woe;
But Fate reserv'd, to crown his elder fame,
The brightest audience for the Spartan Dame.
On the First Fit of the Gout.
Welcome, thou friendly earnest of four-score, Promise of wealth, that hast alone the power
T'attend the rich, unenvy'd by the poor!
Thou that dost Esculapius deride,
And o'er his gally-pots in triumph ride;
Thou that art us'd t' attend the royal throne,
And under-prop the head that bears the crown;
Thou that dost oft in privy counsel wait,
And guard from drowsy sleep the eyes of state;
Thou that upon the bench art mounted high,
And warn'st the judges how they tread awry;
Thou that dost oft from pamper'd prelate's toe
Emphatically urge the pains below;
Thou that art ever half the city's grace,
And add'st to solemn noddles solemn pace;
Thou that art us'd to set on ladies' knee,
To feed on jellies, and to drink cold tea;
Thou that art ne'er from velvet slipper free ;
Whence comes this unsought honour unto me?
Whence does this mighty condescension flow?
To visit my poor tabernacle, O!
As Jove vouchsaf'd on Ida's top, 'tis said, poor Philemon's cot to take a bed; Pleas'd with the poor but hospitable feast, Jove bid him ask, and granted his request; So do thou grant (for thou'rt of race divine, Begot on Venus by the God of Wine) My humble suit!—And either give me store To entertain thee, or ne'er see me more.
CLAUDIAN'S Old Man of Verona.
Happy the man who all his days does pass
In the paternal cottage of his race;
Where first his trembling infant steps he try'd,
Which now supports his age, and once his youth em
This was the cottage his forefathers knew,
It saw his birth, shall see his burial too;
Unequal fortunes and ambition's fate
Are things experience never taught him yet.
Him to strange lands no rambling humour bore,
Nor breath'd he ever air but of his native shore.
Free from all anxious interests of trade,
No storms at sea have e'er disturb'd his head:
He never battle's wild confusions saw,
Nor heard the worse confusions of the law:
A stranger to the town and town-employs,
Their dark and crowded streets, their stink and noise;
He a more calm and brighter sky enjoys.
Nor does the year by change of consuls know,
The year his fruits returning seasons show;
Quarters and months in nature's face he sees,
In flowers the spring, and autumn on his trees.
The whole day's shadows, in his homestead drawn,
Point out the hourly courses of the sun.
Grown old with him, a grove adorns his field,
Whose tender setts his infancy beheld.
Of distant India, Erythræan shores,
Benacus' lake, Verona's neighbouring towers,
Alike unseen, from common fame has heard,
Alike believes them, and with like regard.
Yet, firm and strong, his grandchildren admire
The health and vigour of their brawny sire.
The spacious globe let those that will survey,
This good old man, content at home to stay,
More happy years shall know, more leagues and
countries they.
POPE'S EPITAPH ON FENTON.
This modest stone, what few vain marbles can, May truly say " HERE LIES AN HONEST MAN :" A Poet bless'd beyond the Poet's fate,
Whom Heaven kept sacred from the proud and great : Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease, Content with science in the vale of peace,
Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From nature's temp'rate feast rose satisfied,
Thank'd Heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he dy'd.
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