Written on the gilded Statue in Lord Cadogan's Garden, 1723. By the Right Honourable Lord
(Now first published.)
The Statue addresses Lord C.
'N vain to Celia's heart you sue,
In me her emblem you may find,
A beauteous form without a mind;
A prospect fair of venal charms,
Doom'd to the highest bidder's arms.
Tho' you had beauty, wit, and youth,
Tho' you
had tenderness with truth,
Nor this, nor that, her soul could move,
Blind to desert, and cold to love:
Careless of censure, dead to fame,
Unsway'd by principle or shame.
So much our qualities agree,
"Twill do for her that did for me,-
Gild her but well, you may with ease
Carry her naked where you please.
From ROUSSEAU, by the Same.
(Now first published.)
HEN the monarch of Hell took it first in his mind
To attack this new world, and destroy human kind, Eve was dupe to the serpent, and Adam to Eve,
So Moses recites, so good Christians believe.
But the satire is plain of this waggish relation,
That thus the world's rul'd in each age and each nation,
(Forgive me, ye fair, if the comment's uncivil,)
Each man by his wife, and his wife by the devil!
BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE, OF NOTTINGHAM.
WEET scented flower, who 'rt wont to bloom'
On January's front severe,
And o'er the wint'ry desert drear,
To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;
And, as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song,
And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.
Come, fun'ral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corpse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell:
Come, press my lips and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree,
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep;
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.
And, hark! the wind-god as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze
Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower, that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,
The cold turf altar of the dead:
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where, as I lie by all forgot,
A dying fragrance thou shalt o'er my ashes shed.
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nurs'd in whistling storms,
And cradled in the winds:
Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway, And dar'd the sturdy blusterer to fight,
Thee, on this bank he threw,
To mark his victory.
The Legend of Robert A Machin and Anna D'Arfet, the supposed Discoverers of Madeira.
BY MR. BOWLES,
WHAT rapture fir'd
The strangers' bosoms, as from glade to glade*
They pass'd admiring all, and gazing still
With new delight. But solitude is round,
Deep solitude, that on the gloom of woods
Primæval fearful hangs: a green recess
Now opens in the wilderness; gay flow'rs
Of unknown name purple, the yielding sward;
The ring-dove murmurs o'er their head, like one
Attesting tenderest joy; but mark the trees,
Where, slanting through the gloom, the sunshine rests,
Beneath, a moss-grown monument appears,
O'er which the green banana gently waves
Its long leaf; and an aged cypress near
Leans, as if list'ning to the streamlet's sound,
That gushes from the adverse bank; but pause-
Approach with reverence! Maker of the world,
There is a Christian's cross! and on the stone
A name, yet legible amid its moss,—
"Anna."
In that remote and sever'd spot,
Shut as it seem'd from all the world, and lost
In boundless seas, to trace a name, to mark
The emblems of their holy faith, from all
Drew tears! while every voice faintly pronounc'd "Anna!" But thou, lov'd harp, whose strings have rung To louder tones, oh! let my hand, awhile,
The wires more softly touch, whilst I rehearse
Her name and fate, who in this desert deep,
Far from the world, from friends and kindred, found
Her long and last abode, there, where no eye
Might shed a tear on her remains; no heart
Sigh in remembrance of her fate :
The Severn's side, and fled with him she lov'd
O'er the wide main; for he had told her tales
Of happiness in distant lands, where care
Comes not, and pointing to the golden clouds
That shone above the waves, when ev'ning came,
Whisper'd, "O are there not sweet scenes of peace
"Far from the murmurs of this cloudy mart,
"Where gold alone bears sway, scenes of delight,
"Where Love may lay his head upon the lap
"Of Innocence, and smile at all the toil
"Of the low-thoughted throng, that place in wealth
"Their only bliss? Yes, there are scenes like these.
"Leave the vain chidings of the world behind,
"Country, and hollow friends, and fly with me
"Where love and peace in distant vales invite.
"What would'st thou here? O shall thy beauteous look
"Of maiden innocence, thy smile of youth, thine eyes
"Of tenderness and soft subdu'd desire,
"Thy form, thy limbs,-oh, madness!-be the prey,
"Of a decrepid spoiler, and for gold?
"Perish his treasure with him. Haste with me,
"We shall find out some sylvan nook, and then
"If thou should'st sometimes think upon these hills,
"When they are distant far, and drop a tear,
"Yes-I will kiss it from thy cheek, and clasp
"Thy angel beauties closer to my breast,
"And while the winds blow o'er us, and the sun
"Goes beautifully down, and thy soft cheek "Reclines on mine, I will infold thee thus,
And proudly cry, my friend-my love-my wife!"
So tempted he, and soon her heart approv'd,
Nay woo'd, the blissful dream; and oft at eve,
When the moon shone upon the wand'ring stream,
She pac'd the castle's battlements, that threw
Beneath, their solemn shadow, and, resign'd
To fancy and to tears, thought it most sweet
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To wander o'er the world with him she lov'd;
Nor was his birth ignoble, for he shone
'Mid England's gallant youth in Edward's reign-
With countenance erect, and honest eye,
Commanding, (yet suffus'd in tenderness
At times) and smiles that like the lightning play'd
On his brown cheek,-so gently stern he stood,
Accomplish'd, gen'rous, gentle, brave, sincere,-
Robert A Machin. But the sullen pride
Of haughty D'Arfet scorn'd all other claim
To his high heritage, save what the pomp
Of amplest wealth, and loftier lineage gave*.
Reckless of human tenderness, that seeks
One lov'd, one honour'd object: wealth alone
He worshipp'd; and for this he could consign
His only child, his aged hope, to loath'd
Embraces, and a life of tears! Nor here
His hard ambition ended; for he sought,
By secret whispers of conspiracies,
His sovereign to abuse, bidding him lift
His arm avenging, and upon a youth
Of promise, close the dark forgotten gates
Of living sepulture, and in the gloom
Inhume the slowly wasting victim.-
He purpos'd, but in vain: the ardent youth
Rescu'd her-her whom more than life he lov'd,
E'en when the horrid day of sacrifice
Drew nigh. He pointed to the distant bark,
And while he kiss'd a stealing tear that fell
On her pale cheek, as trusting, she reclin'd
Her head upon his breast, with ardour cry'd,
"Be mine, be only mine; the hour invites ;
"Be mine, be only mine." So won, she cast
A look of last affection on the towers
Where she had pass'd her infant days, that now
Shone to the setting sun-" I follow thee,"
Her faint voice said; and lo! where in the air
A sail hangs tremulous, and soon her steps
Ascend the vessel's side: The vessel glides
Down the smooth current, as the twilight fades,
Till soon the woods of Severn, and the spot
Where D'Arfet's solitary turrets rose,
Is lost a tear starts to her eye-she thinks
Of him whose grey head to the earth shall bend,
When he speaks nothing-but be all, like death,
Forgotten. Gently blows the placid breeze,
Machin was of the third order of nobility.
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