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VERSES ON A FLOWERED CARPET. WORKED BY THE YOUNG LADIES AT KINGSTON.

WHEN Pallas saw the piece her pupils wrought, She stood long wondering at the lovely draught:

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And, Flora, now" (she cried) "no more display Thy flowers, the trifling beauties of a day : For see! how these with life immortal bloom, And spread and flourish for an age to come! In what unguarded hour did I impart To these fair virgins all my darling art? In all my wit I saw these rivals shine, But this one art I thought was always mine: Yet lo! I yield; their mistress now no more, But proud to learn from these I taught before.

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For look, what vegetable sense is here!
How warm with life these blushing leaves appear!
What temper'd splendours o'er the piece afe laid!
Shade steals on light, and light dies into shade.
Through heaven's gay bow less various beauties run,
And far less bright, though painted by the Sun.
See in each blooming flower what spirit glows!
What vivid colours flush the opening rose.
In some few hours thy lily disappears;
But this shall flourish through a length of years,
See unfelt winters pass successive by,

And scorn a mean dependence on the sky.
And oh! may Britain, by my counsels sway'd,
But live and flourish, till these flowers shall fade!
Then go, fond Flora, go, the palm resign
To works more fair and durable than thine;
For I, even I, in justice yield the crown
To works so far superior to my own."

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A FRAGMENT.

IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S ART OF POETRY,
-Pendent opera interrupta.—

SHOULD Some fam'd hand, in this fantastic age,
Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the stage,
With all his postures in one motley plan,
The god, the hound, the monkey, and the man,
Here o'er his head high brandishing a leg,
And there just hatch'd, and breaking from his egg;
While monster crowds on monster through the piece,
Who could help laughing at a sight like this?
Or, as a drunkard's dream together brings

A court of coblers, or a mob of kings';"
Such is a sermon, where, confus'dly dark,
Join Sharp, South, Sherlock, Barrow, Wake, and
So eggs of different parishes will run [Clarke;
To batter, when you beat six yolks to one;
So six bright chymic liquors when you mix,
In one dark shadow vanish all the six.

Dryden.

2 Another copy reads,

Full licence priests and painters ever had.
To run bold lengths, but never to run mad;
For these can't reconcile God's grace to sin,
Nor those paint tigers in an ass's skin.
No common dauber in one piece would join
The fox and goose-unless upon a sign.
Some steal a page of sense from Tillotson,
And then conclude divinely with their own.
Like oil on water, mounts the prelate up;
His grace is always sure to be at top:
That vein of mercury its beams will spread,
And shine more strongly through a mine of lead.
With such low arts your audienee never bilk;
For who can bear a fustian lin❜d with silk?
Sooner than preach such stuff, I'd walk the town,
Without my scarf, in Whiston's draggled gown;
Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's to read
For pence, and bury for a groat a head.

Some easy subject chuse, within your power,
Or you can never hold out half an hour.
One rule observe: this Sunday split your text;
Preach one part now, and t'other half the next.
Speak, look, and move, with dignity and ease,
Like mitred Secker, you'll be sure to please.
But if you whine like boys at country schools,
Can you be said to study Cambray's rules?
Begin with care, nor, like that curate vile,
Set out in this high prancing stumbling style,
"Whoever with a piercing eye can see
"Through the past records of futurity-"
All gape-no meaning-the puff'd orator
Talks much, and says just nothing for an hour.
Truth and the text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away :
So frugal dames insipid water pour,
Till green, bohea, and coffee, are no more.
His arguments in silly circles run

Still round and round, and end where they begun:
So the poor turn-spit, as the wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he loses ground.
Surpris'd with solitary self-applause,

He sees the motley mingled scene he draws:
Dutch painters thus at their own figures start,
Drawn with their utmost uncreating art.
Thus when old Bruin teems, her children fail
Of limbs, form, figure, features, head, or tail;
Nay, though she licks her cubs, her tender

cares

At best can bring the Bruins but to bears.
Still to your hearers all your sermons sort;
Who'd preach against corruption at the court?
Against church-power at Visitations bawl,
Or talk about damnation at Whitehall?
Condemn the quirks of Chancery at the Rolls,
Harangue the Horse-guards on a Cure of souls,
Or rail at hoods and organs at St. Paul's!
Or be, like David Jones, so indiscreet,
To rave at usurers in Lombard-street.
Ye country-vicars, when you preach, in town,
A turn at Paul's to pay your journey down,
If you would shun the sneer of every prig,
Lay-by the little band and rusty wig;
But yet be sure your proper language know,
Nor talk as born within the sound of Bow;
Speak not the phrase that Drury-lane affords,
Nor from 'Change-alley steal a cant of words:
Coachmen will criticise your style; nay, further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful murther:

"Join Hoadly, Sharp, South, Sherlock, Wake, and The dregs of the canaille will look askew, To hear the language of the town from you:

Clarke."

Nay, my lord-mayor, with merriment possest, Will break his nap, and laugh among the rest, And jog the aldermen to hear the jest.

* * * * * *

INVITATION TO MR. DODINGTON'.

IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, BOOK I. EP. V.

I Dodington will condescend
To visit a poetic friend,

And leave a numerous bill of fare,
For four or five plain dishes here;
No costly welcome, but a kind
He and his friends will always find;
A plain, but clean and spacious room,
The master and his heart at home,
A cellar open as his face,

A dinner shorter than his graće ;
Your mutton comes from Pimpern-down,
Your fish (if any) from the town;
Our rogues, indeed, of late, o'eraw'd,
By human laws, not those of God,
No venison steal, or none they bring.
Or send it all to master King';
And yet, perhaps, some venturous spark
May bring it, now the nights are dark.
Punch I have store, and beer beside,
And port that's good, though frenchified.
Then, if you come, I'm sure to get
From Eastbery -a desert-of wit.

One line, good sir, to name the day, And your petitioner will pray, &c.

MR. R. PITT, TO HIS BROTHER C. PITT.

ON HIS HAVING A FIT OF THE Gout.

AMONG the well-bred natives of our isle,
"I kiss your hand, sir," is the modish style;
In humbler manner, as my fate is low,
I beg to kiss your venerable toe,
Not old Infallibility can have

Profounder reverence from its meanest slave.
What dignity attends the solemn gout!
What conscious greatness if the heart be stout!
Methinks I see you o'er the house preside,
In painful majesty and decent pride,
With leg tost high, on stately sofa sit,
More like a sultan than a modern wit;
Quick at your call the trembling slaves appear,
Advance with caution, and retire with fear;
Ev'n Peggy trembles, though (or authors fail)
At times the anti-salic laws prevail.

66

Now, Lord have mercy on poor Dick!" say I; "Where's the lac'd shoe-who laid the flannel by?" Within 'tis hurry, the house seems possest; Without, the horses wonder at their rest. What terrible dismay, what scenes of care! Why is the sooty Mintrem's hopeful heir Before the morning-dawn compell'd to rise, And give attendance with his half-shut eyes!

1 Created Lord Melcombe in 1761. The Blandford carrier.

' Mr. Dodington's seat at that time.

✦ Mr. Pitt's servant, the sou of a blacksmith.

What makes that girl with hideous visage stare?
What fiends prevent Ead's1 journey to the fair?
Why all this noise, this bustle and this rout?
"Oh, nothing-but poor master has the gout."

Meantime, superior to the pains below,
Your thoughts in soaring meditations flow,
In rapturous trance on Virgil's genius dwell,
To us, poor mortals, his strong beauties tell,
And, like Æneas, from your couch of state,
In all the pomp of words display the Trojan fate.

Can nothing your aspiring thoughts restrain? Or does the Muse suspend the rage of pain? Awhile give o'er your rage; in sickness prove Like other mortals, if you'd pity move: Think not your friends compassionate can be, When such the product of disease they see; Your sharpest pangs but add to our delight, We'll wish you still the Gout, if still you write.

WRITTEN IN THE FOLDS OF A PINPAPER.

Or old, a hundred Cyclops strove
To forge the thunderbolt for Jove;
I too employ a hundred hands,
And travel through as many lands.
A head I have, though very small,
But then I have no brains at all.
The miser locks me up with care,
Close as his money, all the year.
When John and Joan are both at strife,
'Tis I find money for the wife.
At court I make the ladies shine,
I grace,ev'n gracious Caroline :
And, though I often take my way
Through town and country, land and sea,
I'm neither fish, nor flesh, nor herring,
And now I live with goody Verring.

DE MINIMIS MAXIMA.

AUTORE LUDOVICO DUNCOMBE.

EXIGUA Crescit de glande altissima quercus,
Et tandem patulis surgit in astra comis:
Dumque anni pergunt, crescit latissima moles;
Mox secat æquoreas bellica navis æquas.
Angliacis hinc fama, salus hinc nascitur oris,
Et glans est nostri præsidium imperii.

TRANSLATION of the foregOING, BY MR. PITTÄ

FROM
ROM a small acorn, see! the oak arise,
Supremely tall, and towering in the skies!

'Another servant of Mr. Pitt.

2 Blandford fair; two miles from Pimpern, Mr. Pitt's rectory, where he was born, and where he died, April 13, 1748, aged 48. See his epitaph in Hutchins's Dorset, I. 82. N.

JA seller of pins at Blandford. Pitt.

See this ingenious young gentleman's verses to the memory of Mr. Hughes, in vol. X He was second son of John Duncombe, Esq. of Stocks; and died at Merton College, Oxford, where he was. a gentleman commoner, Dec. 26, 1730, in the twentieth year of his age. N.

Queen of the groves! her stately head she rears,
Her bulk increasing with increasing years:
Now moves in pomp, majestic, o'er the deep,
While in her womb ten thousand thunders sleep.
Hence Britain boasts her far-extended reign,
And by the expanded acorn rules the main.

# AN EPITAPH.

INSCRIBED ON A STONE THAT COVERS HIS FATHER,
MOTHER, AND BROTHER'.

YB sacred Spirits! while your friends distress'd
Weep o'er your ashes, and lament the bless'd;
O let the pensive Muse inscribe that stone,
And with the general sorrows mix her own:
The pensive Muse!—who, from this mournful hour;
Sha raise her voice, and wake the string no more!
Of love, of duty, this last pledge receive;
'Tis all a brother, all a son can give.

A POEM ON THE

DEATH OF THE LATE EARL STANHOPE.

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE COUNTESS OF STANHOPE.

"At length, grim Fate, thy dreadful triumphs cease: Lock up the tomb, and seal the grave in peace."

Now from thy riot of destruction breathe,
Call in thy raging plagues, thou tyrant Death:
Too mean's the conquest which thy arms bestow,
Too mean to sweep a nation at a blow.
No, thy unbounded triumphs higher run,
And seem to strike at all mankind in one;
Since Stanhope is thy prey, the great, the brave,
A nobler prey was never paid the grave.
We seem to feel from this thy daring crime,
A blank in nature, and a pause in time.
He stood so high in reason's towering sphere,
As high as man unglorify'd could bear.
In arms, and eloquence, like Cæsar, shone
So bright, that each Minerva was his own.
How could so vast a fund of learning lie
Shut up in such a short mortality?
One world of science nobly travell'd o'er;
Like Philip's glorious son, he wept for more.

And now, resign'd to tears, th' angelic choirs,
With drooping heads, unstring their golden lyres,
Wrapt in a cloud of grief, they sigh to view
Their sacred image laid by Death so low:
And deep in anguish sunk, on Stanhope's fate,
Begin to doubt their own immortal state.

But hold, my Muse, thy mournful transport errs,
Hold here, and listen to Lucinda's tears,
While thy vain sorrows echo to his tomb,
Behold a sight that strikes all sorrow dumb:
Behold the partner of his cares and life,
Bright in her tears, and beautiful in grief.
Shall then in vain those streams of sorrow flow,
Drest up in all the elegance of woe?
And shall the kind officious Muse forbear
To answer sigh for sigh, and tell out tear for tear?

Robert Pitt, A. M. his eldest brother. the Latin inscription, in Hutchins's Dorset, vol. I.

See

83

Oh! no; at such a melancholy scene,
The poet echoes back her woes again.
Each weeping Muse should minister relief,
From all the moving eloquence of grief.
Fach, like a Niobe, his fate bemoan,
Melt into tears, or harden into stone.
From dark obscurity his virtues save,
And, like pale specters, hover round his grave.
With them the marble should due measures

keep,

Relent at every sigh, at every accent weep.
Britannia mouru thy hero, nor refuse

To vent the sighs and sorrows with the Muse:
Oh! let thy rising groans load every wind
Nor let one sluggish accent lag behind.
Thy heavy fate with justice to deplore,
Convey a gale of sighs from shore to shore.
Thy golden wings, and shield the mighty dead.
And thou, her guardian angel, widely spread
Brood o'er his ashes, and illustrious dust,
And sooth with care the venerable ghost.
To guard the nobler relics, leave a while
The kind protection of thy favourite isle:
Around his silent tomb, thy station keep,
And, with thy sister-angel, learn to weep.

Ye sons of Albion, o'er your patriot mourn,
And cool with streams of tears his sacred urn.
His wondrous virtues, stretch'd to distant shores,
Demand all Europe's tears, as well as yours.
Nature can't bring in every period forth,
A finish'd hero of exalted worth,
Whose godlike genius, towering and sublime,
Must long lie ripening in the womb of time:
Before a Stanhope enters on the stage,
The birth of years, and labour of an age.
In field, and council, born the palm to share,
His voice a senate, as his sword a war:
Aud each ilustrious action of his life,
Conspire to form the patriot, and the chief:
On either side, unite their blended rays,
And kindly mingle in a friendly blaze.

Stand out, and witness this, unhappy Spain,
Lift up to view the mountains of thy slain :
Tell how thy heroes yielded to their fear,
When Stanhope rouz'd the thunder of the war:
With what fierce tumults of severe delight
Th' impetuous hero plung'd into the fight.
How he the dreadful front of Death defac'd,
Pour'd on the foe, and laid the battle waste.
Did not his arm the ranks of war deform,
And point the hovering tumult where to storm?
Did not his sword through legions cleave his way,
Break their dark squadrons, and let in the day?
Did not he lead the terrible attack,
Push Conquest on, and bring her bleeding back?
Throw wide the scenes of horrour and despair,
The tide of conflict, and the stream of war?
Bid yellow Tagus, who in triumph roll'd
Till then his turbid tides of foaming gold,
Boast his rich channels to the world no more,
Since all his glittering streams, and liquid ore,
Lie undistinguish'd in a flood of gore.

Bid his charg'd waves, and loaded billows sweep,
Thy slaughter'd thousands to the frighted deep.
Confess, fair Albion, how the listening throng
Dwelt on the moving accents of his tongue.
In the sage council seat him, and confess
Thy arm in war, thy oracle in peace :
How here triumphant too, his nervous sense
Bore off the palm of manly eloquence :

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The healing balm to Albion's wounds apply'd,
And charm'd united factions to his side
Fix'd on his sovereign's head the nodding crown,
And propp'd the tottering basis of the throne,
Supported bravely all the nation's weight,
And stood the public Atlas of the state.

Sound the loud trumpet, let the solemu knell
Bid with due horrour his great soul farewel.
Tune every martial instrument with care,
At once wake all the harmony of war.
Let each sad hero in procession go,
And swell the vast solemnity of woe.
Neglect the yew, the mournful cypress leave,
And with fresh laurels strew the warrior's grave.
There they shall rise, in honour of his name,
Grow green with victory, and bloom with fame.

Lo! from his azure throne, old father Thames
Sighs through his floods, and groans from all his

streams:

O'er his full urn he droops his reverend head,
And sinks down deeper in his oozy bed,
As the sad pomp proceeds along his sides,
O'ercharg'd with sorrow, pant his heaving tides.
Low in his humid palace laid to mourn,
With streams of tears, the god supplies his urn.
Within bis channels he forgets to flow,
And pours o'er all his bounds the deluge of his woe.
But see, my Muse, if yet thy ravish'd sight
Can bear that blaze, that rushing stream of light;
Where the great hero's, disencumber'd soul,
Springs from the Earth to reach her native pole.
Boldly she quits th' abandon'd cask of clay,
Freed from her chains, and towers th' ethereal
Soars o'er th' eternal funds of hail and snow, [way:
And leaves heaven's stormy magazines below.
Thence through the vast profound of heaven she
And measures all the concave of the skies: [flies,
Sees where the planetary worlds advance,
Orb above orb, and lead the starry dance.
Nor rests she there, but, with a bolder flight,
Explores the undiscover'd realms of light.
Where the fix'd orbs, to deck the spangled pole,
In state around their gaudy axles roll.
Thence his aspiring course in triumph steers,
Beyond the golden circles of the spheres ;
Into the leaven of Heavens, the seat divine,
Where Nature never drew her mighty line.
A region that excludes all time and place,
And shuts creation from th' unbounded space :
Where the full tides of light in oceans flow,
And see the Sun ten thousand worlds below.
So far from our inferior orbs disjoin'd,
The tir'd imagination pants behind.
Then cease thy painful flight, nor venture more,
Where never Muse has stretch'd her wing before.
Thy pinions tempt immortal heights in vain,
That throw thee fluttering back to Earth again.

On Earth a while, blest shade, thy thoughts em-
And steal one moment from eternal joy. [ploy,
While there, in Heaven, immortal songs inspire
Thy golden strings, and tremble on the lyre,
Which raise to nobler strains, th' angelic choir.
Look down with pity on a mortal's lays,
Who strives, in vain, to reach thy boundless praise:
Who with low verse profanes thy sacred name,
Lost in the spreading circle of thy fame.
Thy fame, which, like thyself, is mounted high,
Wide as thy Heaven, and lofty as thy sky.

And thou, his pious consort, here below,
Lavish-of grief, and prodigal of woe :

Oh! choak thy griefs, thy rising sighs suppress,
Nor let thy sorrows violate his peace.
This rage of anguish, that disdains relief,
Dins his bright joys, with some allay of grief.
Look on his dearest pledge he left behind,
And see how Nature, bountiful and kind,
Stamps the paternal image on his mind.
Oh! may th' hereditary virtues run
In fair succession, to adorn the son;
The last best hopes of Albion's realms to grace,
And form the hero worthy of his race:
Some means at last by Britain may be found,
To dry her tears, and close her bleeding wound.
And if the Muse through future times can see,
Fair youth, thy father shall revive in thee:
Thou shalt the wondering nation's hopes engage,
To rise the Stanhope of the future age.

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EPITAPH ON DR. KEIL

THE LATE PAMOUS ASTRONOMER.

BENEATH this stone the world's just wonder lies,
Who, while on Earth, had rang'd the spacious skies;
Around the stars his active soul had flown,
And seen their courses finish'd ere his own:
Now he enjoys those realms he could explore,
And finds that Heaven he knew so well before.
He though more worlds his victory pursued
Than the brave Greek could wish to have subdued;
In triumph ran one vast creation o'er,
Then stodp'd,-for Nature could afford no more.
With Caesar's speed, young Ammon's noble pride,
He came, saw, vanquish'd, wept, return'd, and died.

HORACE, BOOK II. EP. XIX.

IMITATED.

AN EPISTLE TO MR. ROBERT LOWTH'.

"Tis said, dear sir, no poets please the town,
Who drink mere water, though from Helicon :
For in cold blood they seldom boldly think;
Their rhymes are more insipid than their drink.
Not great Apollo could the train inspire,
Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire.
Warm'd by two gods at once they drink and write,
Rhyme all the day, and fuddle all the night.
Homer, says Horace, nods in many a place,
But hints, he nodded oft:er o'er the glass.
Inspir'd with wine old Ennius sung and thought
With the same spirit, that his heroes fought :
And we from Jonson's tavern-laws divine,
That bard was no great enemy to wine.
'Twas from the bottle King derived his wit,
Drank till he could not talk, and then he writ
Let no coif'd serjeant touch the sacred juice,
But leave it to the bards for better use:
Let the grave judges too the glass forbear,
Who never sing and dance but once a year.
Get drunk or mad, and then get into print :
This truth once known, our poets take the hint,
To raise their flames indulge the mellow fit,
And lose their senses in the seach of wit:
And when with claret fir'd they take the pen,
Swear thy can write, because they drink, like Ben.

Late Bishop of London.

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