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Nor with lefs fkill display'd by thee appear The different products of the fertile year; While fruits with imitated ripeness glow, And fudden flowers beneath thy pencil blow. Such, and fo various, thy extenfive hand, Oft in fufpenfe the pleas'd fpectators stand, Doubtful to choose, and fearing ftill to err, When to thyself they would thyself prefer. So when the rival gods at Athens ftrove, By wondrous works, their power divine to prove, As Neptune's trident ftrook the teeming earth, Here the proud horse upstarted to his birth; And there, as Pallas blefs'd the fruitful fcene, The fpreading olive rear'd its ftately green; In dumb surprise the gazing crowds were loft, Nor knew on which to fix their wonder moft.*

TO URANIA,

ON HER ARRIVAL AT JAMAICA.

THROUGH yielding waves the veffel fwiftly flies,
That bears Urania from our eager eyes;

Deaf to our call, the billows waft her o'er,
With fpeed obfequious to a diftant shore;

A prize more rich than Spain's whole fleets could boast

From fam'd Peru, or Chili's golden coaft!
There the glad natives, on the crowded ftrand,
With wonder fee the matchlefs ftranger land;
Transplanted glories in her features fimile,
And a new dawn of beauty gilds their isle.

So from the fea when Venus rofe ferene,
And by the Nymphs and Tritons firft was feen,
The watery world beheld, with pleas'd furprise,
O'er its wide wafte new tracks of light arife;

The winds were hufh'd, the floods forget to move, And Nature own'd th' aufpicious Queen of Love.

Henceforth no more the Cyprian ifle be nam'd, Though for the abode of that bright goddess fam'd; Jamaica's happier groves, conceal'd fo long Through ages paft, are now the poets fong. The Graces there, and Virtues fix their throne; Urania makes th' adopted land her own.

The mufe, with Ker in thought tranfported, fees
The opening scene, the bloomy plants and trees,
By brighter fkies rais'd to a nobler birth,
And fruits deny'd to Europe's colder earth.
At her approach, like courtiers doubly gay
To grace the pomp of fome lov'd prince's day,
The gladden'd foil in all its plenty fhines,
New spreads its branching palms, and new adorns
its pines;

With gifts prepares the thining guest to meet,
And pours its verdant offerings at her feet.
As in the fields with pleasure fhe appears,
Smiles on the labourers, and their labours cheers,
The luscious canes with fweeter juices flow,
The melons ripen, and the citrons blow,
The golden orange takes a richer dye,
And flaves forget their toil, while fhe is by.

Not Ceres' felf more bleffings could display,
When through the earth fhe took her wandering

way,

Far from her native coast, and all around
Diffus'd ripe harvests through the teeming ground.

Mean while our drooping vales deserted mourn, Till happy years bring on her wish'd return; New honours then, Uraria, fhall be thine, And Britain shall again the world outshine.

So when of late our fun was veil'd from fight In dark eclipfe, and loft in fudden night, A fhivering cold each heart with horror thrill'd, The birds forfook the fkies, the herds the field; But when the conquering orb, with one bright ray, Broke through the gloom, and re-enthron'd the day, The herds reviv'd, the birds renew'd their strains, Unufual tranfports rais'd the cheerful swains, And joy returning echo'd through the plains.

THE FOLLOWING

SUPPLEMENT AND CONCLUSION

To Mr. Milton's incomparable Poem, entitled, II Penferofo, or The Penfive Man, was also writ by Mr. Hughes.

It seems neceffary to quote the eight foregoing lines for the right understanding of it.

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AND may at laft my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and moffy cell,
Where I may fit, and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth fhew,
And every herd that fips the dew;
Till old experience do attain

To fomething like prophetic ftrain."
There let time's creeping winter fhed
His hoary fnow around my head;
And while I feel, by faft degrees,
My fluggard blood wax chill, and frecze,
Let thought unveil to my fixt eye
The scenes of deep eternity,
Till life diffolving at the view,
I wake, and find thofe vifions true!

THE HUE AND CRY.

O YES-Hear, all ye beaux and wits,
Musicians, poets, 'fquires, and cits,
All, who in town or country dwell!
Say, can you tale or tidings tell
Of Tortorella's hafty flight?

Why in new groves fhe takes delight,
And if in concert, or alone,
The cooing murmurer makes her moan?

Now learn the marks, by which you may Trace out and stop the lovely tray!

3

Some wit, more folly, and no care, Thoughtless her conduct, free her air; Gay, fcornful, fober, indifcreet, In whom all contradicions meet; Civil, affronting, peevish, eafy,

Form'd both to charm you and difplease you;
Much want of judgment, none of pride,
Modifh her dress, her hoop full wide;
Brown skin, her eyes of fable hue,
Angel, when pleas'd, when vex'd, a fhrew.

Genteel her motion, when the walks,
Sweetly the Gings, and loudly talks;
Knows all the world, and its affairs,
Who goes to court, to plays, to prayers,
Who keeps, who marries, fails, or thrives,
Leads honeft, or, dishonest, lives;
What money match'd each youth or maid,
And who was at each mafquerade;
Of all fine things in this fine town,
She's only to herself unknown.

By this description, if you meet her, With lowly bows, and homage greet her; And if you bring the vagrant beauty Back to her mother and her duty, Afk for reward a lover's blifs, And (if she'll let you) take a kifs; Or more, if more you wish and may, Try if at church the words she'll fay, Then make her, if you can-" obey."

THE PATRIOT.

To the Right Honourable
WILLIAM LORD COWPER,

LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN.

How godlike is the man, how truly great,
Who, midft contending factions of the state,
In council cool, in resolution bold,

Nor brib'd by hopes, nor by mean fears control'd,
And proof alike against both foes and friends,
Ne'er from the golden mean of virtue bends!
But wifely fix'd, nor to extremes inclin'd,
Maintains the steady purpose of his mind.

So Atlas, pois'd on his broad bafe, defies The fhock of gathering storms and wintry skies; Above the clouds, ferene, he lifts his brow, And fees unmov'd the thunder break below.

But where's the patriot, by these virtues known, Unfway'd by others paflions, or his own? Juft to his prince, and to the public true, That fhuns, in all events, each partial view? That ne'er forgets the whole of things to weigh, And fcorns the short-liv'd wisdom of a day?

If there be one-hold muse, nor more reveal(Yet oh that numbers could his name conceal!) Thrice happy Britain, of such wealth possest! On thy firm throne, great George, unshaken reft,

Safe in his judgment, on his faith rely,
And prize the worth which kingdoms cannot buy!

Rich in itself, the genuine diamond fhines,
And owes its value to its native mines;
Yet set in Britain's crown, drinks ampler rays
Of the fun's light, and casts a wider blaze.
With pleasure we the well-plac'd gem behold,
That adds a luftre to the royal gold.

January 25. 1717-18.

THE

SECOND SCENE OF THE FIRST ACT

OF

ORESTES, A TRAGEDY.

TRANSLATED FROM EURIPIDES.

Argument.

Oreftes had killed his mother Clytemneftra, in revenge of his father's death, who was murdered by her. This part of the story is the subject of the Electra of Sophocles, where, in the concluLion of the play, Clytemneftra is heard behind the scene crying out in vain for mercy, while her fon is executing his revenge. Ferhaps this play was written firft; and Euripides took up the story where the other left off. The reflection on his guilt in putting his mother to death, though a criminal, with his own hands, filled Oreftes's mind with fo much horror as afterwards caufed his diftraction. In this condition he is represented in the following fcene, lying on a couch, and his fifter Electra, with a chorus of Grecian women, waiting near him.

I fhall detain the reader no longer than to obferve, that the tendernefs of Electra, and the alternate ftarts and returns of madnefs and reason in Oreftes, are touched with the most exquifite ftrokes of nature and paffion.

Chorus, Orefles, Elefra. Chorus.

DRAW near, Electra, to thy brother's couch;
See if he breathes; this long-protracted reft
May end in death, and fatally deceive thee.
Orefies, waking.

O fweet refreshing fleep! thou balmy cure
Of sickness and of pain!

How has thy gentle power at length reliev'd me!
O soft oblivion of furrounding ills,

How grateful to th' afflicted are thy charms!
Where am I?-fpeak-inform me, tell me where
How came I hither? for I know not how!
Alas! I've lately been bereft of reason !
And now no tract of former thought remains.
Electra.

O my much-lov'd Oreftes! O my brother! With joy I've watch'd o'er thy late healing flumbers.

Come-shall I help to raise thee from thy couch?

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O! take away thofe furies-how they fhake
Their fnaky locks, and grin around me!
Electra.

Alas! poor wretch; 'tis thy own fear alarms thee. Compofe thyself: why doft thou leave thy couch Here are no fiends; thou talk'ft to fhapeless air. Oreftes.

Help, help me, Phoebus-Sec those dogs of hell With famish'd jaws gape horrid to devour me ! Th' infernal priefteffes look ficrcely on me; They thirst for blood, and I'm the deftin'd victim! Eleara.

Nay, ftrive not-for I will not let thee go, While these weak arms can fold thee

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Oreftes.

They fhall-or leave niy tortur'd fight-behold! Doft thou not fee their feather'd fhafts fly round me?

Begone, ye minifters of wrath-Away! away! The guilt's not mine-Hence, through the yielding skies,

Fly swift to heaven-and charge Apollo there
Whofe oracle betray'd me--Ah! I fant;
My spirits fink-Where am I now? Alas!
How have I left my bed?-how ftray'd I hither?
O-I perceive-once more the raging waves
Have spent their force-and all is calm again-
My fifter?-weeping tob? Why dost thou turn
Thy face away, thus muffled in thy garment!
I grieve to think what I have made thee fuffer;
I know my ficknefs bears too hard upon thee
Yet weep not for my crimes, unhappy maid!
The deed was mine-Thou only didft confent:
'Twas I that flew my mother-Phœbus himfelf
Advis'd that impious act-the guilt be his, [me.
Whose words spoke comfort, but who now forfakes
But oh! Electra, had our father's fhade
Been prefent then-had, before the god,

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Afk'd his confent, to ftrike the murderefs dead,
The pitying manes fure had stopp'd my hand,
Nor would have wifh'd for his own life again,
Redeem'd by guilt, fo horrid in a fon.

Now wipe away thy tears, lamenting maid;
Though we're both wretched, tears are fhed in vain;
And when thou fceft again my faltering reason,
Be ready thou to rule my broken fenfe,
And comfort my affliction-And when thou
Shalt fink beneath thy preffing woes, I'll strive
By foothing words to mitigate thy forrows.
Such offices become our fond affection.

But now, retiring to thy own apartment,
Let gentle flumber close thy wakeful eyes;
Then rife refresh'd; anoint thy wearied limbs,
And with due nourishment recruit thy fpirits.
Such ceaseless watchings will exhauft thy strength,
And make thy languid life a burden to thee.
Thou feest all other friends are fled; thou art
My only folace in this dire affliction.
Should't thou forfake me too, I'm loft indeed.
Eleara.

O no! thy fifter never will forfake thee;
Nor only will I live, but die, with thee;
What joy could life afford a wretched woman,
Bereft of father, brother, every friend?-

But if you fo command, I will retire; In the meanwhile compofe thyfelf to rest, Reclin'd upon thy couch; nor let vain terrors Roufe thee again-Thy own upbraiding confcience Is the revengeful fiend that haunts thy breast!

ON THE BIRTH DAY
Of the Right Honourable

THE LORD CHANCELLOR PARKER.

JULY XXIII. M.DCCXIX.

As father Thames pours out his plenteous urn O'er common tracts, with speed his waters flow; But where fome beauteous palace does adorn

His banks, the river feems to move more flow;

As if he stopp'd awhile, with confcious pride, Nor to the ocean would purfue his race, Till he reflect its glories in his tide,

And call the water-nymphs around to gaze.

So in time's common flood the huddled throng Of months and hours unheeded pass away, Unless fome general good our joy prolong,

And mark the moments of lome festal day.

Not fair July, though plenty clothe his fields,
Though golden funs make all his mornings fmile,
Can boast of aught that such a triumph yields,
As that he gave a Parker to our isse.

Hail happy month! fecure of lasting fame! Doubly distinguish'd through the circling year : In Rome a hero gave thee first thy name;

A patriot's birth makes thee to Britain dear.

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No bṛeet the casement shook, or fann'd the leaves, | That work can only by the muse be wrought;

Nor drops of rain fell foft from off the eaves;
Nor noisy splinter made the candle weep,
But the dim watchlight feen'd itself afleep,
When tir'd I clos'd my eyes-How long I lay
In flumber wrapp'd, I lift not now to say:
When hark! a fudden noife-See! open flies
The yielding door-I, starting, rubb'd my eyes,
Faft clos'd awhile; and as their lids I rear'd,
Full at my feet a tall thin form appear'd,
While through my parted curtains rushing broke
A light like day, ere yet the figure fpoke.
Cold fweat bedew'd my limbs-Nor did I dream;
Hear, mortals, hear! for real truth's my theme.
And now, more bold, I rais'd my trembling bones
To look when lo! 'twas honest master Jones *;
Who wav'd his hand, to banish fear and forrow,
Well charg'd with toast and fack, and cry'd" Good
"morrow!'

WRITTEN IN A WINDOW

AT WALLINGTON-HOUSE,

THEN THE SEAT OF

MRS. ELIZ. BETH BRIDGES, 1719.

ENVY, if thy fearching eye

Through this window chance to pry,
To thy forrow thou shalt find,

All that's generous, friendly, kind,
Goodness, virtue, every grace,
Dwelling in this happy place:

Then, if thou would't fhun this fight,
Hence for ever take thy flight.

THE SUPPLEMENT:

THE CHARACTER OF

MRS. ELİZABETH BRIDGES†.

Imp rf.&t.

PAINTER, give o'er; here ends thy feeble art;
For how wilt thou defcribe th" immortal part?
Though Kueller's or though Raphael's fkill were
thine,

Or Titian's colours on the cloth did fhine,

The labour'd piece must yet half-finish'd stand,
And mock the weakness of the mafter's hand.

Colours are but the phantoms of the day,
With that they're born, with that they fade away;
Like beauty's charms, they but amufe the fight,
Dark in themselves, till, by reflection bright,
With the fun's aid to rival him they boast,
Buc light withdrawn in their own fhades are loft.
Then what are thefe t' exprefs the living fire,
The lamp within, that never can expire?

The butler.

She died Dec. 1. 1745, aged 83.

Souls muft paint fouls, and thought delineate

thought.

Then painter-mufe begin, and unconfin'd
Draw boldly firft a large extent of mind:
Yet not a barren wafte, an empty space.
For crowds of virtues fill up all the place.
See! o'er the rest fair piety prefides,'
As the bright fun th' inferior planets guides;
To the foul's powers it vital heat fupplies,
And hence a thousand worthy habits rife.
So when that genial father of the spring
Smiles on the meads, and wakes the birds to fing,
And from the heavenly bull his influence fheds
On the parterres and fruitful garden beds,
A thousand beauteous births fhoot up to fight,
A thousand buds unfolding meet the light;
Each useful plant does the rich earth adorn,
And all the flowery universe is born.

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could my verfe defcribe this facred queen,
This first of virtues, awful, yet ferene,
Plain in her native charms, nor too fevere,
Free from falfe zeal, and fuperftitious fear;
Such and fo bright, as by th' effects we find
She dwells in this felected happy mind,
The fource of every good fhould ftand confeft,
And all who fee applaud the heaven-born gueft!

Proceed, my mufe, next in the picture place
Diffufive charity to human race.
Juftice thou need'ft not in the draught exprefs,
Since every greater still includes the lefs.
What were the praise if virtue idly stood,
Content alike to do nor harm nor good?
Though fhunning ill, unactive and supine,

Like painted funs that warm not while they fhine?
The nobler foul fuch narrow life disàains,
Flows out, and meets another's joys and pains,
Taftelefs of bleffings, if poffeft alone,
And in imparted pleasures seeks its own.
Hence grows the fenfe of friendship's generous fires
Hence liberality the heart infpires,
Hence ftreams of good in constant actions flow,
And man to man becomes a god below!

A foul thus form'd, and fuch a foul is here,
Needs not the dangerous teft of riches fear,
But, unfubdued to wealth, may safely ftand,
And count o'er heaps with an unfully'd hand.
Heaven, that knew this, and where t'intruft its

ftore,

And, bleffing one, oft' blesses many mure,
First gave a will to give, then fitly join'd ·
A liberal fortune to a liberal mind.
With fuch a graceful eafe her bounty flows;
She gives, and scarce that she's the giver knows,
But feems receiving moft, when the the most

beflows.

Rich in herself, well may fhe value more
Her wealth within, the mind's immortal ftore;
Paffion's fubdued, and knowledge' free from pride,
Good humour, ever to good sense ally'd,
Well-season'd mirth, and wisdom unfevere,
An equal temper, and a heart fincere ;

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