Shudd'ry, the back'ning blood, revolving swift, Clogs the prefs'd heart-ftretch'd fibres fail to lift:

Loft in doubt's hard'ning froft, fept motion lies, While fenfe climbs gradual to the raining eyes. Hatred is fullen fury long retain'd; 'Tis willing mifchief warily refrain'd; 'Tis thought's corrofion acridly perplex'd; 'Tis felf in pain, left others live unvex'd. This to touch vivid-(pencil! pleas'd and free, Paint the coil'd ferpent thou abhorr ft to fee.) Veil the malignant leer that burns with fpite, Bid the brow's leur o'erhang the fick'ning fight; Swell the blown cheek, th' unoper ing lip reftrain; Stretch'd the wide noftril marks th' impatient pain.

Ardent, yet heedlefs, half th'averted eye

Skims the leath'd object, and difdains it nigh. Hard back-brac'd nerves in fett'ry fervour toil, And the curv'd fyftem heaves in check'd recoil. Haft from taught pain---fhun hatred's baneful fhade,

And to love's funfhine lend the mufe's aid.

Love is intenfe defire, by rev'rence check'd; 'Tis hope's hot tranfport, freak'd with fear's re. fpe&t;

'Tis paffion's every foul-felt power disjoin'd; 'Tis all th' affembled train's whole force combin’d. 'Tis like foft air, through which admitted light Peoples pleas'd fancy, and lends fhape to fight: Yet, like that air disturb'd, man's quiet breaks, Tempefts his reason, and his triumph fhakes.

You who infufe this pow'r must first have felt;
No heart, unniov'd itself, bids others melt:
Yet, would chalk'd outline sketch th' imagin'd❘
grace?

Dumb carneft gaze tongues o'er th' unvocal face:
Soft'ning in apprehenfion's awe-check'd air,
Each limb befeeches, each flow ftep's a prayer:
While high-brac'd raptures imag'd pride confefs,
Meeknels fits guardian o'er the mild address:
Doubt diffipating hope, to blanch defire,
Hangs the mind's curb upon the body's fire.
Snatch'd from the fcene, claim this the box's

care;

It paints and warns for every beauty there :
But there love's fhafts (of late) all pointless lie,
Blunt from bold mein, and dead'ning in the eye:
Naked of heart, and hateful of delay,
Erring time-fhort'ner! meeting with half way!
Won an, outfradling art's old lureful skill,
Mann'd o'er with invitation, drives back will;
Falls her past price, owns patient hope buys dear,
Hawks for quick market, and hawls chapmen near;
Talks loud, fruts, cibows, calls a grace a fool;
Drefs'd like a fcarecrow, manner'd like a mule:
Pall'd, the prefs'd cheap'ner dreads th' out-bluf-
tring air,

Eyes the braw'd fwaggerer, and rejects her ware.
Turn, coarfe conceiver! all unfex'd by mode,
Maid that trot'ft uglying in the monster's road!
Proud, yet immodeit! light, rude, witlefs, pert,
Bold, jostling, hoid'ning, blushness, pow'rlefs flirt!
Emptier than air thy coloury gewgaws play,

Trifler for cards and contradictions born!
Panting for conqueft, yet compelling fcorn!
Lab'ring from nature to grow loath'd by art,
And for man's manners forfeiting his heart! [juft;
But hold-contempt wrong plac'd becomes un-
Perhaps ftage whiners gave love's friends disgust =
For (goblin-like) there lovers walk unfhown,
Talk'd of in every play, yet feen in none:
Loft in unfeeling cold affected drawl,
They touch no tenderncfs, attempting all.
Lump'd lazy lifeless indolence one caufe,
And one th' admiring fool's misjudg'd applaufe.
Why should pain fweat for praile, proud cafe can
win,

By the rais'd footstep and exalted chin?
By the heav'd halt, that fwings its load along,
Clumfily folemn, and ferenely wrong?
By the big, broad, round, mellow, trounding troll,
That means no paflion, and conveys no foul:
Half fwells, then finks, like fails of ships becalm'd,
A dry dead fweat, man's mummied voice em
balm'd.

Shame on the whineling, fleep-induЯive tone!
Not by fuch glow-worm glimfe love's fires are
fhown:

Heart, voice, mein, vifage, all pay love their aid,
Cupid exacts more ftric alliance made; [he
'Twix the mind's ftates than ouce 'twixt Europe's,
Who bound all princes, yet left noue unfree.
Not fuch loose treaties pleafe th' all-buckling god,
Punctual he yokes tund founds to meating's nod:
Pardons no void vain voluble harangue,
And hates to hear the unaiming bowitring twang.

Say, female fhades of love, who haunt the flage, What fiend, clofe-treading, tags defire with rage? If in your hofpitable bofoms bred,

Th' unrefting fury thrives, by beauty fed,
Tell the dire name---But if you filent feel
Th' impreffive tooth, and no gnaw'd thought re-

veal, [bite, Speak, tell-tale mufe. Thou fhar'ft th' envenom'd For jealoufy ne er fleeps when poets write.

The Janus jealoufy two faces wears, Each diff'ring, apt as form'd by diff'rent cares; While infant-wing`d the callow harpy lies, Too dim for daylight, too unfledged to rife: 'Tis doubt-mix'd anger, ftruggling to confide, Floating half-funk on pity's pleading tide: Here hope-fed foftnefs foothes the affiant heart, There 1age vindictive bids the spirit fmart: 'Twixt the two wav'ring fcales, by turns depreft, The eye's fhort wand'rings mark the mind diftreft;

Languidly ftrung, flow-nerv'd, half-finewy ftrain,
Paints an unfettled, half-determin'd pain :
Whence rous'd refentment, catching hafty flame,
Cool'd by met pity, blufhes into flame:
But does weigh'd proof confirm th' ideal wrong,
Then the eye lightens, and the brace binds ftrong;
Not vengeance burns more turbulently stern,
Though (through it) pain'd affection figi.s concern.
Thus has the mufe, in paffion's changeful dress,
Led ent'ring art through nature's dark recefs;
Fair to her eye one fource of action shown,

Brief let precifion's feale contract the view;
Then grafp it mem'ry, and remit the clue.
Previous to art's first act (till then all vain)
Print the ideal pathos on the brain;
Feel the thought's image on the eyeball roll;
Behind that window fits th' attentive foul:
Wing'd at her beck th' obedient mufcles fly,
Bent or relaxing to the varied eye:
Prefs'd, moderate, lenient, voice's organ'd found
To each felt impulse tones the tuneful round:
Form'd to the nerves, concurring mein partakes,
So the mov'd actor moves, and paffion shakes.
THE DEDICATION OF THE BEECH-TREE,
Occafioned by the late Discovery of making Oil
from the Fruit of that Tree.

HIGH in thy ftarry orb,

Great ruling planet of our brighten'd sphere,
The mufe invokes thee, and demands thy ear!
Her Harley's ear! O yet confefs the name!
Thy titles borrow luftre from thy fame.

Fearless to fall, my rein-loos'd fancy foars
High as thy deeds, nor common aid implores.
Let confcious fawners blow their smoky fire,
And vainly bid th' unlift'ning gods infpire,
My mufe, difdainful of their fullied wings,
Views the vast height, and dauntless upward
fprings,

Infpir'd like angels by the worth fhe fings.

Yet, Oh! mistake not my alpiring lays; They would but speak my duty, not your praife; Praifes like yours, who lives and does not know; The poorest debtors count the fums they owe; But I, impatient of the growing score, Would pay you fomething ere I owe you more. Accept, great guider of the ftormy state, An off ring worthy of the brave and great : Accept what heav'n, propitious for your fake, Smiles on this peace-blefs'd land, and bids her

take :

This art of old had been some altars due,

Now, fir'd with purer zeal, she kneels to you.

That awful pow'r who guards our Anna's throne,
And to that Anna made your virtues known,
To place fuch worth above all wish'd controul,
Blefs'd the long labours of your peaceful foul.
But one thing wanted,-fan'd Minerva's tree,
The gift of peace from gods to men like thee;
That oleous plant, the pride of funnier climes,
Chief in the poets fongs of ancient times;
Too long profan'd for thy chaile brow to wear,
Fled the cool influence of the northern bear.
Heaven's voice was heard, deficient nature groan'd,
Felt his new will, and the correction own'd.
The humbleft forest of our favour'd land
Grew proud beneath this bounty of his hand;
Confefs'd the fecret he vouchfaf'd to teach,
Difdain'd the olive, and enthron'd the beech.
Hail, happy tree! wou'd after-ages know,
To whom their fons thy oily harvels owe,
Oxford's lov'd name, deep on thy bofom grave,
Who from his country did his country fave;
Who gave our harafs'd land its long-with'd reft,
Aud forc'd unwilling nations to be bleft;

Whofe known efteem of arts gave birth to thee, Omien of greater, which e'er long fhall be.

Thy pious hand, which made war's thunder ceafe,

Shall cultivate the nobler arts of peace; Till murm'ring faction owns, with thanklefs joy, 'I'is far more great, to build than to destroy.

Nor fhall thy rifing country's fons alone,
Thy wifer care of their loft int'reft own,
The boundlefs bleffings of thy lib'ral hand,
Shall fhed their influence on our fruitful land:
The long-mourn'd absence of th' infpiring plant, A
Whole pow'rful juice ungrinds the edge of want,
Whofe fov'reign ftrength makes glad the lab'rers
toil,

Shall now no more reproach our injur'd foil;
Our teeming glebe, if I a right divine,
E'er long fhall fwell with floods of gen'rous wine,
France fhail no more her courted vineyards boaft;
But look with envy on our northern coast,
Which now enrich'd, with matchlefs oil and corn,
Unequal'd vintages fhall foon adorn.

Nor this alone! on, on, prophetic fire!
Though boundless is the flight, difdain to tire;
Unwearied all his glorious aims purfue,
'Till fick ning envy dies to fhun the view,

Fir'd with the fure prefage, methinks I fee
The struggling east refign her morian tree;
The rougheft Dryads of our oaken isle,
Charm'd with the gentle ftranger, learn to fmile;
The dancing boughs their breezy homage pay,
The oak nods welcome, and the beech gives way.
And now, glad fpring, by rifing warmth renew'd,
The various infect feeks its leafy food,
Spins out its little life's induftrious thread,
In grateful toil, to find its feeder's bread.
Dies a rich recompenfe of female care,
And leaves its filken treasures to the fair;
The fair, long mindful, whence th' advantage

canie,

Shall teach their fons to speak, by lifping Har-.

ley's name. [join'd, From views, like thine, with thy vaft knowledge, What bleffings may not happy Britain find? Fierce emulation fhall new pow'rs impart, Till ev'ry with grows poffible to art;

Rivers fhall roll, where now huge mountains grow,
And tides, new channel'd, wonder how they flow.
For thee, proud Thames his wealthy arms fhall
fpread,

And take the swift Sabrina to his bed.
Enamour'd Trent fhall love-fick Avon meet,
And diftant feas in mix'd alliance meet.

Dear, to thy care, ev'n th' unhoping Scot
Shall blefs the union, and hold faft the knot;
Britain no longer fhall explore from far,
The coftly magazines of naval war;
High on the mountains of her northern fhore,
The gummy pine fhall fhed her pitchy store;
Tall firs, which ufelefs, have long ages grown,
Shall fright the feas, and vifit worlds unknown;
Till the check'd fons of Norway's timber'd ftate,
Learn love by force, while we difarm their hate.
And here rejoice, ye Caledonian fhores,
Whofe empty trands my friendly mufe deplores a

Shortly, ftrong fleets fhall plow your stormy feas, And wealth's warm breath your icy ports unfreeze!

The Belgic fpoiler fhall no more purfue [you;
Thofe finny fhoals which court your guides and
Summon'd to greatnefs, worthy of your fame,
Nor ill-fupported in the gen'rous aim,
Approaching time fhall fee you, juftlý brave,
Affert the right which God and nature gave.
Then fhall that fire which now your bofom fills,
With virtues useless on your barren hills,
New-nerve the grafp of application's hand,
And roufe the latent glories of your land.

Wide lies a tract beneath the funny line,
Where rays direct with burning luftre shine;
Where ribs of filver bind the fea-wafh'd plains,
And virgin wealth unmix'd with av'rice, reigns.
This the proud Spaniard never yet poffefs'd,
So much has heav'n the happy natives blefs'd;
Referv'd for British rule, their ifthmus free,
Divides the northern from the fouthern fea.

Nor this, the hapless tract, the direful spot, Dear to the brave, the unpermitted Scot. North of that fad, that ill-remember'd fhore, A happier work does happier hands implore.

Here fhall the fons of our advent'rous land,
Through unborn ages ftretch decreed command;
Here fhall they draw both oceans to their fway,
And through repugnant mountains cut their way:
"Tis done! methinks I hear their cannons roar,
Hoftile repiners fhun the envied fhore,
And round vaft capes a tedious course purfue;
While we, and only we, poffefs the new.
Hence fhall the fhorten'd distance guard our health,
Secure our traffic and increase our wealth:
The western bullion to our merchants fold,
Shall fend us weight for weight in eastern gold.
Nor then fhall Afia's aromatic flore

Pile the proud markets of a neighb'ring fhore;
All fhall be ours, and while we all maintain,
No bloody war fhall the chafte victory ftain.
O blind profaners of obtruded blifs!
Who wanting foul to fathom depth like this,
Inftead of owning debts, you'cannot pay,
Strike at the friendly hand which points the way.
Forgive, thou great inspirer of my song, ́

If ending here, thy wider views I wrong;

If arts more with'd, or worlds lefs known there

HOR. LIB. I. ODE V.
Quis multâ gracilis.

Cool within the grotto toying,

Soft on fcatter'd rofes laid,

What young bud art thou destroying į Why to day those charms difplay'd

Trimly plain in fubtle sweetness,

What fond heart is here befet? Why, with negligent completeness, Loofely curis that treify net?

Soon by fufferings taught to know thee,

ཨབྲུ་ནའི་རྒྱུད་

Too, too light, thy falfehoods how thee,
Late the fond believer's wife:
Then with foolish wonder starting,

He compares thy funfhine paft, With thofe forms of fpleen's preparing, Which thy prefent looks o'ercatt! Silly trufter! vain fuppofer!

In his am'rous empty mind,
Soft he forms thee joy's disposer:
Ever grateful, hush d and kind.
But alas! and fhame upon thee!
Little dreams he what a fky,
Heaping clouds in whirlwinds on thee,
Soon fhall dim thy future eye.
Pity, gods! thofe faithful creatures,
Yet unbroke to woman's arts:
Fondly trusting lovely features,

And for fmiles exchanging hearts.
As for me, by heaven befriended,
Long ago I 'fcap'd the ftorm :
Safe with all my fails extended,

Flying from that fraudful form: Broad my pictur'd ftory flaming,

Now fhall love's gay temple grace: From fome pillar's height proclaiming Warnings, to the rifing race.

VERSES

ON THE DEATH OF MR. DENNIS.

ADIEU! unfocial excellence! at laft
Thy foes are vanquish'd, and thy fears are paft:
Want, the grim recompence of truth like thine,
Shall now no longer dim thy deftin'd shine.
Th' impatient envy, the difdainful air!
The front malignant, and the captious stare!
The furious petulence, the jealous start,
The mift of frailties that obfcur'd thy heart,
Veil'd in thy grave fhall unremember'd lie,
For thefe were parts of Dennis, born to die!
But, there's a nobler Seity behind,
His reafon dies not-and has friends to find!
Though here, revenge and pride withheld his
[days
No wrongs fhall reach him through his future
The rifing ages fhall redeem his name,
And nations read him into lafting fame!

praife,

room,

Dare with lewd licenfe noife his question'd fame, And blot the facred rev'rence of his name.

WRIT ON A WINDOW,

In the Highlands of Scotland.

SCOTLAND thy weather's like a modifh wife!
Thy winds and rains forever are at ftrife:
So termagant a- while her thunder tries,
And, when the can no longer fcold-she cries.

VERSES

Made for Mr. Savage; and fent to my Lady Macclesfield, bis Mother.

HOPELESS, abandon'd, aimless, and opprefs'd,
Loft to delight, and every way diftrefs'd:
Crofs his cold bed, in wild diforder thrown,
Thus figh'd Alexis, friendlefs, and alone.

Why do I breath? what joy can being give,
When the who gave me life forgets I live!
Feels not these wint ry blafts--nor heeds my smart;
But fhuts me from the thelter of her heart?
Saw me expos'd to want to fhame! to fcorn!
To ills-which make it mifery to be born!
Caft me, regardlefs, on the world's bleak wild,
And bad me be a wretch while yet a child!

Where can he hope for pity, peace or reft,
Who moves no foftnefs-in a mother's breast?
Cuftom, law, reafon, all! my cause forfake;
And nature fleeps, to keep my woes awake!
Crimes, which the cruel fcarce believe can be,
The kind are guilty of, to ruin me!

Even the who bore me blafts me with her hate,
And, meant my fortune, makes herfelf my fate!
Yet has this sweet neglecter of my woes
The fofteft, tend're.t reaft, that pity knows!
Her eyes fhed mercy wherefo'er they shine,
And her foul melts at every woe-but mine.
Sure, then, fome fecret fate for guilt unwill'd,
Some fentence pre-ordain'd to be fulfill'd,
Plunged me thus deep in forrow's fearching flood,
And wash'd me from the mem'ry of her blood.
But, oh! whatever caufe has mov'd her hate,
Let me but high in filence at my fate;
The God within, perhaps, may touch her breast;
And when the pitics, who can be distress'd?

;

ON LADY MAKY WORTLEY MONTAGUE'S BRING-
ING WITH HER, OUT OF TURKEY, THE ART OF
INOCULATING THE SMALL-POX.

WHEN Greece reviving into fhort delight,
Felt pride and comfort at our mufe's fight,
The rival d nine no fooner faw her face,
But ev'n their envy gave their wonder place.
Charm'd into love of what eclips'd their fame,
They wak'd Apollo with her powerful name.

See, god of Grecian wit! Urania cries,
How sweet a mufe the weftern world fupplies:
Say, thould the afk fome favour from your throne,
What could you bid her take, that's not her own?
Sparkling in charms, the heavenly ftranger view,
So grac d, the fearce can owe a beam to you.
Beauty with love her power to your's prefers;
And wit and learning are already her's.

Rous'd at her name, receding from her eyes, The gazing god rofe flow in foft furprife! Fair miracle (he faid)-and paus d a while; Then thus--fweet glory of your envy'd ifle! Charm'd and oblig d left we ungrateful seem, Bear hence at least one mark of our efteem.. One of my three great claims your with may fit; Whofe voice is mufic, and whofe thoughts are wit. Phylic alone remains to grant you hereA ikili! your godlike pity will endear. [cure, Form'd to give wounds, which must no cafe proAtone your influ'nce by new arts to cure. Beauty's chief foc, a fear'd and fierce difeafe! Bows at my beck, and knows its god's decrees. Breath'd in this kifs, take power to tame its rage, And from its rancour free the rescued age: High o'er each fex in double empire fit; Protecting beauty, and infpiring wit.

1

TO CLELIA, IN THE COUNTRY.
ON THE PULLING DOWN ST. MARTIN'S CHURCH,
WHILE from the noisy crowd you lean retir'd,
In filent fhades by love of thought inspir'd,
I, vex'd by various cares, to bufinefs chain'd,
Mourn'd your loft converfe, and in town remain'd:
Dark as the midnight world, your funfhine gone,
Guidclefs in fullen gloom, I wander'd on:
Paffion's wild influence ebb'd and flow'd my mind,
As feas drive diff'rent with the changing wind:
But to what point foe'er my will was bound,
In vain I turn'd th' unrefting compaís round:
Doubtful a while th' wav'ring needle hung,
Then, trembling, backward to your image fprung,
Penfive I view'd a facred pile of late,
Which falls, like man, to rife in nobler state;
The doors thrown wide, it fecm'd unveil'd to lie,
And reverend ruin ftruck my ftartled eye.
Ent ring amidst the bufy hammer's found,
I faw time's dufty trophies fcatter'd round:
Each violated pillar ftood bedew'd;
And wept in folemn grief á fate fo rude.
From tombs, by force disjoin'd, reluctant stones

Roll'd, mix'dwith clouds of duft, and human bones :
From faithlefs walls defac'd infcriptions fled,
And to long night confign'd the nameless dead:
The pew's pale iquares, in their whole lengthen'd

Coffins rofe broke, unfaithful to their trust,
And flesh flew round me in unjointed dust,
Scarce a short span beneath that opening floor,
Where kneeling charmers pray'd the week before;
Where forms like yours rejoic'd th' admiring eye,
Forms once like yours, in naked atoms lie.
O fate of failing life O flatt'ring dream!
What wint'ry funthine is thy fhadowy gleam!

Thus while I mus'd, thy foul approach'd my ear; Thy foft-wing'd foul, that always hovers near. Sec'ft thou, it figh'd-how thefe fad relies lie; And doft thou fear that Clelia thus can dia t

No-fhe's all mind; and her immortal name,
Eluding death's fhort reach fhall tread on fame.
Tongues yet unthought of, Clelia fhall adorn,
Ard charm adoring nations---yet unborn.
Heroes, at whofe refolves the world will shake,
Shall treat thy fex with reverence for thy fake;
And each fair tyrant who would emprefs be,
Form but one wish--to think and look like thee.

ANSWER TO THE RESOLVE.

WHILST empty coxcombs blaft a woman's fame,
In ev'ry ftate and ev'ry age the fame :
With their own folly pleas'd, each fair they toast,
And where they leaft are happy, fwear they're
moft;

No diff'rence marking 'twixt the gay and lewd,
But dreaming all who fly would be pursued:
While thus they vainly think, and vainly live,
Loft to that reverence love's foft leffons give;
Let this great maxim be my paffion's guide;
May I ne'er hope where I am ne'er deny'd,
Nor gain a woman willing to be try'd.

ANSWER TO A SCURRILOUS OBSCENE POEM, Intituled, An Epiftle from Mrs. Robinson to Senefino. FROM thy loofe lines I turn my eyes away, Nor know, o'erfpread with blufhes, what to say: The modeft mufes, wounded by thy ftrain, For me, and for themselves, do thus complain.

O thou, our country's folly and expence ! Dull foe to tragedy and godlike sense; Too long, mean mercenary shade, too long, Has't thou these ifles enchanted with thyefong. Mufic's foft god unbinds the charm he rais'd, He bleft thy tongue, and while he bleft we prais'd: By thee polluted, he disclaims his choice, And will no longer warble in thy voice. His trembling notes where melting foftnefs hung, And every grace will feek a chafter tongue. No more the lover fha thy fong repeat, No more the fair one figh-'tis wond'rous fweet! Oh, guilty Senefino! thou no more Shalt bravo! bravo! hear---or loud encore. The loofe and dull fhall all thy audience be; The chafte and witty fhall refent for me. All unattended fhall thy awkward form, To fad uncrowded fcenes, or whine, or ftorm. Thy wretched ha! fhall unapplauded grow, And ill-plac'd bays fall with'ring from thy brow. Know, Songster, Julius, God-like chief, difdains Thy shrill, unnatural, ungraceful strains : With rage redoubled, Pompey's ghost must burn, To find fuch tears profane his facred urn.

Remember, echo, foon thou'lt know the time, Strip'd of thy robes, thy legions, and thy rhyme; Thou poor machine of mean delufive found, When I fhall fee thy temples all unbound, And those who heroes act, like heroes crown'd. Thou to thy famifh'd Italy thalt go, And rival Fauftus in the fhades below.

THE CHOICE, TO A FRIEND.

Os greatly blefs'd who can, as fate requires,

Balanc'd within, you look abroad ferene,
And marking both extremes pafs clear between.
Oh, could your lov'd example teach your skill!
And as it moves my wonder, mend my will!
Calm would my paffions grow, my lot might
pleafe,

And my fick foul fhould think itself to cafe,
But to the future while I ftrain my eye,
Bach prefent good flips undiftinguish'd by.
Still what I would, contends with what I can;
And my wild wishes leap the bounds of man.

If in my power it lies to limit hope,

And my unchain'd defires can fix a fcope; [poor,
This were my choice---oh! friend, pronounce me
For I have wants which wealth can never cure.
Mean is that foul which its own good can fill;
A profp'rous world alone could feast my will.
He's poor at beft who others mifery fees,
And wants the wifh'd-for power to give it ease.
He's rich who fole fupreme and unconfin'd,
Can with unbounded influence blefs mankind.
A glory this, unreach'd !---but on a throne!
All were enough---but lefs than all is none.
This my first wifh---but fince 'twere wild and vain,
To grafp at glitt'ring clouds with fruitless pain,
More fafely low let my next profpect be;
And life's mild evening this fair fun-fet fee.
Far from a lord's loath'd neighbourhood---a state,
Whofe little greatnefs is a pride I hate ! [plac'd,
On fome lone wild fhould my ftrong house be
Surrounded by a vast and healthy waste :
Sterile and coarse the untry'd foil fhould be;
But forc'd to flourish, and fubdued by me.
Seas, woods, meads, mountains, gardens, ftreams,
and skies,

Should with a changeful grandeur charm my eyes,
Still where I mov'd, new marks of my past pains
Should plume the mountain tops, and paint the
plains:

Greatly obfcure, and fhunning courts, or name
Widely befriended, but efcaping fame.
Peaceful in ftudious quiet would I live;
Lie hid for leifure, and grow rich to give.

TO THE EDITOR OF CLARISSA.
PAINTERS to poets owe their nobleft praise;
Mute are their tints, till voic'd by living lays:
Paffive the femblant forms but feem to breathe;
Delufive furface holds no depth beneath.

Far other lines Clariffa's painter drew;
Far other force his penfive colours knew:
There in round fulness active pictures glow,
Turgid with fpeaking life, and thinking woe.
His the foul's pencil, whofe warm ftrokes impart
Mind to the form, and paffion to the heart.
A delegate creator, calm he lies,

And fees the worlds he calls for round him rise.
Oh, might he live till his Clariffa's death!
But life immortal faits not mortal breath.
Let him but live till all who read are taught,
What aided influence beauty draws from thought.
Then would his length'ning years all bounds defy,
And nature and her friend together die.
So would he charm whole time---yet vainly too,
Reach every confcious heart---to change--how