រ 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, Deaf to our call, the billows waft her o'er, A prize more rich than Spain's whole fleets could boast From fam'd Peru, or Chili's golden coaft! So from the fea when Venus rofe ferene, 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 With gifts prepares the thining guest to meet, Not Ceres' felf more bleffings could display, way, Far from her native coast, and all around 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. AND may at laft my weary age To fomething like prophetic ftrain." THE HUE AND CRY. O YES-Hear, all ye beaux and wits, Why in new groves fhe takes delight, 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; Genteel her motion, when the walks, 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 LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN. How godlike is the man, how truly great, Nor brib'd by hopes, nor by mean fears control'd, 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, Rich in itself, the genuine diamond fhines, 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; O fweet refreshing fleep! thou balmy cure How has thy gentle power at length reliev'd me! How grateful to th' afflicted are thy charms! 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? O! take away thofe furies-how they fhake 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 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 Afk'd his confent, to ftrike the murderefs dead, Now wipe away thy tears, lamenting maid; But now, retiring to thy own apartment, O no! thy fifter never will forfake thee; 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 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, 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. 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; 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, All that's generous, friendly, kind, Then, if thou would't fhun this fight, THE SUPPLEMENT: THE CHARACTER OF MRS. ELİZABETH BRIDGES†. Imp rf.&t. PAINTER, give o'er; here ends thy feeble art; Or Titian's colours on the cloth did fhine, The labour'd piece must yet half-finish'd stand, Colours are but the phantoms of the day, The butler. She died Dec. 1. 1745, aged 83. Souls muft paint fouls, and thought delineate thought. Then painter-mufe begin, and unconfin'd could my verfe defcribe this facred queen, Proceed, my mufe, next in the picture place Like painted funs that warm not while they fhine? A foul thus form'd, and fuch a foul is here, ftore, And, bleffing one, oft' blesses many mure, beflows. Rich in herself, well may fhe value more |