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Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Complete by George Gilfillan

Part 20 out of 20

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themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the
western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a
companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the
mountains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and
grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou
art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy
course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder
rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from
the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou
lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether
thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou
tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps,
like me, for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou
shalt sleep in thy clouds careless of the voice of the
morning. Exult then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth!
Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of
the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist
is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the
traveller shrinks in the midst of his journey.

DESOLATION OF BALCLUTHA.

I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate.
The fire had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the
people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed
from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook
there its lonely head; the moss whistled to the wind. The
fox looked out from the windows; the rank grass of the wall
waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina;
silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of
mourning, O bards! over the land of strangers. They have but
fallen before us: for one day we must fall. Why dost thou
build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from
thy towers to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the
desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles
round thy half-worn shield. And let the blast of the desert
come! we shall be renowned in our day! The mark of my arm
shall be in battle; my name in the song of bards. Raise the
song, send round the shell: let joy be heard in my hall.
When thou, sun of heaven, shalt fail! if thou shalt fail,
thou mighty light! if thy brightness is but for a season,
like Fingal, our fame shall survive thy beams. Such was the
song of Fingal in the day of his joy.

FINGAL AND THE SPIRIT OF LODA.

Night came down on the sea; Roma's bay received the ship. A
rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the
top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A
narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged
trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn
from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there!
the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The
flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread around: but
the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief
distressed.

The wan, cold moon, rose in the east; sleep descended on the
youths! Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading
fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in
the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to
behold the flame of Sarno's tower.

The flame was dim and distant, the moon hid her red face in
the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was
the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and
shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his
dark face; his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal
advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on high.

Son of night, retire: call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou
come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy
gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda? Weak is thy shield of
clouds: feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls
them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my
presence, son of night! Call thy winds, and fly!

Dost thou force me from my place? replied the hollow voice.
The people bend before me. I turn the battle in the field of
the brave. I look on the nations, and they vanish: my
nostrils pour the blast of death. I come abroad on the
winds: the tempests are before my face. But my dwelling is
calm, above the clouds; the fields of my rest are pleasant.

Dwell in thy pleasant fields, said the king; let Comhal's
son be forgot. Do my steps ascend, from my hills, into thy
peaceful plains? Do I meet thee, with a spear, on thy cloud,
spirit of dismal Loda? Why then dost thou frown on me? Why
shake thine airy spear? Thou frownest in vain: I never fled
from the mighty in war. And shall the sons of the wind
frighten the king of Morven? No: he knows the weakness of
their arms!

Fly to thy land, replied the form: receive the wind, and
fly! The blasts are in the hollow of my hand: the course of
the storm is mine. The king of Sora is my son, he bends at
the storm of my power. His battle is around Carric-thura;
and he will prevail! Fly to thy land, son of Comhal, or feel
my flaming wrath!

He lifted high his shadowy spear! He bent forward his
dreadful height. Fingal, advancing, drew his sword; the
blade of dark-brown Luno. The gleaming path of the steel
winds through the gloomy ghost. The form fell shapeless into
air, like a column of smoke, which the staff of the boy
disturbs, as it rises from the half-extinguished furnace.

The spirit of Loda shrieked, as, rolled into himself, he
rose on the wind. Inistore shook at the sound, the waves
heard it on the deep. They stopped in their course with
fear: the friends of Fingal started at once, and took their
heavy spears. They missed the king; they rose in rage; all
their arms resound!

ADDRESS TO THE MOON.

Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face
is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. The stars
attend thy blue course in the east. The clouds rejoice in
thy presence, O moon! they brighten their dark-brown sides.
Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night? The
stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their
sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course,
when the darkness of thy countenance grows? hast thou thy
hall, like Ossian? dwellest thou in the shadow of grief?
have thy sisters fallen from heaven? are they who rejoiced
with thee at night no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair
light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself
shalt fail one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The
stars will then lift their heads: they, who were ashamed in
thy presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy
brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud,
O wind! that the daughter of night may look forth! that the
shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white
waves in light.

FINGAL'S SPIRIT-HOME.

His friends sit around the king, on mist! They hear the
songs of Ullin: he strikes the half-viewless harp. He raises
the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thousand
meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst; a
blush is on her cheek. She beholds the unknown faces of her
fathers. She turns aside her humid eyes. 'Art thou come so
soon?' said Fingal, 'daughter of generous Toscar. Sadness
dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad! I hear the
breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It
comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is
mournful among the arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy
rustling wing, O breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises
yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The
maids are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze,
mournest there!'

THE CAVE.

1 The wind is up, the field is bare,
Some hermit lead me to his cell,
Where Contemplation, lonely fair,
With blessed content has chose to dwell.

2 Behold! it opens to my sight,
Dark in the rock, beside the flood;
Dry fern around obstructs the light;
The winds above it move the wood.

3 Reflected in the lake, I see
The downward mountains and the skies,
The flying bird, the waving tree,
The goats that on the hill arise.

4 The gray-cloaked herd[1] drives on the cow;
The slow-paced fowler walks the heath;
A freckled pointer scours the brow;
A musing shepherd stands beneath.

5 Curved o'er the ruin of an oak,
The woodman lifts his axe on high;
The hills re-echo to the stroke;
I see--I see the shivers fly!

6 Some rural maid, with apron full,
Brings fuel to the homely flame;
I see the smoky columns roll,
And, through the chinky hut, the beam.

7 Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss,
Two well-met hunters talk at ease;
Three panting dogs beside repose;
One bleeding deer is stretched on grass.

8 A lake at distance spreads to sight,
Skirted with shady forests round;
In midst, an island's rocky height
Sustains a ruin, once renowned.

9 One tree bends o'er the naked walls;
Two broad-winged eagles hover nigh;
By intervals a fragment falls,
As blows the blast along the sky.

10 The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide
With labouring oars along the flood;
An angler, bending o'er the tide,
Hangs from the boat the insidious wood.

11 Beside the flood, beneath the rocks,
On grassy bank, two lovers lean;
Bend on each other amorous looks,
And seem to laugh and kiss between.

12 The wind is rustling in the oak;
They seem to hear the tread of feet;
They start, they rise, look round the rock;
Again they smile, again they meet.

13 But see! the gray mist from the lake
Ascends upon the shady hills;
Dark storms the murmuring forests shake,
Rain beats around a hundred rills.

14 To Damon's homely hut I fly;
I see it smoking on the plain;
When storms are past and fair the sky,
I'll often seek my cave again.

[1] 'Herd': neat-herd.

WILLIAM MASON.

This gentleman is now nearly forgotten, except as the friend, biographer,
and literary executor of Gray. He was born in 1725, and died in 1797.
His tragedies, 'Elfrida' and 'Caractacus,' are spirited declamations
in dramatic form, not dramas. His odes have the turgidity without the
grandeur of Gray's. His 'English Garden' is too long and too formal. His
Life of Gray was an admirable innovation on the form of biography then
prevalent, interspersing, as it does, journals and letters with mere
narrative. Mason was a royal chaplain, held the living of Ashton, and
was precentor of York Cathedral. We quote the best of his minor poems.

EPITAPH ON MRS MASON,
IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL.

1 Take, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear:
Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave:
To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care
Her faded form; she bowed to taste the wave,
And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line?
Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm?
Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine:
Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm.

2 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee;
Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move;
And if so fair, from vanity as free;
As firm in friendship, and as fond in love;
Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die,
('Twas even to thee,) yet the dread path once trod,
Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high,
And bids 'the pure in heart behold their God.'

AN HEROIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM CHAMBERS, KNIGHT,
COMPTROLLER-GENERAL OF HIS MAJESTY'S WORKS, ETC.

Knight of the Polar Star! by fortune placed
To shine the Cynosure of British taste;
Whose orb collects in one refulgent view
The scattered glories of Chinese virtý;
And spreads their lustre in so broad a blaze,
That kings themselves are dazzled while they gaze:
Oh, let the Muse attend thy march sublime,
And, with thy prose, caparison her rhyme;
Teach her, like thee, to gild her splendid song,
With scenes of Yven-Ming, and sayings of Li-Tsong;
Like thee to scorn dame Nature's simple fence;
Leap each ha-ha of truth and common sense;
And proudly rising in her bold career,
Demand attention from the gracious ear
Of him, whom we and all the world admit,
Patron supreme of science, taste, and wit.
Does envy doubt? Witness, ye chosen train,
Who breathe the sweets of his Saturnian reign;
Witness, ye Hills, ye Johnsons, Scots, Shebbeares,
Hark to my call, for some of you have ears.
Let David Hume, from the remotest north,
In see-saw sceptic scruples hint his worth;
David, who there supinely deigns to lie
The fattest hog of Epicurus' sty;
Though drunk with Gallic wine, and Gallic praise,
David shall bless Old England's halcyon days;
The mighty Home, bemired in prose so long,
Again shall stalk upon the stilts of song:
While bold Mac-Ossian, wont in ghosts to deal,
Bids candid Smollett from his coffin steal;
Bids Mallock quit his sweet Elysian rest,
Sunk in his St John's philosophic breast,
And, like old Orpheus, make some strong effort
To come from Hell, and warble Truth at Court.
There was a time, 'in Esher's peaceful grove,
When Kent and Nature vied for Pelham's love,'
That Pope beheld them with auspicious smile,
And owned that beauty blest their mutual toil.
Mistaken bard! could such a pair design
Scenes fit to live in thy immortal line?
Hadst thou been born in this enlightened day,
Felt, as we feel, taste's oriental ray,
Thy satire sure had given them both a stab,
Called Kent a driveller, and the nymph a drab.
For what is Nature? Ring her changes round,
Her three flat notes are water, plants, and ground;
Prolong the peal, yet, spite of all your clatter,
The tedious chime is still ground, plants, and water.
So, when some John his dull invention racks,
To rival Boodle's dinners, or Almack's;
Three uncouth legs of mutton shock our eyes,
Three roasted geese, three buttered apple-pies.
Come, then, prolific Art, and with thee bring
The charms that rise from thy exhaustless spring;
To Richmond come, for see, untutored Browne
Destroys those wonders which were once thy own.
Lo, from his melon-ground the peasant slave
Has rudely rushed, and levelled Merlin's cave;
Knocked down the waxen wizard, seized his wand,
Transformed to lawn what late was fairy-land;
And marred, with impious hand, each sweet design
Of Stephen Duck, and good Queen Caroline.
Haste, bid yon livelong terrace re-ascend,
Replace each vista, straighten every bend;
Shut out the Thames; shall that ignoble thing
Approach the presence of great Ocean's king?
No! let barbaric glories feast his eyes,
August pagodas round his palace rise,
And finished Richmond open to his view,
'A work to wonder at, perhaps a Kew.'
Nor rest we here, but, at our magic call,
Monkeys shall climb our trees, and lizards crawl;
Huge dogs of Tibet bark in yonder grove,
Here parrots prate, there cats make cruel love;
In some fair island will we turn to grass
(With the queen's leave) her elephant and ass.
Giants from Africa shall guard the glades,
Where hiss our snakes, where sport our Tartar maids;
Or, wanting these, from Charlotte Hayes we bring
Damsels, alike adroit to sport and sting.
Now to our lawns of dalliance and delight,
Join we the groves of horror and affright;
This to achieve no foreign aids we try,--
Thy gibbets, Bagshot! shall our wants supply;
Hounslow, whose heath sublimer terror fills,
Shall with her gibbets lend her powder-mills.
Here, too, O king of vengeance, in thy fane,
Tremendous Wilkes shall rattle his gold chain;
And round that fane, on many a Tyburn tree,
Hang fragments dire of Newgate-history;
On this shall Holland's dying speech be read,
Here Bute's confession, and his wooden head:
While all the minor plunderers of the age,
(Too numerous far for this contracted page,)
The Rigbys, Calcrafts, Dysons, Bradshaws there,
In straw-stuffed effigy, shall kick the air.
But say, ye powers, who come when fancy calls,
Where shall our mimic London rear her walls?
That eastern feature, Art must next produce,
Though not for present yet for future use,
Our sons some slave of greatness may behold,
Cast in the genuine Asiatic mould:
Who of three realms shall condescend to know
No more than he can spy from Windsor's brow;
For him, that blessing of a better time,
The Muse shall deal a while in brick and lime;
Surpass the bold [Greek: ADELPHI] in design,
And o'er the Thames fling one stupendous line
Of marble arches, in a bridge, that cuts
From Richmond Ferry slant to Brentford Butts.
Brentford with London's charms will we adorn;
Brentford, the bishopric of Parson Horne.
There, at one glance, the royal eye shall meet
Each varied beauty of St James's Street;
Stout Talbot there shall ply with hackney chair,
And patriot Betty fix her fruit-shop there.
Like distant thunder, now the coach of state
Rolls o'er the bridge, that groans beneath its weight.
The court hath crossed the stream; the sports begin;
Now Noel preaches of rebellion's sin:
And as the powers of his strong pathos rise,
Lo, brazen tears fall from Sir Fletcher's eyes.
While skulking round the pews, that babe of grace,
Who ne'er before at sermon showed his face,
See Jemmy Twitcher shambles; stop! stop thief!
He's stolen the Earl of Denbigh's handkerchief,
Let Barrington arrest him in mock fury,
And Mansfield hang the knave without a jury.
But hark, the voice of battle shouts from far,
The Jews and Maccaronis are at war:
The Jews prevail, and, thundering from the stocks,
They seize, they bind, they circumcise Charles Fox.
Fair Schwellenbergen smiles the sport to see,
And all the maids of honour cry 'Te! He!'
Be these the rural pastimes that attend
Great Brunswick's leisure: these shall best unbend
His royal mind, whene'er from state withdrawn,
He treads the velvet of his Richmond lawn;
These shall prolong his Asiatic dream,
Though Europe's balance trembles on its beam.
And thou, Sir William! while thy plastic hand
Creates each wonder which thy bard has planned,
While, as thy art commands, obsequious rise
Whate'er can please, or frighten, or surprise,
Oh, let that bard his knight's protection claim,
And share, like faithful Sancho, Quixote's fame.

JOHN LOWE.

The author of 'Mary's Dream' was born in 1750, at Kenmore, Galloway, and
was the son of a gardener. He became a student of divinity, and acted
as tutor in the family of a Mr McGhie of Airds. A daughter of Mr McGhie
was attached to a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, and on the
occasion of his death Lowe wrote his beautiful 'Mary's Dream,' the
exquisite simplicity and music of the first stanza of which has often
been admired. Lowe was betrothed to a sister of 'Mary,' but having
emigrated to America, he married another, fell into dissipated habits,
and died in a miserable plight at Fredericksburgh in 1798. He wrote many
other pieces, but none equal to 'Mary's Dream.'

MARY'S DREAM.

1 The moon had climbed the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
When, soft and low, a voice was heard,
Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me!'

2 She from her pillow gently raised
Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow ee.
'O Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!

3 'Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!

4 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare;
We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more!'
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,
'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!'

JOSEPH WARTON.

This accomplished critic and poet was born in 1722. He was son to the
Vicar of Basingstoke, and brother to Thomas Warton. (See a former volume
for his life.) Joseph was educated at Winchester College, and became
intimate there with William Collins. He wrote when quite young some
poetry in the _Gentleman's Magazine_. He was in due time removed to Oriel
College, where he composed two poems, entitled 'The Enthusiast,' and 'The
Dying Indian.' In 1744, he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at Oxford,
and was ordained to his father's curacy at Basingstoke. He went thence
to Chelsea, but did not remain there long, owing to some disagreement
with his parishioners, and returned to Basingstoke. In 1746, he published
a volume of Odes, and in the preface expressed his hope that it might
be successful as an attempt to bring poetry back from the didactic and
satirical taste of the age, to the truer channels of fancy and description.
The motive of this attempt was, however, more praiseworthy than its success
was conspicuous.

In 1748, Warton was presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory of
Winslade, and he straightway married a Miss Daman, to whom he had for
some time been attached. In the same year he began, and in 1753 he
finished and printed, an edition of Virgil in English and Latin. Of this
large, elaborate work, Warton himself supplied only the life of Virgil,
with three essays on pastoral, didactic, and epic poetry, and a poetical
version of the Eclogues and the Georgics, more correct but less spirited
than Dryden's. He adopted Pitt's version of the Aeneid, and his friends
furnished some of the dissertations, notes, &c. Shortly after, he
contributed twenty-four excellent papers, including some striking
allegories, and some good criticisms on Shakspeare, to the _Adventurer_.
In 1754, he was appointed to the living of Tunworth, and the next year
was elected second master of Winchester School. Soon after this he
published anonymously 'An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope,'
which, whether because he failed in convincing the public that his
estimate of Pope was the correct one, or because he stood in awe of
Warburton, he did not complete or reprint for twenty-six years. It is a
somewhat gossiping book, but full of information and interest.

In May 1766, he was made head-master of Winchester. In 1768, he lost his
wife, and next year married a Miss Nicholas of Winchester. In 1782, he
was promoted, through Bishop Lowth, to a prebend's post in St Paul's, and
to the living of Thorley, which he exchanged for that of Wickham. Other
livings dropped in upon him, and in 1793 he resigned the mastership of
Winchester, and went to reside at Wickham. Here he employed himself in
preparing an edition of Pope, which he published in 1797. In 1800 he
died.

Warton, like his brother, did good service in resisting the literary
despotism of Pope, and in directing the attention of the public to the
forgotten treasures of old English poetry. He was a man of extensive
learning, a very fair and candid, as well as acute critic, and his 'Ode
to Fancy' proves him to have possessed no ordinary genius.

ODE TO FANCY.

O parent of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murdered fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskined leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
Of power to bid fresh gardens blow,
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Through air, and over earth and sea,
While the vast various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Mid fall of waters, you reside,
'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between,
'Mid forests dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appeared,
Nor even one straw-roofed cot was reared,
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne;
Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell,
To thy unknown sequestered cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top a hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest:
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove;
Till, suddenly awaked, I hear
Strange whispered music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drowned
By the sweetly-soothing sound!
Me, goddess, by the right hand lead
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court;
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lipped Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Listening to the shepherd's song:
Yet not these flowery fields of joy
Can long my pensive mind employ;
Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,
That loves to fold her arms, and sigh;
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek;
Or to some abbey's mouldering towers,
Where, to avoid cold wintry showers,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire,--
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear,
Give me another horse, I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;
Whence is this rage?--what spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to the ensanguined field,
Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield!
Oh, guide me from this horrid scene,
To high-arched walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervours of the mid-day sun;
The pangs of absence, oh, remove!
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss,
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence!
When young-eyed Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose,
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale;
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold;
At every season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm, enthusiastic maid,
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to every line,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane
To utter an unhallowed strain,
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing.
Oh, hear our prayer! oh, hither come
From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb,
On which thou lovest to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling's grave;
O queen of numbers, once again
Animate some chosen swain,
Who, filled with unexhausted fire,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre,
Who with some new unequalled song
May rise above the rhyming throng,
O'er all our listening passions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain,
With terror shake, and pity move,
Rouse with revenge, or melt with love;
Oh, deign to attend his evening walk,
With him in groves and grottoes talk;
Teach him to scorn with frigid art
Feebly to touch the enraptured heart;
Like lightning, let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applause
Beyond cold critics' studied laws;
Oh, let each Muse's fame increase!
Oh, bid Britannia rival Greece!

MISCELLANEOUS.

SONG.

FROM 'THE SHAMROCK, OR HIBERNIAN CROSSES.' DUBLIN, 1772.

1 Belinda's sparkling eyes and wit
Do various passions raise;
And, like the lightning, yield a bright,
But momentary blaze.

2 Eliza's milder, gentler sway,
Her conquests fairly won,
Shall last till life and time decay,
Eternal as the sun.

3 Thus the wild flood with deafening roar
Bursts dreadful from on high;
But soon its empty rage is o'er,
And leaves the channel dry:

4 While the pure stream, which still and slow
Its gentler current brings,
Through every change of time shall flow
With unexhausted springs.

VERSES,

COPIED FROM THE WINDOW OF AN OBSCURE LODGING-HOUSE,
IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF LONDON.

Stranger! whoe'er thou art, whose restless mind,
Like me within these walls is cribbed, confined;
Learn how each want that heaves our mutual sigh
A woman's soft solicitudes supply.
From her white breast retreat all rude alarms,
Or fly the magic circle of her arms;
While souls exchanged alternate grace acquire,
And passions catch from passion's glorious fire:
What though to deck this roof no arts combine,
Such forms as rival every fair but mine;
No nodding plumes, our humble couch above,
Proclaim each triumph of unbounded love;
No silver lamp with sculptured Cupids gay,
O'er yielding beauty pours its midnight ray;
Yet Fanny's charms could Time's slow flight beguile,
Soothe every care, and make each dungeon smile:
In her, what kings, what saints have wished, is given,
Her heart is empire, and her love is heaven.

THE OLD BACHELOR.

AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

1 In Phoebus' region while some bards there be
That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar;
Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me,
Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar!
Haply a scene of meaner view to scan,
Beneath their laurelled praise my verse may give,
To trace the features of unnoticed man;
Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live!
Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach,
From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach.

2 A wight there was, who single and alone
Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age,
Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known
His heart to captive, or his thought engage:
Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind
Might female worth or beauty give to wear,
Yet to the nobler sex he held confined
The genuine graces of the soul sincere,
And well could show with saw or proverb quaint
All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint.

3 In plain attire this wight apparelled was,
(For much he conned of frugal lore and knew,)
Nor, till some day of larger note might cause,
From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew:
But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more,
Or feast, or birthday, should it chance to be,
A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore,
And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see,
Gold clasped his shoon, by maiden brushed so sheen,
And his rough beard he shaved, and donned his linen clean.

4 But in his common garb a coat he wore,
A faithful coat that long its lord had known,
That once was black, but now was black no more,
Attinged by various colours not its own.
All from his nostrils was the front embrowned,
And down the back ran many a greasy line,
While, here and there, his social moments owned
The generous signet of the purple wine.
Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appeared,
Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore affeared.

5 One only maid he had, like turtle true,
But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind;
For many a time her tongue bewrayed the shrew,
And in meet words unpacked her peevish mind.
Ne formed was she to raise the soft desire
That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein,
Ne formed was she to light the tender fire,
By many a bard is sung in many a strain:
Hooked was her nose, and countless wrinkles told
What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old.

6 When the clock told the wonted hour was come
When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew,
Eight patient would she watch his wending home,
His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew.
If long his time was past, and leaden sleep
O'er her tired eyelids 'gan his reign to stretch,
Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep,
And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach;
Haply if potent gin had armed her tongue,
All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she rung.

7 For though, the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle
O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign,
On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile,
Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign:
For wine she prized not much, for stronger drink
Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call,
And for the medicine's sake, might envy think,
Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral;
Yet much the proffer did she loathe, and say
No dram might maiden taste, and often answered nay.

8 So as in single animals he joyed,
One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed;
The first the cate-devouring mice destroyed,
Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled:
All in the sunbeams basked the lazy cat,
Her mottled length in couchant posture laid;
On one accustomed chair while Pompey sat,
And loud he barked should Puss his right invade.
The human pair oft marked them as they lay,
And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they.

9 A room he had that faced the southern ray,
Where oft he walked to set his thoughts in tune,
Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway,
All to the music of his creeking shoon.
And at the end a darkling closet stood,
Where books he kept of old research and new,
In seemly order ranged on shelves of wood,
And rusty nails and phials not a few:
Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well,
And papers squared and trimmed for use unmeet to tell.

10 For still in form he placed his chief delight,
Nor lightly broke his old accustomed rule,
And much uncourteous would he hold the wight
That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool;
And oft in meet array their ranks he placed,
And oft with careful eye their ranks reviewed;
For novel forms, though much those forms had graced,
Himself and maiden-minister eschewed:
One path he trod, nor ever would decline
A hair's unmeasured breadth from off the even line.

11 A Club select there was, where various talk
On various chapters passed the lingering hour,
And thither oft he bent his evening walk,
And warmed to mirth by wine's enlivening power.
And oft on politics the preachments ran,
If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume:
And oft important matters would they scan,
And deep in council fix a nation's doom:
And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer,
Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they loved to hear.

12 For men like him they were of like consort,
Thilk much the honest muse must needs condemn,
Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport,
And blessed their stars that kept the curse from them!
No honest love they knew, no melting smile
That shoots the transports to the throbbing heart!
Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile
Lascivious smiling through the mask of art:
And so of women deemed they as they knew,
And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture drew.

13 But most abhorred they hymeneal rites,
And boasted oft the freedom of their fate:
Nor 'vailed, as they opined, its best delights
Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait;
And often would they tell of henpecked fool
Snubbed by the hard behest of sour-eyed dame.
And vowed no tongue-armed woman's freakish rule
Their mirth should quail, or damp their generous flame:
Then pledged their hands, and tossed their bumpers o'er,
And Io! Bacchus! sung, and owned no other power.

14 If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose
Within some breast of less obdurate frame,
Lo! where its hideous form a phantom shows
Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name.
Him Scorn attended with a glance askew,
And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own,
Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew,
And vexed the region round the Cupid's throne:
'Far be from us,' they cried, 'the treacherous bane,
Far be the dimply guile, and far the flowery chain!'

CARELESS CONTENT.

1 I am content, I do not care,
Wag as it will the world for me;
When fuss and fret was all my fare,
It got no ground as I could see:
So when away my caring went,
I counted cost, and was content.

2 With more of thanks and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,
Physic and food in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.

3 With good and gentle-humoured hearts,
I choose to chat where'er I come,
Whate'er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,
I hold my tongue to tell the truth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.

4 For chance or change of peace or pain,
For Fortune's favour or her frown,
For lack or glut, for loss or gain,
I never dodge, nor up nor down:
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal trim.

5 I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,
I make no bustling, but abide:
For shining wealth, or scaring woe,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.

6 Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,
Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right,
I shun the rancours and the routs;
And wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

7 With whom I feast I do not fawn,
Nor if the folks should flout me, faint;
If wonted welcome be withdrawn,
I cook no kind of a complaint:
With none disposed to disagree,
But like them best who best like me.

8 Not that I rate myself the rule
How all my betters should behave
But fame shall find me no man's fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave:
I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.

9 Fond of a true and trusty tie,
I never loose where'er I link;
Though if a business budges by,
I talk thereon just as I think;
My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
Still on a side together stand.

10 If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,
The point impartially I poise,
And read or write, but without wrath;
For should I burn, or break my brains,
Pray, who will pay me for my pains?

11 I love my neighbour as myself,
Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf,
Came I to crouch, as I conceive:
Dame Nature doubtless has designed
A man the monarch of his mind.

12 Now taste and try this temper, sirs,
Mood it and brood it in your breast;
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,
That man does right to mar his rest,
Let me be deft, and debonair,
I am content, I do not care.

A PASTORAL.

1 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went;
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast:
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.

2 With such a companion to tend a few sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep:
I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day;
But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,
So strangely uneasy, as never was known.
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned,
And my heart--I am sure it weighs more than a pound.

3 The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among;
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear:
But now she is absent, I walk by its side,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

4 My lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they;
How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time,
When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their prime!
But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass:
Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.

5 My dog I was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said,
'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look
Cry 'Sirrah;' and give him a blow with my crook:
And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

6 When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen,
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made!
But now she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes,
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

7 Sweet music went with us both all the wood through,
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too;
Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet.
But now she is absent, though still they sing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave everything else its agreeable sound.

8 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dressed,
And made yourselves fine for--a place in her breast:
You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

9 How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return!
While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn:
Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead.
Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,
And rest so much longer for't when she is here.
Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay,
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.

10 Will no pitying power, that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love!
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair.

ODE TO A TOBACCO-PIPE.

Little tube of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax and eye of fire;
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently braced;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
With my little stopper pressed;
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from thy balmy kisses.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men;
Who when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns,
When again the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket full of play,)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men.

AWAY! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING.

1 Away! let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

2 What though no grants of royal donors,
With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honours,
And, to be noble, we'll be good.

3 Our name while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

4 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty,
No mighty treasures we possess;
We'll find, within our pittance, plenty,
And be content without excess.

5 Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.

6 Through youth and age, in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.

7 How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung!
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!

8 And when with envy Time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys;
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.

RICHARD BENTLEY'S SOLE POETICAL COMPOSITION.

1 Who strives to mount Parnassus' hill,
And thence poetic laurels bring,
Must first acquire due force and skill,
Must fly with swan's or eagle's wing.

2 Who Nature's treasures would explore,
Her mysteries and arcana know,
Must high as lofty Newton soar,
Must stoop as delving Woodward low.

3 Who studies ancient laws and rites,
Tongues, arts, and arms, and history;
Must drudge, like Selden, days and nights,
And in the endless labour die.

4 Who travels in religious jars,
(Truth mixed with error, shades with rays,)
Like Whiston, wanting pyx or stars,
In ocean wide or sinks or strays.

5 But grant our hero's hope, long toil
And comprehensive genius crown,
All sciences, all arts his spoil,
Yet what reward, or what renown?

6 Envy, innate in vulgar souls,
Envy steps in and stops his rise;
Envy with poisoned tarnish fouls
His lustre, and his worth decries.

7 He lives inglorious or in want,
To college and old books confined:
Instead of learned, he's called pedant;
Dunces advanced, he's left behind:
Yet left content, a genuine Stoic he,
Great without patron, rich without South Sea.

LINES ADDRESSED TO POPE.[1]

1 While malice, Pope, denies thy page
Its own celestial fire;
While critics and while bards in rage
Admiring, won't admire:

2 While wayward pens thy worth assail,
And envious tongues decry;
These times, though many a friend bewail,
These times bewail not I.

3 But when the world's loud praise is thine,
And spleen no more shall blame;
When with thy Homer thou shalt shine
In one unclouded fame:

4 When none shall rail, and every lay
Devote a wreath to thee;
That day (for come it will) that day
Shall I lament to see.

[1] Written by one Lewis, a schoolmaster, and highly commended by
Johnson.--_See_ Boswell.

THE END.

INDEX

VOL.
A Ballad upon a Wedding, SUCKLING, i.
Abel's Blood, VAUGHAN, ii.
A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the
Legion Club, SWIFT, iii.
A Cradle Hymn, WATTS, iii.
Address to the Nightingale, BARNFIELD, i.
A Description of Castara, HABINGTON, ii.
A Distempered Fancy, MORE, ii.
Admiral Hosier's Ghost, GLOVER, iii.
Address to the Moon, MACPHERSON, iii.
A Friend, PHILLIPS, ii.
A Fragment of Sappho, PHILIPS, iii.
Allegorical Characters from 'The Mirror for
Magistrates,' SACKVILLE, i.
ALEXANDER, WILLIAM, EARL OF STIRLING, i.
A Loose Saraband, LOVELACE, ii.
A Meditation, WOTTON, i.
An Epitaph, BEAUMONT, i.
An Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers, MASON, iii.
An Ode to the Right Hon. Lord Gower, FENTON, iii.
An American Love Ode, WARTON THE ELDER, iii.
Apostrophe to Freedom, BARBOUR, i.
A Praise to his Lady, ANONYMOUS, i.
A Pastoral Dialogue, CAREW, i.
A Pastoral, iii.
Apostrophe to Fletcher the Dramatist, VAUGHAN, ii.
A Persian Song of Hafiz, JONES, iii.
Arcadia, CHALKHILL, ii.
Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks, CHAMBERLAYNE, ii.
Ascension-Day, VAUGHAN, ii.
A Vision upon the "Fairy Queen," RALEIGH, i.
A Valediction, BROWNE, i.
A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque, COTTON, ii.
Away! Let nought to Love Displeasing, iii.

BAMPFYLDE, JOHN, iii.
BARBOUR, JOHN, i.
BARCLAY, ALEXANDER i.
BARNFIELD, RICHARD i.
Battle of Black Earnside BLIND HARRY, i.
Baucis and Philemon SWIFT, iii.
BEAUMONT, FRANCIS i.
BEAUMONT, DR JOSEPH ii.
BISHOP, SAMUEL iii.
BLACKMORE, SIR RICHARD iii.
BLACKSTONE, SIR WILLIAM iii.
BLACKLOCK, THOMAS iii.
BLAMIRE, SUSANNA iii.
BLIND HARRY i.
Breathing toward the Heavenly Country WATTS, iii.
Bristowe Tragedy CHATTERTON, iii.
BROWN, JOHN iii.
BROWNE, ISAAC HAWKINS iii.
BROWNE, WILLIAM i.
BROOKE, HENRY iii.
BRUCE, MICHAEL iii.
BURTON, ROBERT i.
Burial VAUGHAN, ii.
BOOTH, BARTON iii.
BRAMSTON iii.

Canace Condemned to Death by her Father LYDGATE, i.
Careless Content iii.
CAREW, THOMAS i.
CARTWRIGHT, WILLIAM i.
CAREY, HENRY iii.
Celia Singing STANLEY, ii.
CHALKHILL, JOHN ii.
CHAMBERLAYNE, WILLIAM ii.
CHATTERTON, THOMAS iii.
Cherry Ripe HERRICK, ii.
Cheerfulness VAUGHAN, ii.
CHESTERFIELD, LORD iii.
Childhood VAUGHAN, ii.
Close of 'Christ's Victory and Triumph' FLETCHER, i.
Cock-crowing VAUGHAN, ii.
COCKBURN, MRS iii.
Complaint of Nature LOGAN, iii.
CORBET, RICHARD i.
Corinna's Going a-Maying HERRICK, ii.
COOPER, JOHN GILBERT iii.
COTTON, CHARLES ii.
COTTON, NATHANIEL iii.
COWLEY, ABRAHAM ii.
CRAWFORD, ROBERT iii.
Creation, BLACKMORE, iii.
Cumnor Hall, MICKLE, iii.
CUNNINGHAM, JOHN, iii.

DANIEL, SAMUEL, i.
DAVIES, SIR JOHN, i.
Davideis--Book II., COWLEY, ii.
DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM, ii.
Description of King's Mistress, JAMES I., i.
Death of Sir Henry de Bohun, BARBOUR, i.
Description of Morning, DRAYTON, i.
Description of Parthenia, FLETCHER, i.
Destruction and Renovation of all Things, DR H. MORE, ii.
Desolation of Balclutha, MACPHERSON, iii.
Dinner given by the Town Mouse to the Country
Mouse, HENRYSON, i.
Directions for Cultivating a Hop Garden, TUSSER, i.
DODSLEY, ROBERT, iii.
DONNE, JOHN, i.
DOUGLAS, GAVIN, i.
DRAYTON, MICHAEL, i.
DRUMMOND, WILLIAM, i.
DU BARTAS, i.
DUNBAR, WILLIAM, i.
Dwelling of the Witch Orandra, CHALKHILL, ii.

Early Love, DANIEL, i.
EDWARDS, RICHARD, i.
Elegy XIII., HAMMOND, iii.
Elegy written in Spring, BRUCE, iii.
ELLIOT, Miss JANE, iii.
End, DR BEAUMONT, ii.
Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke, JONSON, i.
Epistle addressed to the Honourable W. E. HABINGTON, ii.
Epitaph on Mrs Mason, MASON, iii.
Evening, BROWNE, i.
Eve, DR BEAUMONT, ii.
Exordium of Third Part of 'Pyschozoia', DR H. MORE, ii.

FAIRFAX, EDWARD, i.
Farewell to the Vanities of the World, WOTTON, i.
FANSHAWE, SIR RICHARD, ii.
FAWKES, FRANCIS, iii.
FENTON, ELIJAH, iii.
Few Happy Matches, WATTS, iii.
February--an Elegy, CHATTERTON, iii.
FERGUSSON, ROBERT, iii.
Fingal and the Spirit of Loda, MACPHERSON, iii.
Fingal's Spirit-Home, MACPHERSON, iii.
FLETCHER, GILES
FLETCHER, PHINEAS
From 'The Phoenix' Nest' ANONYMOUS, i.
From the Same ANONYMOUS, i.
From 'Britannia's Pastorals' W. BROWNE, i.
From 'The Shepherd's Hunting' WITHER, i.
From the Same WITHER, ii.
From 'Gondibert,' Canto II. DAVENANT, ii.
From 'Gondibert,' Canto IV. DAVENANT, ii.
From 'An Essay on Translated Verse' EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ii.
From 'The Gentle Shepherd,' Act I., Scene II. RAMSAY, iii.
From 'The Monody' LYTTELTON, iii.
From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii.
From the Same LANGHORNE, iii.
From 'Leonidas,' Book XII. GLOVER, iii.

GARTH, SIR SAMUEL iii.
GASCOIGNE, GEORGE i.
Gipsies--From 'The Country Justice' LANGHORNE, iii.
GLOVER, RICHARD iii.
Good-morrow GASCOIGNE, i.
Good-night GASCOIGNE, i.
GOULD iii.
GOWER, JOHN i.
Gratification which the Lover's Passion receives
from the Sense of Hearing GOWER, i.
GRAINGER, DR JAMES iii.
GREVILLE, MRS iii.

HABINGTON, WILLIAM ii.
HALL, JOSEPH, BISHOP OF NORWICH ii.
Hallo, my Fancy ii.
HAMMOND, JAMES iii.
HAMILTON, WILLIAM iii.
Happiness of the Shepherd's Life P. FLETCHER, i.
HARDING, JOHN i.
HARRINGTON, JOHN i.
Harpalus' Complaint of Phillida's Love
bestowed on Corin i.
HARTE, DR WALTER iii.
HAWES, STEPHEN i.
HENRYSON, ROBERT i.
Henry, Duke of Buckingham, in the Infernal
Regions T. SACKVILLE, i.
HERRICK, ROBERT ii.
Hell DR J. BEAUMONT, ii.
HEATH, ROBERT ii.
HEADLEY, HENRY iii.
Holy Sonnets, DONNE, i.
Housewifely Physic, TUSSER, i.
HUME, ALEXANDER, i.

Image of Death, SOUTHWELL, i.
Imperial Rome Personified, DR BEAUMONT, ii.
Imitation of Thomson, ISAAC BROWNE, iii.
Imitation of Pope, ISAAC BBOWNE, iii.
Imitation of Swift, ISAAC BROWNE, iii.
Instability of Human Greatness, P. FLETCHER, i.
Introduction to the Poem on the Soul of Man, DAVIES, i.
Invitation to Izaak Walton, COTTON, ii.
In praise of the renowned Lady Anne, Countess
of Warwick, TURBERVILLE, i.
Isaac's Marriage, VAUGHAN, ii.

JAGO, REV. RICHARD, iii.
JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND, i.
Jacob's Pillow and Pillar, VAUGHAN, ii.
Jephthah's Daughter, HERRICK, ii.
JOHN THE CHAPLAIN, i.
JONSON, BEN, i.
JONES, SIR WILLIAM, iii.
Joseph's Dream, DE BEAUMONT, ii.
Journey into France, CORBET, i.

KAY, JOHN, i.
Kenrick--translated from the Saxon, CHATTERTON, iii.
KING, DE HENRY, ii.

La Belle Confidante, STANLEY, ii.
LANGHORNE, JOHN, iii.
Life, COWLEY, ii.
Life, KING, ii.
Lines addressed to Pope, LEWIS, iii.
LLOYD, ROBERT, iii.
Lochaber no more, RAMSAY, iii.
LOGAN, JOHN, iii.
London Lyckpenny, The LYDGATE, i.
Look Home, SOUTHWELL, i.
Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i.
Love admits no Rival, RALEIGH, i.
Love's Darts, CARTWRIGHT, i.
LOVELACE, RICHARD, ii.
Love-Sick, VAUGHAN, ii.
LOVIBOND, EDWARD, iii.
LOWE, JOHN, iii.
LYDGATE, JOHN, i.
LYNDSAY, SIR DAVID, i.
LYTTELTON, LORD, iii.

MACPHERSON, JAMES iii.
MAITLAND, SIR RICHARD, OF LETHINGTON i.
MALLETT, DAVID iii.
Man's Fall and Recovery VAUGHAN, ii.
Marriage of Christ and the Church P. FLETCHER, i.
MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE ii.
Mary's Dream LOWE, iii.
MARVELL, ANDREW ii.
MASON, WILLIAM iii.
May-Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen CUNNINGHAM, iii.
Meldrum's Duel with the English Champion
Talbert LYNDSAY, i.
Melancholy described by Mirth DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii.
Melancholy describing herself DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE, ii.
MERRICK, JAMES iii.
MESTON, WILLIAM iii.
MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS iii.
Misery VAUGHAN, ii.
MONTGOMERY, ALEXANDER i.
MOORE, EDWARD iii.
MOORE, SIR JOHN HENRY iii.
MORE, DR HENRY ii.
Morning in May DOUGLAS, i.
Moral Reflections on the Wind TUSSER, i.
Mount of Olives VAUGHAN, ii.
My Mind to me a Kingdom is ii.

Note on Anacreon STANLEY ii.
NUGENT, LORD (ROBERT CRAGGS) iii.

Oberon's Palace HERRICK, ii.
Oberon's Feast HERRICK, ii.
OCCLEVE, THOMAS i.
Ode to Solitude GRAINGER, iii.
Ode on hearing the Drum JOHN SCOTT, iii.
Ode to Mankind NUGENT, iii.
Ode to Aurora BLACKLOCK, iii.
Ode to Fancy JOSEPH WARTON, iii.
Ode to a Tobacco-pipe iii.
Of Wit COWLEY, ii.
Of Solitude COWLEY, ii.
OLDYS, WILLIAM iii.
On Tombs in Westminster BEAUMONT, i.
On Man's Resemblance to God DU BARTAS, i.
On the Portrait of Shakspeare JONSON, i.
On Melancholy BURTON, i.
On the Death of Sir Bevil Granville CARTWRIGHT, i.
On the Praise of Poetry COWLEY, ii.
On Paradise Lost MARVELL, ii.
Love's Servile Lot, SOUTHWELL, i.

On a Charnel-house, VAUGHAN, ii.
On Gombauld's 'Endymion,' VAUGHAN, ii.
On Poetry, SWIFT, iii.
On the Death of Dr Swift, SWIFT, iii.
Opening of Second Part of 'Psychozoia,' DR MORE, ii.
Ossian's Address to the Sun, MACPHERSON, iii.

Palm-Sunday, VAUGHAN, ii.
Paradise, DR BEAUMONT, ii.
PENROSE, THOMAS, iii.
Persuasions to Love, CAREW, i.
PHILIPS, AMBROSE, iii.
PHILIPS, JOHN, iii.
PHILLIPS, CATHERINE, ii.
Picture of the Town, VAUGHAN, ii.
POMFRET, JOHN, iii.
POPE, DR WALTER, iii.
Power of Genius over Envy, W. BROWNE, i.
Priestess of Diana, CHALKHILL, ii.
Protest of Love, HEATH, ii.
Providence, VAUGHAN, ii.
Psalm CIV., VAUGHAN, ii.

RALEIGH, SIR WALTER, i.
RAMSAY, ALLAN, iii.
RANDOLPH, THOMAS, i.
Regeneration, VAUGHAN, ii.
Repentance, VAUGHAN, ii.
Resurrection and Immortality, VAUGHAN, ii.
Richard II. the Morning before his Murder
in Pomfret Castle, DANIEL, i.
Richard Bentley's Sole Poetical Composition, iii.
Righteousness, VAUGHAN, ii.
Rinaldo at Mount Olivet, FAIRFAX, i.
ROBERTS, WILLIAM HAYWARD, iii.
ROSCOMMON, THE EARL OF, ii.
ROSS, ALEXANDER, iii.
Rules and Lessons, VAUGHAN, ii.

SACKVILLE, THOMAS, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET, i.
SACKVILLE, CHARLES, EARL OF DORSET, iii.
Sally in our Alley, CAREY, iii.
Satire I., HALL, ii.
Satire VII., HALL, ii.
Satire on Holland, MARVELL, ii.
SAVAGE, RICHARD, iii.
SCOTT, JOHN, iii.
SCOTT, THOMAS, iii.
Selections from Sonnets, DANIEL, i.
SEDLEY, SIR CHARLES, iii.
SEWELL, DR GEORGE, iii.
SHAW, CUTHBERT, iii.
Sic Vita, KING, ii.
SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP, i.
SKELTON, JOHN, i.
SMART, CHRISTOPHER, iii.
Song of Sorceress seeking to Tempt
Jesus, G. FLETCHER, i.
Song, CAREW, i.
Song, CAREW, i.
Song, CAREW, i.
Song, SUCKLING, i.
Song, SUCKLING, i.
Song, W. BROWNE, i.
Song, W. BROWNE, i.
Song to Althea from Prison, LOVELACE, ii.
Song, LOVELACE, ii.
Song, HERRICK, ii.
Song, KING, ii.
Song, WILMOT, ii.
Song, WILMOT, ii.
Song, C. SACKVILLE, iii.
Song, SEDLEY, iii.
Song to David, SMART, iii.
Song, ANONYMOUS, iii.
Sonnet on Isabella Markham, HARRINGTON, i.
Sonnet, WATSON, i.
Sonnet, ALEXANDER, i.
Sonnets, SIDNEY, i.
Sonnets, DRUMMOND, i.
Soul compared to a Lantern, DR H. MORE, ii.
SOUTHWELL, EGBERT, i.
Spiritual Poems, DRUMMOND, i.
Spirituality of the Soul, DAVIES, i.
St Mary Magdalene, VAUGHAN, ii.
STANLEY, THOMAS, ii.
STEVENS, GEORGE ALEXANDER, iii.
STORRER, THOMAS, i.
SUCKLING, SIR JOHN, i.
Supplication in Contemption of Side-tails, LYNDSAY, i.
SYLVESTER, JOSHUA, i.
SWIFT, JONATHAN, iii.
SCOTT, ALEXANDER, i.

That all things sometimes find Ease of their
Pain save only the Lover, UNKNOWN, i.
Thanks for a Summer's Day, HUME, i.
The Angler's Wish, WALTON, ii.
The Author's Picture BLACKLOCK, iii.
The Birks of Invermay MALLETT, iii.
The Bastard SAVAGE, iii.
The Braes of Yarrow HAMILTON, iii.
The Bush aboon Traquair CRAWFORD, iii.
The Brown Jug FAWKES, iii.
The Cave MACPHERSON, iii.
The Choice POMFRET, iii.
The Chameleon MERRICK, iii.
The Chariot of the Sun DU BARTAS, i.
The Chariot of the Sun GOWER, i.
The Chronicle: A Ballad COWLEY, ii.
The Country's Recreations RALEIGH, i.
The Country Life HERRICK, ii.
The Complaint COWLEY, ii.
The Constellation VAUGHAN, ii.
The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell DUNBAR, i.
The Dawning VAUGHAN, ii.
The Death of Wallace BLIND HARRY, i.
The Despair COWLEY, ii.
The Dispensary GARTH, iii.
The Emigrants MARVELL, ii.
The Farmer's Ingle FERGUSSON, iii.
The Feast VAUGHAN, ii.
The Flowers of the Forest MISS ELLIOT, iii.
The Same MRS COCKBURN, iii.
The Fairy Queen ii.
The Garland VAUGHAN, ii.
The Garment of Good Ladies HENRYSON, i.
The Golden Age VAUGHAN, ii.
The Inquiry C. PHILLIPS, ii.
The Jews VAUGHAN, ii.
The Kiss: A Dialogue HERRICK, ii.
The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse BLACKSTONE, iii.
The Last Time I came o'er the Moor RAMSAY, iii.
The Loss STANLEY, ii.
The Lovers LOGAN, iii.
The Mad Maid's Song HERRICK, ii.
The Mariner's Wife MICKLE, iii.
The Merle and the Nightingale DUNBAR, i.
The Miseries of a Poet's Life LLOYD, iii.
The Motto--'Tentanda via est,' &c. COWLEY, ii.
The Nativity G. FLETCHER, i.
The Nabob BLAMIRE, iii.
The Nymph complaining of the Death of her Fawn MARVELL, ii.
The Nymphs to their May Queen WATSON, i.
The Old Bachelor, ANONYMOUS, iii.
The Old and Young Courtier, ii.
The Palm-Tree, VAUGHAN, ii.
The Passion, VAUGHAN, ii.
The Picture of the Body, JONSON, i.
The Plagues of Egypt, COWLEY, ii.
The Praise of Woman, RANDOLPH, i.
The Progress of the Soul, DONNE, i.
The Rainbow, VAUGHAN, ii.
The River Forth Feasting, DRUMMOND, i.
The Rock an' the wee pickle Tow, A. ROSS, iii.
The Rose, WATTS, iii.
The Seed growing secretly (Mark iv. 26), VAUGHAN, ii.
The Search, VAUGHAN, ii.
The Self-subsistence of the Soul, DAVIES, i.
The Shepherd's Resolution, WITHER, ii.
The Steadfast Shepherd, WITHER, ii.
The Silent Lover, RALEIGH, i.
The Sluggard, WATTS, iii.
The Shower, VAUGHAN, ii.
The Story of William Canynge, CHATTERTON, iii.
The Splendid Shilling, J. PHILIPS, iii.
The Spring: A Sonnet from the Spanish, FANSHAWE, ii.
The Tale of the Coffers or Caskets, &c., GOWER, i.
The Tears of Old May-day, LOVIBOND, iii.
The Tempest, VAUGHAN, ii.
The Tempestuous Evening: An Ode, J. SCOTT, iii.
The Timber, VAUGHAN, ii.
The Waterfall, VAUGHAN, ii.
The Wish, COWLEY, ii.
The World, VAUGHAN, ii.
Thealma: A Deserted Shepherdess, CHALKHILL, ii.
Thealma in Full Dress, CHALKHILL, ii.
There is a Garden in her Face, ii.
TICKELL, THOMAS, iii.
Times go by Turns, SOUTHWELL, i.
THOMPSON, EDWARD, iii.
Thoughts in a Garden, MARVELL, ii.
To a Lady admiring herself in a
Looking-glass, RANDOLPH, i.
To a very young Lady, SEDLEY, iii.
To Ben Jonson, BEAUMONT, i.
To Blossoms, HERRICK, ii.
To Clarastella, HEATH, ii.
To Daffodils, HERRICK, ii.
To his noblest Friend, J. C., Esq., HABINGTON, ii.
To my Mistress, sitting by a River's side, CAREW, i.
To my Picture, RANDOLPH, i.
To Mrs Bishop, BISHOP, iii.
To the Same BISHOP, iii.
To Penshurst JONSON, i.
To Primroses HERRICK, ii.
To Religion SYLVESTER, i.
To the Cuckoo BRUCE, iii.
To the Rev. J. Howe WATTS, iii.
To the Memory of my beloved Master, William
Shakspeare, and what he left us JONSON, i.
To the Memory of his Wife DR BEAUMONT, ii.
To the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr
Addison TICKELL, iii.
TUSSER, THOMAS i.
TURBERVILLE, THOMAS i.

UNKNOWN i.
Upon the Shortness of Man's Life COWLEY, ii.

VANBRUGH, SIR JOHN iii.
Variety WHITEHEAD, iii.
VAUX, THOMAS, LORD i.
VAUGHAN, HENRY ii.
VERE, EDWARD i.
Verses on a most stony-hearted Maiden HARRINGTON, i.
Verses written after seeing Windsor Castle T. WARTON, iii.
Verses ANONYMOUS, iii.

WALSH iii.
WALTON, IZAAK ii.
WARD, EDWARD iii.
WARTON, THOMAS, THE ELDER iii.
WARTON, JOSEPH iii.
WATSON, THOMAS i.
WATTS, ISAAC iii.
WEEKES, JAMES EYRE iii.
WEST, RICHARD iii.
What is Love? HEATH, ii.
What Ails this Heart o' mine? BLAMIRE, iii.
WHITEHEAD, WILLIAM iii.
WILMOT, JOHN, EARL OF ROCHESTER ii.
William and Margaret MALLETT, iii.
WITHER, GEORGE ii.
Woo'd, and Married, and a' A. ROSS, iii.
WOTTON, SIR HENRY i.
Written on a Visit to the Country in Autumn LOGAN, iii.
WYNTOUN, ANDREW i.

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