Bellair! (who does not Bellair know?
The wit, the beauty, and the beau)
Nor does your virtue disappear
Gives out, he loves you dearly:
And many a nymph attack'd with sighs,
And soft impertinence and noise,
Full oft has beat a parley.
But, pretty turtle, when the blade
Shall come with amorous serenade,
Soon from the window rate him:
But if reproof will not prevail,
And he perchance attempt to scale,
Discharge the jordan at him.
HORACE. BOOK IV., Ode ix.
VERSES immortal as my bays I sing,
When suited to my trembling string:
When by strange art both voice and lyre agree
To make one pleasing harmony.
All poets are by their blind captain led,
(For none e'er had the sacrilegious pride
To tear the well-plac'd laurel from his aged head.)
Yet Pindar's rolling dithyrambic tide
Hath still this praise, that none presume to fly
Like him, but flag too low, or soar too high.
Still does Stesichorus's tongue
Sing sweeter than the bird which on it hung.
Anacreon ne'er too old can grow,
Love from every verse does flow;
Still Sappho's strings do seem to move,
Instructing all her sex to love.
Golden rings of flowing hair More than Helen did ensnare; Others a prince's grandeur did admire, And, wondering, melted to desire.
Not only skilful Teucer knew
To direct arrows from the bended yew.
Troy more than once did fall,
Though hireling gods rebuilt its nodding wall.
Was Sthenelus the only valiant he,
A subject fit for lasting poetry?
Was Hector that prodigious man alone,
Who, to save others lives, expos'd his own?
Was only he so brave to dare his fate,
And be the pillar of a tottering state?
No; others bury'd in oblivion lie,
As silent as their grave,
Because no charitable poet gave
Their well-deserved immortality.
Virtue with sloth, and cowards with the brave,
Are level'd in th' impartial grave,
If they no poet have.
But I will lay my music by,
With the small circle of one short-liv'd year: Others, like comets, visit and away;
Your lustre, great as theirs, finds no decay,
But with the constant Sun makes an eternal day.
We barbarously call those blest,
Who are of largest tenements possest,
Whilst swelling coffers break their owner's rest.
More truly happy those, who can
Govern that little empire, Man;
Bridle their passions, and direct their will
Through all the glittering paths of charming ill;
Who spend their treasure freely as 'twas given
By the large bounty of indulgent Heaven;
Who, in a fixt unalterable state,
Smile at the doubtful tide of Fate,
And scorn alike her friendship and her hate;
Who poison less than falsehood fear,
Loth to purchase life so dear;
But kindly for their friend embrace cold Death,
And seal their country's love with their departing
breath.
OF THE FOLLOWING VERSE FROM LUCAN:
Victrix causa Diis placuit, sed victa Catoni.
THE gods and Cato did in this divide,
They choose the conquering, he the conquer'd side,
MR. EDMUND SMITH.
MUN, rarely credit Common Fame,
Unheeded let her praise or blame,
As whimsies guide the gossip tattles
Of wits, of beauties, and of battles;
To-day the warrior's brow she crowns,
For naval spoils, and taken towns;
To-morrow all her spite she rallies,
And votes the victor to the gallies.
Nor in her visits can she spare
The reputation of the fair.
For instance:-Chloe's bloom did boast
A while to be the reigning toast;
Lean hectic sparks abandon'd bohea,
And in beer-glasses pledg'd to Chloe:
What fops of figure did she bring
To the front boxes and the ring?
While nymphs of quality look sullen,
As breeding wives, or moulting pullen,
Blest charmer she, till prying Fame
And bid the mournful strings in silence lie; Incog. to miss's toilet eame;
Unless my songs begin and end with you,
To whom my strings, to whom my songs, are due.
No pride does with your rising honours grow,
You meekly look on suppliant crowds below.
Should Fortune change your happy state,
You could admire, yet envy not, the great.
Your equal hand holds an unbias'd scale,
Where no rich vices, gilded baits, prevail:
You with a generous honesty despise
What all the meaner world so dearly prize:
Where in the gallipots she spy'd
Lilies and roses, that defy'd
The frost of Age, with certain pickles
They call-cosmetics for the freckles:
Away she flew with what she wanted,
And told at court that Chloe painted.
"Then who 'd on common Fame rely,
Whose chief employment 's to decry?
A cogging, fickle, jilting female,
As ever ply'd at six in the Mall;
The father of all fibs begat her
On some old newsman's fusty daughter."
O captain! Taisez-vous-twere hard
Her novels ne'er should have regard:
One proof I'll in her favour give,
Which none but you will disbelieve.
When Phoebus sent her to recite
The praises of the most polite,
Whose scenes have been, in every age,
The glories of the British stage,
Then she, to rigid truth confin'd,
Your name with lofty Shakspeare join'd;
And, speaking as the god directed,
The praise she gave was unsuspected.
"WHENE'ER I wive," young Strephon cry'd,
"Ye powers, that o'er the noose preside!
Wit, beauty, wealth, and humour, give,
Or let me still a rover live:
But if all these no nymph can share,
And I'm predestin'd to the snare,
Let mine, ye powers! be doubly fair."
Thus pray'd the swain in heat of blood,
Whilst Cupid at his elbow stood;
And twitching him, said, "Youth, be wise,
Ask not impossibilities:
A faultless make, a manag'd wit,
Humour and fortune never met:
But if a beauty you 'd obtain,
Court some bright Phyllis of the brain;
The dear idea long enjoy,
Clean is the bliss, and will not cloy.
But trust me, youth, for I'm sincere,
And know the ladies to a hair,
Howe'er small poets whine upon it,
In madrigal, and song, and sonnet,
Their beauty's but a Spell, to bring
A lover to th' enchanted ring;
Ere the sack-posset is digested,
Or half of Hymen's taper wasted,
The winning air, the wanton trip,
The radiant eye, the velvet lip,
From which you fragrant kisses stole,
And seem to suck her springing soul—
These, and the rest, you doated on,
Are nauseous or insipid grown;
The Spell dissolves, the cloud is gone,
And Sacharissa turns to Joan."
Ir Memnon's fate, bewail'd with constant dew,
Does, with the day, his mother's grief renew;
This poem, with a few alterations, is to be found in Fenton, (see vol. x.) under the title of the Platonic Spell. N.
If her son's death mov'd tender Thetis' mind
To swell with tears the waves, with sighs the wind;
If mighty gods can mortals' sorrow know,
And be the humble partners of our woe;
Now loose your tresses, pensive Elegy,
(Too well your office and your name agree)
Tibullus, once the joy and pride of Fame,
Lies now rich fuel on the trembling flame.
Sad Cupid now despairs of conquering hearts,
Throws by his empty quiver, breaks his darts;
Eases his useless bows from idle strings,
Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings.
He wants, of which he robb'd fond lovers, rest,
And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast.
Those graceful curls which wantonly did flow,
The whiter rivals of the falling snow,
Forget their beauty, and in discord lie,
Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye.
Not more Æneas' loss the boy did move;
Like passions for them both, prove equal love.
Tibullus' death grieves the fair goddess more,
More swells her eyes, than when the savage boar
Her beautiful, her lov'd Adonis tore.
Poets' large souls Heaven's noblest stamps do bear;
(Poets, the watchful angels darling care)
Yet Death, (blind archer) that no difference knows,
Without respect his roving arrows throws.
Nor Phœbus, nor the Muses' queen, could give
Their son, their own prerogative, to live.
Orpheus, the heir of both his parents' skill,
Tam'd wondering beasts, and Death's more cruel will.
Linus' sad strings on the dumb lute do lie,
In silence forc'd to let their master die.
Homer (the spring to whom we poets owe
Our little all does in sweet numbers flow)
Remains immortal only in his fame,
His works alone survive the envious flame.
In vain to gods (if gods there are) we pray,
And needless victims prodigally pay,
Worship their sleeping deities: yet Death
Scorns votaries, and stops the praying breath,
To hallow'd shrines intruding Fate will come,
And drag you from the altar to the tomb.
Go, frantic poet, with delusions fed,
Think laurels guard your consecrated head,
Now the sweet master of your art is dead.
What can we hope? since that a narrow span
Can measure the remains of thee, great man!
The bold rash flame that durst approach so nigh,
And see Tibullus, and not trembling die,
Durst seize on temples, and their gods defy.
Fair Venus (fair ev'n in such sorrows) stands,
Closing her heavy eyes with trembling hands:
Anon, in vain, officiously she tries
To quench the flame with rivers from her eyes.
His mother weeping does his eyelids close,
And on his urn, tears, her last gift, bestows.
His sister too, with hair dishevell'd, bears
Part of her mother's nature, and her tears.
With those, two fair, two mournful rivals come,
And add a greater triumph to his tomb:
Both hug his urn, both his lov'd ashes kiss,
And both contend which reap'd the greater bliss.
Thus Delia spoke, (when sighs no more could last)
Renewing by remembrance pleasures past;
"When youth with vigour did for joy combine,
I was Tibullus' life, Tibullus mine:
I entertain'd his hot, his first desire,
And kept alive, till age, his active fire."
To her then Nemesis, (when groans gave leave)
"As I alone was lov'd, alone I'll grieve:
Spare your vain tears, Tibullus' heart was mine,
About my neck his dying arms did twine;
I snatch'd his soul, which true to me did prove:
Age ended yours, Death only stopp'd my love."
If any poor remains survive the flames,
Except thin shadows, and more empty names;
Free in Elysium shall Tibullus rove,
Nor fear a second death should cross his love,
There shall Catullus, crown'd with bays, impart
To his far dearer friend his open heart:
There Gallus (if Fame's hundred tongues all lie)
Shall, free from censure, no more rashly die.
Such shall our poet's blest companions be,
And in their deaths, as in their lives, agree.
But thou, rich Urn, obey my strict commands,
Guard thy great charge from sacrilegious hands.
Thou, Earth, Tibullus' ashes gently use,
And be as soft and easy as his Muse.
TO THE
EVENING STAR.
ENGLISHED FROM A GREEK IDYLLIUM.
BRIGHT Star! by Venus fix'd above,
To rule the happy realms of Love;
Who in the dewy rear of day,
Advancing thy distinguish'd ray,
Dost other lights as far outshine
As Cynthia's silver glories thine;
Known by superior beauty there,
As much as Pastorella here.
Exert, bright Star, thy friendly light,
And guide me through the dusky night;
Defrauded of her beams, the Moon
Shines dim, and will be vanish'd soon.
I would not rob the shepherd's fold;
I seek no miser's hoarded gold;
To find a nymph, I'm forc'd to stray,
Who lately stole my heart away.
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