Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth Meander
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.'

I KNOW the thing that's most uncommon;
(Envy, be silent, and attend !)

I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend:

Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour,

Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly, An equal mixture of good humour,

And sensible soft melancholy.

1 Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk.

"Has she no faults then (Envy says), sir?"
Yes, she has one, I must aver;

When all the world conspires to praise her,
The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM, COMPOSED OF MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES,

AND MINERALS.

THOU who shalt stop where Thames' translucent

wave

Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave;
Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill;
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,
And latent metals innocently glow;

Approach. Great nature studiously behold!
And eye the mine without a wish for gold.
Approach; but awful! lo! the Ægerian grot,
Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought;
Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was shot through March-
mont's soul.

Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor,
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.

VERSES TO MR. C.

ST. JAMES'S PLACE.

London, Oct. 22.

FEW words are best; I wish you well;
Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here;
Some morning walks along the mall,
And evening friends will end the year.

If, in this interval, between

The falling leaf and coming frost,
You please to see, on Twit'nam green,
Your friend, your poet, and your host;

For three whole days you here may rest
From office business, news, and strife;
And (what most folks would think a jest)
Want nothing else, except your wife.

TO MR. GAY,

WHO HAD CONGRATULATED POPE ON FINISHING HIS

HOUSE AND GARDENS.

"AI, friend! 'tis true-this truth you

know

lovers

In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow, In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens:

Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies,
And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.
What are the gay parterre, the chequer'd shade,
The morning bower, the evening colonnade,
But soft recesses of uneasy minds,

To sigh unheard in, to the passing winds?
So the struck deer in some sequester'd part
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart,
He, stretch'd unseen in coverts hid from day,
Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away."

TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

In beauty, or wit,

No mortal as yet

To question your empire has dar'd;

But men of discerning

Have thought that in learning,

To yield to a lady was hard.

Impertinent schools,

With musty dull rules,

Have reading to females denied :

So papists refuse

The Bible to use,

Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

'Twas a woman at first,

(Indeed she was curst)

In knowledge that tasted delight,
And sages agree

The laws should decree

To the first possessor the right.

Then bravely, fair dame,

Resume the old claim,

Which to your whole sex does belong;
And let men receive,

From a second bright Eve,

The knowledge of right and of wrong.

But if the first Eve

Hard doom did receive,

When only one apple had she,

What a punishment new

Shall be found out for you,

Who tasting have robb'd the whole tree?

EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES

ON A PORTRAIT OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU,

PAINTED BY KNELLER.

THE playful smiles around the dimpled mouth, That happy air of majesty and truth,

So would I draw: but oh! 'tis vain to try;

My narrow genius does the power deny.