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A GAIN ? new tumults in my breast?

Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me restt I am not now, alas! the mart

As in the gentle reign of my queen Anne, Ah! sound no more thy soft alarms.

Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms! Mother too fierce of dear desires!

Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires: To number five direct your doves

There spread round Murray all your blooming loves; Noble and young, who strikes the heart

With every sprightly, every decent part; Equal the injur'd to defend,

To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. He, with a hundred arts refin'd,

Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind: To him each rival shall submit,

Make but his riches equal to his wit. Then shall thy form the marble grace,

(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face: His house, embosom'd in the grove,

Sacred to social life and social love, Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,

Where Thames reflects the visionary scene: Thither the silver-sounding lyres

Shall call the smiling loves and young desires; There, every grace and muse shall throng,

Exalt the dance, or animate the song; There youths and nymphs, in consort gay,

Shall hail the rising, closo the parting'day.

With me, alas! those joys arc o'er;

For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu! fond hope of mutual fire,

The still-believing, still renew'd desire; Adien! the heart-expanding bowl.

And all the kind deceivers of the soul! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!

Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear? "Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,

Stop, or turn nonsense, at once glance of thee? Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam,

Absent I follow through th' extended dream; Now, now I cease, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah cruel) from my arms! And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or softly glide by the canal;
Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.



LEST you should think that verse shall die.
Which sounds the silver Thames along,
Taught on the wings of truths to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song;

Though daring Milton sits sublime,

In Spenser native muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,

Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay—

Sages and chiefs long since had birth
Ere Caesar was or Newton nam'd;

These rais'd new empires o'er the earth,

And those uew heavens and systems fram'il.

Vain was the chiefs, the sage's pride •
They had no poet, and they died:

In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled f
They had no poet, and are dead.


A StandUh and Two Pens.

YES, I beheld th' Athenian queen
Descend in all her sober charms;
And, 'Take,' she said, and smil'd serene,
'Take at this hand celestial arms:

"Secure the radiant weapons wield;

This golden lance shall ^uard desert, And if a vice dares keep the field,

'This steel shall stab it to the heart.'

Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell,

Receiv'd the weapons of the sky; And dipp'd them in the sable well,

The fount of fame or infamy.

* What well ? what weapon?' Flavia cries,

'A standish, steel and golden pen! It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;

I gave it you to write again.

'But, friend, take heed whom you attack;

Yon'll bring a house, I mean of peers. Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,

L***#* and all about your ears.

* Yon'd write as smooth again on glass,

And run on ivory so glib, As not to stick at fool or ass, Nor stop at flattery or fib.

'Athenian queen! and sober charms!

I tell yon, fool, there's nothing in't: 'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;

In Dryden's Virgil see the print.

* Come, if yon'll be a quiet soul,

That dares tell neither truth nor lies, I'll list you in the harmless roll

Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'


Sent to the Earl of Oxford, with Dr. PamelVs
Poems, published by our Author, after the said
BarVs Imprisonment in the Tower and Retreat
into the Country, in the Year 1741.

SUCH were the notes thy once-lov'd poet sung,
Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld, and lost! admir'd, and mourn'd!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!
Blest In each science, blest in every strain!
Dear to the muse! to Harley dear—in vain!
For him, thou oft hast bid the wortd attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him, despis'd the farce of state.
The sober follies of the wise and great;
Dext'rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear),

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