There bending o'er the sleeping queen, she cries,
"Rise my Penelope, my daughter, rise
To see Ulysses thy long absent spouse,
Thy soul's desire and lord of all thy vows:
Though late, he comes, and in his rage has slain,
For all their wrongs, the haughty suitor train."

"Ah! Euryclea," she replies, "you rave;
The gods resume that reason which they gave;
For Heaven deep wisdom to the fool supplies,
But oft infatuates and confounds the wise.
And wisdom once was thine! but now I find
The gods have ruin'd thy distemper'd mind.
How could you hope your fiction to impose?
Was it to flatter or deride my woes?

How could you break a sleep with talk so vain,
That held my sorrows in so soft a chain?
A sleep so sweet I never could enjoy
Since my dear lord left Ithaca for Troy :
Curst Troy-oh! why did I thy name disclose ?
Thy fatal name awakens all my woes:
But fly-some other had provok'd my rage2,
And you but ove your pardon to your age."

"No artful tales, no studied lies, I frame, Ulysses lives" (rejoins the reverend dame) "In that dishonour'd stranger's close disguise, Long has he pass'd all unsuspecting eyes, All but thy son's-and long has he supprest The well-concerted secret in his breast; Till his brave father should his foes defeat, And the close scheme of his revenge compleat." Swift as the word the queen transported sprung, And round the dame in strict embraces hung; Then, as the big round tears began to roll, Spoke the quick doubts and hurry of her soul. "If my victorious hero safe arrives, If my dear lord, Ulysses, still survives, Tell me, oh tell me, how he fought alone? How were such multitudes destroy'd by one?" "Nought I beheld, but heard their cries," she said,

"When Death flew raging, and the suitors bled: Immur'd we listen'd, as we sat around, To each deep groan and agonizing sound. Call'd by thy son to view the scene I fled, And saw Ulysses striding o'er the dead! Amidst the rising heaps the hero stood All grim, and terribly adorn'd with blood. "This is enough in conscience for this time: besides, I am desired, by Mr. Pope or Mr. Lintot, I don't know which, to write to Mr. Pope on a certain affair."

ON

HIS MAJESTY'S PLAYING WITH A TYGER

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS.

Prima dicte mihi, summa dicende Camœna, Hor.

AMIDST the den, the lions' prey,
Seal'd up for death the prophet lay;
But couch'd the hungry monsters sit,
And fawning lick his sacred feet;
Swift shot an angel from above,
And chang'd their fury into love.

As swift did Britain's genius fly,

And for her charge stand trembling by ;

> The words in Italic are copied by Mr. Pope. N.

When Brunswick, pious, brave, and wise,
Like him the favourite of the skies,
Play'd with the monster's dreadful teeth,
And sported with the fangs of Death.

Genius of Britain, spare thy fears,
For know, within, our sovereign wears
The surest guard; the best defence;
A firm untainted innocence.

So sweet an innocence disarms
The fiercest rage with powerful charms,
So far rebellion it beguiles,

That Faction bends; that Envy smiles;
That furious savages submit,

And pay due homage at his feet.

Britain! by this example prove
Thy duty, loyalty, and love.
See! the fierce brutes thy king caress,
And court him with a mute address;
Well mayst thou own his gentle sway,
If tigers bend, and savages obey.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET AND HIS SERVANT.

IN IMITATION OF HORACE, BOOK II. SAT. VII. To enter into the beauties of this satire, it must be remembered, that slaves, among the Romans, during the feasts of Saturn, wore their master's habits, and were allowed to say what they pleased.

SERVANT.

SIR,-I've long waited in my turn to have
A word with you-but I'm your humble slave.
P. What knave is that? my rascal!
S. Sir, 'tis I,
No knave nor rascal, but your trusty Guy.

P. Well, as your wages still are due, I'll bear
Your rude impertinence this time of year. [ever,
S. Some folks are drunk one day, and some for
And some, like Wharton, but twelve years together.
Old Evremond, renown'd for wit and dirt,
Would change his living oftener than his shirt;
Roar with the rakes of state a month; and come
To starve another in his hole at home.
So rov'd wild Buckingham the public jest,
Now some innholder's, now a monarch's guest;
His life and politics of every shape,
This hour a Roman, and the next an ape.
The gout in every limb from every vice,
Poor Clodio hir'd a boy to throw the dice.
Some wench for ever, and their sins on those,
By custom, sit as easy as their clothes.
Some fly, like pendulums, from good to evil,
And in that point are madder than the Devil:
For they

P. To what will these wild maxims tend? And where, sweet sir, will your reflections end? S. In you.

P. In me, you knave? make out your charge. S. You praise low living, but you live at large. Perhaps you scarce believe the rules you teach, Or find it hard to practice what you preach. Scarce have you paid one idle journey down, But, without business, you're again in town. If none invite you, sir, abroad to roam, Then-Lord, what pleasure 'tis to read at home: And sip your two half-pints, with great delight, Of beer at noon, and muddled port at night.

From Encome', John comes thundering at the door,
With "Sir, my master begs you to come o'er,
To pass these tedious hours, these winter nights,
Not that he dreads invasions, rogues, or sprites."
Straight for your two best wigs aloud you call,
This stiff in buckle, that not curl'd at all,
"And where, you rascal, are the spurs," you cry;
"And O! what blockhead laid the buskins by?"
On your old batter'd mare you'll needs be gone,
(No matter whether on four legs or none) [heath;
Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the
All swear at Morden 'tis on life or death;
Wildly through Wareham streets you scamper on,
Raise all the dogs and voters in the town;
Then fly for six long dirty miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston gentry think you mad.
And all this furious riding is to prove
Your high respect, it seems, and eager love:
And yet, that mighty honour to obtain,
Banks, Shaftesbury, Doddington, may send in vain.
Before you go, we curse the noise you make,
And bless the moment that you turn your back :
As for myself, I own it to your face,

I love good eating, and I take my glass:
But sure 'tis strange, dear sir, that this should be
In you amusement, but a fault in me.
All this is bare refining on a name,

To make a difference where the fault's the same.
My father sold me to your service here,
For this fine livery, and four pounds a year.
A livery you should wear as well as I,

And this I'll prove-but lay your cudgel by.
You serve your passions-Thus, without a jest,
Both are but fellow-servants at the best.
Yourself, good sir, are play'd by your desires,
A mere tall puppet dancing on the wires.

P. Who, at this rate of talking, can be free?
S. The brave, wise, honest man, and only he:
All else are slaves alike, the world around,
Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground:
He, sir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf,
And (greater still) is master of himself:
Not to-and-fro by fears and factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the interests of the world:

And while that world turns round, entire and whole,
He keeps the sacred tenour of his soul;
In every turn of fortune still the same,
As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame:
Collected in himself, with godlike pride,
He sees the darts of Envy glance aside;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempest blow,
Smiles at the idle storms that roar below.
One such you know, a layman, to your shame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name,
If you can such a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your slave again.

But when in Hemskirk's pictures you delight, More than yourself, to see two drunkards fight; "Fool, rogue, sot, blockhead," or such names are mine:

Your's are," a Connoiseur," or " Deep Divine."
I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,

The sacred prize of learning, worth, and wit:
And yet some sell their lands these bits to buy;
Then, pray, who suffers most from luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I seal no bonds, 1 mortgage no estate.

'The scat of John Pitt, esq. in Dorsetshire.

Besides, high living, sir, must wear you out With surfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout. By some new pleasures are you still engross'd, And when you save an hour, you think it lost. To sports, plays, races, from your books you run, And like all company, except your own. You hunt, drink, sleep, or (idler still) you rhyme; Why?-but to banish thought, and murder time: And yet that thought, which you discharge in vain,

Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.

P. Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a stone-
S. For what?

P. A sword, a pistol, or a gun :
I'll shoot the dog.

S. Lord! who would be a wit? He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.

P. Fly, fly, you rascal, for your spade and fork; For once I'll set your lazy bones to work: Fly, or I'll send you back, without a great, To the bleak mountains where you first were caught.

ODE TO JOHN PITT, ES2.

ADVISING HIM TO BUILD A BANQUETTING-HOUSE ON A
HILL THAT OVERLOOKS THE SEA.

FROM this tall promontory's brow
You look majestic down,

And see extended wide below

'Th' horizon all your own.

With growing piles the vales are crown'd,
Here hills peep over hills;
There the vast sky and sea profound
Th' increasing prospect fills;

O bid, my friend, a structure rise,
And this huge round command;
Then shall this little point comprise
The ocean and the land.

Then you, like Æolus,on high,
From your aerial tower,
Shall see secure the billows fly,

And hear the whirlwinds roar.

You, with a smile, their rage despise,
Till some sad wreck appears,

And calls, from your relenting eyes,
The sympathising tears.

Thus may you view, with proud delight,
While winds the deep deform,
(Till human woes your grief excite)
All nature in a storm.

Majestic, awful scene! when, hurl'd
On surges, surges rise,
And all the heaving watery world

Tumultuous mounts the skies.

The seas and thunder roar by turns,
By turns the peals expire:
The billows flash, and ether burns
With momentary fire.

But lo! the furious tempests cease,
The mighty rage subsides;
Old Ocean hush'd, in solemn peace,
Has still'd the murmuring tides.

Spread wide abroad, the glassy plain,
In various colours gay,
Reflects the glorious Sun again,

And doubly gilds the day.

Th' horizon glows from side to side,
And flames with glancing rays;
The floating, trembling, silver tide,
Is one continual blaze.

Your eyes the prospect now command,
All uncontrol'd and free,

Fly like a thought from land to land,
And dart from sea to sea.

Thus, while above the clouds we sit,
And innocently gay,
Pass in amusements, wine, or wit,
The sultry hours away;
Sometimes, with pity, or disdain,
In thought a glance we throw

Down on the poor, the proud, the vain,
In yonder world below.

We see, from this exalted seat,
(How shrunk, reduc'd, confin'd!)
The little person of the great,
As little as his mind.

See there-amidst the crowds our view
Some scatter'd virtues strike;

But those so throng'd, and these so few, The world looks all alike.

Yet, through this cloud of human-kind, The Talbots we survey,

The Pitts, the Yorkes, the Seckers find, Who shine in open day.

ODE TO JOHN PITT ESQ.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

O'ER curious models as you rove
The vales with piles to crown,
And great Palladio's plans improve
With nobler of your own;

O bid a structure o'er the floods

From this high mountain rise, Where we may sit enthron'd like gods, And revel in the skies.

Th' ascending breeze, at each repast,
Shall breathe an air divine,
Give a new brightness to the taste,
New spirit to the wine.

Or these low pleasuses we may quit
For banquets more refin'd,
The works of each immortal wit,
The luxury of the mind.

Plato, or Boyle's, or Newton's page,
Our towering thoughts shall raise,
Or Homer's fire, or Pindar's rage,
Or Virgil's lofty lays.

Or with amusive thoughts the sea
Shall entertain the mind,
While we the rolling scene survey,
An emblem of mankind.

Where, like sworn foes, successive all,
The furious surges run,
To urge their predecessor's fall,
Though follow'd by their own.

Where, like our moderns so profound,
Engag'd in dark dispute,

The scattles cast their ink around
To puzzle the dispute.

Where sharks, like shrewd directors, thrive,
Like lawyers, rob at will;

Where flying-fish, like trimmers live;
Like soldiers, sword-fish kill.

Where on the less the greater feed,
The tyrants of an hour,

Till the huge royal whale succeed,
And all at once devour.

Thus in the mortal world we now

Too truly understand,

Each monster of the sea below
Is match'd by one at land.

ON MRS. WALKER'S POEMS.

PARTICULARLY THAT ON THE AUTHOR.

Brusu, Wilmot, blush; a female Muse, Without one guilty line,

The tender theme of love pursues

In softer strains than thine.

'Tis thine the passion to blaspheme,
'Tis hers with wit and ease
(When a mere nothing is the theme)
Beyond thyself to please.

Then be to her the prize decreed,
Whose merit has prevail'd;
For what male poct can succeed,
If Rochester has fail'd?

Since Phoebus quite forgetful grows,
And has not yet thought fit,
In his high wisdom, to impose

A salique law on wit;

Since of your rights he takes no care,
Ye Priors, Popes, and Gays;
"Tis hard!--but let the women wear
The breeches and the bays.

VERSES ON A FLOWERED CARPET.
WORKED BY THE YOUNG LADIES AT KINGSTON.

WHEN Pallas saw the piece her pupils wrought,
She stood long wondering at the lovely draught:
And, Flora, now" (she cried)" no more display.
Thy flowers, the trifling beauties of a day:
For see! how these with life immortal bloom,
And spread and flourish for an age to come!
In what unguarded hour did I impart
To these fair virgins all my darling art?
In all my wit I saw these rivals shine,
But this one art I thought was always mine:
Yet lo! I yield; their mistress now no more,
But proud to learn from these I taught before.

Nay, my lord-mayor, with merriment possest,
Will break his nap, and laugh among the rest,
And jog the aldermen to hear the jest.
* * ** * *

INVITATION TO MR. DODINGTON1.

IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, BOOK I. EP. V.

IF Dodington will condescend

To visit a poetic friend,

And leave a numerous bill of fare,
For four or five plain dishes here;
No costly welcome, but a kind
He and his friends will always find;
A plain, but clean and spacious room,
The master and his heart at home,
A cellar open as his face,

A dinner shorter than his grace;
Your mutton comes from Pimpern-down,
Your fish (if any) from the town;
Our rogues, indeed, of late, o'eraw'd,
By human laws, not those of God,
No venison steal, or none they bring.
Or send it all to master King';

And yet, perhaps, some venturous spark
May bring it, now the nights are dark.
Punch I have store, and beer beside,
And port that's good, though frenchified.
Then, if you come, I'm sure to get
From Eastbery 3-a desert—of wit.

One line, good sir, to name the day, And your petitioner will pray, &c.

MR. R. PITT, TO HIS BROTHER C. PITT,
ON HIS HAVING A FIT OF THE COUT.

AMONG the well-bred natives of our isle,
"I kiss your hand, sir," is the modish style;
In humbler manner, as my fate is low,
I beg to kiss your venerable toe,

Not old Infallibility can have

Profounder reverence from its meanest slave.

What dignity attends the solemn gout! What conscious greatness if the heart be stout! Methinks I see you o'er the house preside, In painful majesty and decent pride, With leg tost high, on stately sofa sit, More like a sultan than a modern wit; Quick at your call the trembling slaves appear, Advance with caution, and retire with fear; Ev'n Peggy trembles, though (or authors fail) At times the anti-salic laws prevail.

Now, "Lord have mercy on poor Dick!" say I; "Where's the lac'd shoe-who laid the flannel by?" Within 'tis hurry, the house seems possest ; Without, the horses wonder at their rest. What terrible dismay, what scenes of care! Why is the sooty Mintrem's hopeful heir Before the morning-dawn compell'd to rise, And give attendance with his half-shut eyes!

1 Created Lord Melcombe in 1761.

2 The Blandford carrier. }
3 Mr. Dodington's seat at that time.

* Mr. Pitt's servant, the son of a blacksmith.

What makes that girl with hideous visage stare?
What fiends prevent Ead's' journey to the fair??
Why all this noise, this bustle and this rout?
"Oh, nothing-but poor master has the gout."
Meantime, superior to the pains below,
Your thoughts in soaring meditations flow,
In rapturous trance on Virgil's genius dwell,
To us, poor mortals, his strong beauties tell,
And, like Æneas, from your couch of state,
In all the pomp of words display the Trojan fate.
Can nothing your aspiring thoughts restrain?
Or does the Muse suspend the rage of pain?
Awhile give o'er your rage; in sickness prove
Like other mortals, if you'd pity move:
Think not your friends compassionate can be,
When such the product of disease they see;
Your sharpest pangs but add to our delight,
We'll wish you still the Gout, if still you write.

WRITTEN IN THE FOLDS OF A PIN-
PAPER.

Or old, a hundred Cyclops strove
To forge the thunderbolt for Jove;
I too employ a hundred hands,
And travel through as many lands.
A head I have, though very small,
But then I have no brains at all.
The miser locks me up with care,
Close as his money, all the year.
When John and Joan are both at strife,
'Tis I find money for the wife.
At court I make the ladies shine,
I grace ev'n gracious Caroline :
And, though I often take my way
Through town and country, land and sea,
I'm neither fish, nor flesh, nor herring,
And now I live with goody Verring',

DE MINIMIS MAXIMA.

AUTORE LUDOVICO DUNCOMBE.

EXIGUA Crescit de glande altissima quercus,

Et tandem patulis surgit in astra comis: Dumque anni pergunt, crescit latissima moles; Mox secat æquoreas bellica navis æquas. Angliacis hinc fama, salus hinc nascitur oris, Et glans est nostri præsidium imperii.

TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING, BY MR. Pitt.

FROM a small acorn, see! the oak arise,
Supremely tall, and towering in the skies!

1 Another servant of Mr. Pitt.

2 Blandford fair; two miles from Pimper, Mr. Pitt's rectory, where he was born, and where he died, April 13, 1748, aged 48. See his epitaph in Hutchins's Dorset, I. 82. N.

'A seller of pins at Blandford. Pitt.

* See this ingenious young gentleman's verses to the memory of Mr. Hughes, in vol. X. He was second son of John Duncombe, Esq. of Stocks; and died at Merton College, Oxford, where he was a gentleman commoner, Dec. 26, 1730, in the twentieth year of his age. N.