In fhort, fo well his part he play'd, Whate'er he was, he fwept the board, Won every bett, and every game; Strip'd even the Rooks, who ftampt and roar'd, Which ftill brought luck into his hand. Its fable spots, he laugh'd at rules, And Hoyle and Philidor were fools. And stick them in her peacock's tail. To twift her filk, or range her pins ; Or fhould the Mufes cut it out, For bridges to their violins. Το To Venus fhould the prize be given, And 'gainst the next great rout in heaven And bid her fill it full of verses. The Je ne fcai Quoi. A S O N G. 'Tis not her face which love creates, For there no graces revel; 'Tis not her shape, for there the fates Have rather been uncivil. III. "Tis not her air, for fure in that There's nothing more than common; And all her fenfe is only chat, Like any other woman. - Her IV. Her voice, her touch might give th' alarm- In short, 'twas that provoking charm An O DE On a distant Profpect of ETON COLLEGE. YE By Mr. GRAY. E diftant fpires, ye antique towers, Where grateful science still adores And ye that from the stately brow Of WINDSOR'S heights th' expanfe below Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey, Whofe turf, whofe fhade, whofe flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His filver-winding way. Ah happy hills, ah pleafing fhade, Ah fields belov'd in vain, Where once my careless childhood ftray'd, A ftranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary blifs beftow, As As waving fresh their gladfome wing, Say, father THAMES, for thou haft feen Full many a sprightly race Difporting on thy margent green, Who foremost now delight to cleave To chase the rolling circle's speed, While fome on earnest business bent Their murm'ring labours ply, 'Gainft graver hours, that bring constraint To fweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers difdain The limits of their little reign, Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Theirs buxom health of rofy hue, Alafs, regardless of their doom, No fenfe have they of ills to come, Yet fee how all around 'em wait The minifters of human fate, And black misfortune's baleful train! These fhall the fury paffions tear, The vultures of the mind, Difdainful anger, pallid fear, And shame that fculks behind; Or pineing love fhall wafte their youth, Ambition this fhall tempt to rife, And grinning infamy; |