With every charm her mind I grac'd,
I gave her prudence, knowledge, taste."
"Hold, madam," interrupted Venus,
"The lady must be shar'd between us:
And surely mine is yonder grove,
So fine, so dark, so fit for love;
Trees, such as in th' Idalian glade,
Or Cyprian lawn, my palace shade."
Then Oreads, Dryads, Naiads, came;
Each nymph alleg'd her lawful claim.
But Jove, to finish the debate,
Thus spoke, and what he speaks is fate:
"Nor god nor goddess, great or small,
That dwelling his or her's may call;
I made Mount Edgecumbe for you all."

INVITATION.

To the Dowager dutchess d'aiguillon.

WHEN Peace shall, on her downy wing,
To France and England Friendship bring,
Come, Aiguillon, and here receive
That homage we delight to give
To foreign talents, foreign charms,
To worth which Envy's self disarms
Of jealous hatred: come and love
That nation which you now approve.
So shall by France amends be made
(If such a debt can e'er be paid)
For having with seducing art
From Britain stol'n her Hervey's heart.

Then shalt thou tell what various talents join'd,
Adorn, embellish, and exalt his mind;
Learning and wit, with sweet politeness grac'd;
Wisdom by guile or cunning undebas'd;
By pride unsullied, genuine dignity;

A nobler and sublime simplicity.

Such in thy verse shall Nivernois be shown: France shall with joy the fair resemblance own; And Albion sighing bid her sons aspire

To imitate the merit they admire.

EPITAPH ON CAPTAIN GRENVILLE'

KILLED IN LORD ANSON'S ENGAGEMENT IN 1747.

YE weeping Muses, Graces, Virtues, tell
If, since your all-accomplish'd Sydney fell,
You, or afflicted Britain, e'er deplor'd
A loss like that these plaintive lays record!
Such spotless honour; such ingenuous truth;
Such ripen'd wisdom in the bloom of youth!
So mild, so gentle, so compos'd a mind,
To such heroic warmth and courage join'd;
He too, like Sydney, nurs'd in Learning's arms,
For nobler War forsook her softer charms:
Like him, possess'd of every pleasing art,
The secret wish of every female's heart:
Like him, cut off in youthful glory's pride,
He, unrepining, for his country dy`d.

ΤΟ

COLONEL DRUMGOLD.

DRUMGOLD, whose ancestors from Albion's shore
Their conquering standards to Hibernia bore,
Though now thy valour, to thy country lost,
Shines in the foremost ranks of Gallia's host,
Think not that France shall borrow all thy fame-
From British sires deriv'd thy genius came:
Its force, its energy, to these it ow'd,
Bat the fair polish Gallia's clime bestow'd:
The Graces there each ruder thought refin'd,
And liveliest wit with soundest sense combin'd.
They taught in sportive Fancy's gay attire
To dress the gravest of th' Aonian choir,
And gave to sober Wisdom's wrinkled cheek

The smile that dwells in Hebe's dimple sleek.

Pay to each realm the debt that each may ask:

Be thine, and thine alone, the pleasing task,
In purest elegance of Gallic phrase
To clothe the spirit of the British lays.
Thus every flower which every Muse's hand
Has rais'd profuse in Britain's favourite land,
By thee transplanted to the banks of Seine,
Its sweetest native odours shall retain.
And when thy noble friend, with olive crown'd,
In Concord's golden chain has firmly bound
The rival nations, thou for both shalt raise
The grateful song to his immortal praise.
Albion shall think she bears her Prior sing;
And France, that Boileau strikes the tuneful string,

ON GOOD-HUMOUR.

WRITTEN AT ETON-SCHOOL, 1729.

TELL me, ye sons of Phoebus, what is this
Which all admire, but few, too few, possess?
A virtue 'tis to ancient maids unknown,
And prudes, who spy all faults except their own.
Lov'd and defended by the brave and wise,
Though knaves abuse it, and like fools despise.
Say, Wyndham, if 'tis possible to tell,
What is the thing in which you most excel?
Hard is the question, for in all you please;
Yet sure good-nature is your noblest praise;
Secur'd by this, your parts no envy move,
For none can envy him whom all must love.
This magic power can make ev'n folly please,
This to Pitt's genius adds a brighter grace,
And sweetens every charm in Cælia's face.

These verses having been originally written when the author was in opposition, concluded thus, (much better, perhaps, than at present):

But nobler far, and greater is the praise
So bright to shine in these degenerate days:
An age of heroes kindled Sidney's fire;

His inborn worth alone could Grenville's deeds inspire.

But some years after, when his lordship was with ministry, he erased these four lines. See Gent. Mag. vol. xlix. p. 601. N.

SOME ADDITIONAL STANZAS

ΤΟ

ASTOLFO'S VOYAGE TO THE MOON,

IN ARIOSTO.

WHEN now Astolfo, stor'd within a vase,

Orlando's wits had safely brought away; He turn'd his eyes towards another place, Where, closely cork'd, unnumber'd bottles lay.

Of finest crystal were those bottles made,

Yet what was there enclos'd he could not see:/ Wherefore in humble wise the saint he pray'd, To tell what treasure there conceal'd might be.

"A wondrous thing it is," the saint replied, "Yet undefin'd by any mortal wight; An airy essence, not to be descried,

Subtle and thin, that MAIDENHEAD is hight.

"From Earth each day in troops they hither

come,

And fill each hole and corner of the Moon; For they are never easy while at home,

Nor ever owner thought them gone too soon.

"When here arriv'd, they are in bottles pent, For fear they should evaporate again; And hard it is a prison to invent,

So volatile a spirit to retain.

"Those that to young and wanton girls belong Leap, bounce, and fly, as if they 'd burst the glass:

But those that have below been kept too long
Are spiritless, and quite decay'd, alas !"

So spake the saint, and wonder seiz'd the knight,
As of each vessel he th' inscription read;
For various secrets there were brought to light;
Of which report on Earth had nothing said.

Virginities, that close confin'd he thought

In t' other world, he found above the sky; His sister's and his cousin's there were brought, Which made him swear, though good St. John was by.

But much his wrath increas'd, when he espied That which was Chloe's once, his mistress dear: Ah, false and treacherous fugitive!" he cried, "Little I deem'd that I should meet thee here.

"Did not thy owner, when we parted last,

Promise to keep thee safe for me alone? Scarce of our absence three short months are past, And thou already from thy post art flown.

"Be not enrag'd," replied th' apostle kind"Since that this maidenhead is thine by right, Take it away; and, when thou hast a mind,

Carry it thither whence it took its flight."

"Thanks, holy father!" quoth the joyous knight, "The Moon shall be no loser by your grace: Let me but have the use on 't for a night, And I'll restore it to its present place."

TO A YOUNG LADY.

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF VENICE PRESERVED.

IN tender Otway's moving scenes we find
What power the gods have to your sex assign'd:
Venice was lost, if on the brink of fate
A woman had not propt her sinking state:
In the dark danger of that dreadful hour,
Vain was her senate's wisdom, vain its power;
But, sav'd by Belvidera's charming tears,
Still o'er the subject main her towers she rears,
And stands a great example to mankind,
With what a boundless sway you rule the mind,
Skilful the worst or noblest ends to serve,
And strong alike to ruin or preserve.

In wretched Jaffier, we with pity view
A mind, to houour false, to virtue true,
In the wild storm of struggling passions tost,
Yet saving innocence, though fame was lost;
Greatly forgetting what he ow'd his friend-
His country, which had wrong'd him, to defend.
But she, who urg'd him to that pious deed,
Who knew so well the patriot's cause to plead,
Whose conquering love her country's safety won,
Was, by that fatal love, herself undone.

"Hence may we learn, what passion fain would hide,

That Hymen's bands by prudence should be tied,
Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown,
If angry Fortune on their union frown:
Soon will the flattering dreams of joys be o'er,
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more;
Then, waking to the sense of lasting pain,
With mutual tears the bridal couch they stain:
And that fond love, which should afford relief,
Does but augment the anguish of their grief:
While both could easier their own sorrows bear,
Than the sad knowledge of each other's care."

May all the joys in Love and Fortune's power
Kindly combine to grace your nuptial hour!
On each glad day may plenty shower delight,
And warmest rapture bless each welcome night!
May Heaven, that gave you Belvidera's charms,
Destine some happier Jaffier to your arms,
Whose bliss misfortune never may allay,
Whose fondness never may through care decay;
Whose wealth may place you in the fairest light,
And force each modest beauty into sight!
So shall no anxious want your peace destroy,
No tempest crush the tender buds of joy;
But all your hours in one gay circle move,
Nor Reason ever disagree with Love!

ELEGY.

TELL me, my heart, fond slave of hopeless love,
And doom'd its woes, without its joys to prove,
Canst thou endure thus calmly to erase
The dear, dear image of thy Delia's face?

'The twelve following lines, with some small variations, already have been printed in Advice to a Lady, p. 175; but, as lord Lyttelton chose to introduce them here, it was thought more eligible to repeat these few lines, than to suppress the rest of the poem.

Canst thou exclude that habitant divine,
To place some meaner idol in her shrine ?
O task, for feeble reason too severe !

O lesson, nought could teach me but despair!
Must I forbid my eyes that heavenly sight,
They 've view'd so oft with languishing delight?
Must my ears shun that voice, whose charming sound
Seem'd to relieve, while it increas'd, my wound?
O Waller! Petrarch! you who tun'd the lyre
To the soft notes of elegant desire;
Though Sidney to a rival gave her charms,
Though Laura dying left her lover's arms,
Yet were your pains less exquisite than mine,
'Tis easier far to lose, than to resign!

INSCRIPTION

FOR A BUST OF LADY SUFFOLK ;

DESIGNED TO BE SET UP IN A WOOD AT STOWE. 1732.

HER wit and beauty for a court were made: But truth and goodness fit her for a shade.

SULPICIA TO CERINTHUS,

IN HER SICKNESS.

FROM TIBULLUS.

(SENT TO A FRIEND, IN A LADY'S NAME.) SAY, my Cerinthus, does thy tender breast Feel the same feverish heats that mine molest? Alas! I only wish for health again, Because I think my lover shares my pain: For what would health avail to wretched me, If you could, unconcern'd, my illness see?

SULPICIA TO CERINTHUS.

I'm weary of this tedious dull deceit;
Myself I torture, while the world I cheat:
Though Prudence bids me strive to guard my fame,
Love sees the low hypocrisy with shame;
Love bids me all confess, and call thee mine,
Worthy my heart, as I am worthy thine:
Weakness for thee I will no longer hide;
Weakness for thee is woman's noblest pride.

CATO'S SPEECH TO LABIENUS,

IN THE NINTH BOOK OF LUCAN,

(Quid quæri, Labiene, jubes, &c.)
WHAT, Labienus, would thy fond desire,
Of horned Jove's prophetic shrine inquire?
Whether to seek in arms a glorious doom,
Or basely live, and be a king in Rome?
If life be nothing more than death's delay;
If impious force can honest minds dismay,
Or probity may Fortune's frown disdain;
If well to mean is all that virtue can;
And right, dependant on itself alone,

Gains no addition from success?-'Tis known;

Fix'd in my heart these constant truths I bear,
And Ammon cannot write them deeper there.
Our souls, allied to God, within them feel
The secret dictates of the almighty will:
This is his voice, be this our oracle.
When first his breath the seeds of life instill'd,
All that we ought to know was then reveal'd.
Nor can we think the omnipresent mind
Has truth to Libya's desert sands confin'd,
There, known to few, obscur'd, and lost, to lie-
Is there a temple of the Deity,

Except earth, sea, and air, yon azure pole;
And chief, his holiest shrine, the virtuous soul?
Where'er the eye can pierce, the feet can move,
This wide, this boundless universe is Jove.
Let abject minds, that doubt because they fear,
With pious awe to juggling priests repair;
I credit not what lying prophets tell-
Death is the only certain oracle.

Cowards and brave must die one destin'd hour-
This Jove has told; he needs not tell us more.

TO MR. GLOVER;

ON HIS POEM OF LEONIDAS.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1724.

Go on, my friend, the noble task pursue,
And think thy genius is thy country's due;
To vulgar wits inferior themes belong,
But liberty and virtue claim thy song.
Yet cease to hope, though grac'd with every charm,
The patriot verse will cold Britannia warm ;
Vainly thou striv'st our languid hearts to raise,
By great examples drawn from better days:
No longer we to Sparta's fame aspire,
What Sparta scorn'd, instructed to admire;
Nurs'd in the love of wealth, and form'd to bend
Our narrow thoughts to that inglorious end:
No generous purpose can enlarge the mind,
No social care, no labour for mankind,
Where mean self-interest every action guides,
In camps commands, in cabinets presides;
And bids the villain be a slave for more.
Where Luxury consumes the guilty store,

Hence, wretched nation, all thy woes arise,
Avow'd corruption, licens'd perjuries,
Eternal taxes, treaties for a day,
Servants that rule, and senates that obey.

O people, far unlike the Grecian race,
That deems a virtuous poverty disgrace,
That suffers public wrongs and public shame,
In council insolent, in action tame!
Say, what is now th' ambition of the great? /
Is it to raise their country's sinking state;
Her load of debt to ease by frugal care,
Her trade to guard, her harass'd poor to spare?
Is it, like honest Somers, to inspire

The love of laws, and freedom's sacred fire?
Is it, like wise Godolphin, to sustain

The balanc'd world, and boundless power restrain?
Or is the mighty aim of all their toil,
Only to aid the wreck, and share the spoil?
On each relation, friend, dependant, pour,
With partial wantonness, the golden shower,
And, fenc'd by strong corruption, to despise
An injur'd nation's unavailing cries!