Manhood shall steal an hour, a little hour, (Is 't not a little one?) to hail my pow'r.

Old age, a second child, by Nature curs'd
With more and greater evils than the first,
Weak, sickly, full of pains; in ev'ry breath
Railing at life, and yet afraid of death;
Putting things off, with sage and solemn air,
From day to day, without one day to spare;
Without enjoyment, covetous of pelf,
Tiresome to friends, and tiresome to himself;
His faculties impair'd, his temper sour'd,
His memory of recent things devour'd
E'en with the acting on his shatter'd brain,
Though the false registers of youth remain ;
From morn to evening babbling forth vain praise
Of those rare men who liv'd in those rare days,
When he, the hero of his tale, was young;
Dull repetitions falt'ring on his tongue,
Praising grey hairs, sure mark of Wisdom's sway,
E'en whilst he curses Time which made him gray;
Scoffing at youth, e'en whilst he would afford
All but his gold to have his youth restor❜d;
Shall for a moment, from himself set free,
Lean on his crutch, and pipe forth praise to me.
Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites, rejoice;
Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,
The voice of gladness, and on ev'ry tongue,
In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,
The praises of so great and good a king;
Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?
Things without life shall in this chorus join,
And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.
The snowdrop, who, in habit white and plain,
Comes on, the herald of fair Flora's train;
The coxcomb crocus, flow'r of simple note,
Who by her side struts in a herald's coat;
The tulip, idly glaring to the view,
Who, though no clown, his birth from Holland drew,
Who, once full dress'd, fears from his place to stir,
The fop of flow'rs, the more of a parterre;
The woodbine, who her elm in marriage meets,
And brings her dowry in surrounding sweets;
The lily, silver mistress of the vale;

The rose of Sharon which perfumes the gale;
The jessamine, with which the queen of flow'rs
To charm her God adorns his fav'rite bow'rs,
Which brides, by the plain hand of Neatness drest,
Unenvied rival, wear upon their breast,
Sweet as the incense of the morn, and chaste
As the pure zone which circles Dian's waist;
All flow'rs, of various names, and various forms,
Which the Sun into strength and beauty warms,
From the dwarf daisy, which, like infants, clings,
And fears to leave the earth from whence it springs,
To the proud giant of the garden race,
Who, madly rushing to the Sun's embrace,
O'ertops her fellows with aspiring aim,
Demands his wedded love, and bears his name;
All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,
And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.
Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites, rejoice;
Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,
The voice of gladness, and on ev'ry tongue,
In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,
The praises of so great and good a king;
Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?
Forming a gloom, through which to spleen-struck
Religion, horrour-stamp'd, a passage finds, [minds
The ivy crawling o'er the hallow'd cell,
Where some old hermit's wont his beads to tell

By day, by night; the myrile ever-green,
Beneath whose shade Love holds his rites unseen;
The willow weeping o'er the fatal wave
Where many a lover finds a wať'ry grave;
The cypress sacred held, when lovers mourn
Their true love snatch'd away; the laurel worn
By poets in old time, but destin'd now
In grief to wither on a Whitehead's brow;
The fig, which, large as what in India grows,
Itself a grove, gave our first parents clothes;
The vine, which, like a blushing new-made bride,
Clust'ring, empurples all the mountain's side;
The yew, which, in the place of sculptur'd stone,
Marks out the resting-place of men unknown;
The hedge-row elm, the pine of mountain race,
The fir, the Scotch fir, never out of place;
The cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud,
Whilst his old father Lebanon grows proud
Of such a child, and his vast body laid
Out many a mile, enjoys the filial shade;
The oak, when living, monarch of the wood;
The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood;
All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,
And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.
Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites, rejoice;
Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,
The voice of gladness, and on ev'ry tongue,
In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,
The praises of so great and good a king;
Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?
The show'rs which make the young hills, like
young lambs,

Bound and rebound; the old hills, like old rams,
Unwieldy, jump for joy; the streams which glide,
Whilst Plenty marches smiling by their side,
And from their bosom rising Commerce springs;
The winds which rise with healing on their wings,
Before whose cleansing breath contagion flies;
The Sun, who, travelling in eastern skies,
Fresh, full of strength, just risen from his bed,
Though in Jove's pastures they were born and bred,
With voice and whip, can scarce make his steeds

stir,

Step by step, up the perpendicular;
Who, at the hour of eve, panting for rest,
Rolls on amain, and gallops down the west,
As fast as Jehu, oil'd for Ahab's sin,
Drove for a crown, or post-boys for an inn;
The Moon, who holds o'er night her silver reign,
Regent of tides, and mistress of the brain,
Who to her sons, those sons who own her pow'r,
And do her homage at the midnight hour,
Gives madness as a blessing, but dispenses
Wisdom to fools, and damns them with their senses;
The stars, who, by I know not what strange right,
Preside o'er mortals in their own despite,
Who without reason govern those, who most
(How truly, judge from thence!) of reason boast,
And, by some mighty magic yet unknown,
Our actions guide, yet cannot guide their own;
All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,
And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.
Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites, rejoice;
Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,
The voice of gladness, and on ev'ry tongue,
In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,
The praises of so great and good a king;
Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?

The moment, minute, hour, day, week, month, year, Morning and eve, as they in turn appear;

Moments and minutes which, without a crime,
Can't be omitted in accounts of time,
Or, if omitted, (proof we might afford)
Worthy by parliaments to be restor❜d;

The Hours, which drest by turns in black and white,
Ordain'd as handmaids, wait on Day and Night;
The day, those hours I mean when light presides,
And Business in a cart with Prudence rides;
The night, those hours I mean with darkness hung,
When Sense speaks free, and Folly holds her tongue;
The morn, when Nature, rousing from her strife
With death-like sleep, awakes to second life;
The eve, when, as unequal to the task,

She mercy from her foe descends to ask;

The week, in which six days are kindly given

To think of Earth, and one to think of Heaven;
The Months, twelve sisters all of different hue,
Though there appears in all a likeness too;
Not such a likeness, as, through Hayman's works,
Dull mannerist, in Christians, Jews, and Turks,
Cloys with a sameness in each female face,
But a strange something, born of Art and Grace,
Which speaks them all, to vary and adorn,
At diff'rent times of the same parents born;
All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,
And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.
Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites, rejoice;
Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,
The voice of gladness, and on ev'ry tongue,
In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,
The praises of so great and good a king;
Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?
Frore January, leader of the year,
Mince-pies in van, and calves-heads in the rear;
Dull February, in whose leaden reign

My mother bore a bard without a brain; [cheeks,
March various, fierce, and wild, with wind-crack'd
By wilder Welshmen led, and crown'd with leeks!
April with fools, and May with bastards blest;
June with with white roses on her rebel breast;
July, to whom, the dog-star in her train,
Saint James gives oysters, and Saint Swithin rain;
August, who, banish'd from her Smithfield stand,
To Chelsea flies, with Dogget in her hand 2;
September, when by custom (right divine)
Geese are ordain'd to bleed at Michael's shrine,
Whilst the priest, not so full of grace as wit,
Falls to, unbless'd, nor gives the saint a bit;
October, who the cause of Freedom join'd,
And gave a second George to bless mankind;
November, who at once to grace our earth,
Saint Andrew boasts, and our Augusta's 3 birth;
December, last of months, but best, who gave
A Christ to man, a Saviour to the slave,
Whilst, falsely grateful, man, at the full feast,
To do God honour, makes himself a beast;
All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,
And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.
Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites, rejoice;
Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,
The voice of gladness, and on ev'ry tongue,
In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,
The praises of so great and good a king;
Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?
The seasons as they roll; Spring, by her side
Letch'ry and Lent, Lay-folly, and Church-pride,

'Dogget the celebrated comedian's badge, rowed for on the first of August.

› Princess Dowager of Wales,

By a rank monk to copulation led,
A tub of sainted salt-fish on her head;
Summer, in light, transparent gauze array'd,
Like maids of honour at a masquerade,

In bawdry gauze, for which our daughters leave
The fig, more modest, first brought up by Eve,
Panting for breath, inflam'd with lustful fires,
Yet wanting strength to perfect her desires,
Leaning on Sloth, who, fainting with the heat,
Stops at each step, and slumbers on his feet;
Autumn, when Nature, who with sorrow feels
Her dread foe Winter treading on her heels,
Makes up in value what she wants in length,
Exerts her pow'rs, and puts forth all her strength,
Bids corn and fruits in full perfection rise,
Corn fairly tax'd, and fruits without excise;
Winter, benumb'd with cold, no longer known
By robes of fur, since furs became our own;
A hag, who, loathing all, by all is loath'd,
With weekly, daily, hourly libels cloth'd,
Vile Faction at her heels, who, mighty grown,
Would rule the ruler, and foreclose the throne,
Would turn all state-affairs into a trade,
Make laws one day, the next to be unmade,
Beggar at home a people fear'd abroad,
And, force defeated, make them slaves by fraud;
All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,
And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites, rejoice;
Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,
The voice of gladness, and on ev'ry tongue,
In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,
The praises of so great and good a king:
Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?
The year, grand circle, in whose ample round
The seasons regular and fix'd are bound,
(Who, in his course repeated o'er and o'er,
Sees the same things which he had seen before;
The same stars keep their watch, and the same Sun
Runs in the track where he from first hath run;
The same Moon rules the night; tides ebb and flow;
Man is a puppet, and this world a show:
Their old dull follies old dull fools pursue,
And vice in nothing but in mode is new;
He ➖➖➖ a lord (now fair befall that pride,
He liv'd a villain, but a lord he died)
Dashwood is pious, Berkeley fix'd as fate 4,
Sandwich (thank Heav'n!) first minister of state;
And, though by fools despis'd, by saints unbless'd,
By friends neglected, and by foes oppress'd,
Scorning the servile arts of each court elf,
Founded on honour, Wilkes is still himself)
The gear, encirc'ed with the various train
Wn eh waits, and fills the glories of his reign,
Shall, taking up this theme, in chorus join,
And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.

Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites, rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness, and on ev'ry tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king; Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Thus far in sport-nor let our critics hence Who sell out monthly trash, and call it sense, Too lightly of our present labours deem, Or judge at random of so high a theme;

4 A phrase used by lord Bottetourt, then Norborne Berkeley, in an address to his electors.

High is our theme, and worthy are the men
To feel the sharpest stroke of Satire's pen;
But when kind Time a proper season brings,
In serious mood to treat of serious things,
Then shall they find, disdaining idle play,
That I can be as grave and dull as they.

Thus far in sport-nor let half patriots, those
Who shrink from ev'ry blast of pow'r which blows;
Who with tame Cowardice familiar grown,
Would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own;
Who (lest bold truths, to do sage Prudence spite,
Should burst the portals of their lips by night,
Tremble to trust themselves one hour in sleep)
Condemn our course, and hold our caution cheap.
When brave Occasion bids, for some great end
When Honour calls the poet as a friend,
Then shall they find, that, e'en on danger's brink,
He dares to speak, what they scarce dare to think.

BOOK II.

How much mistaken are the men, who think
That all who will, without restraint, may drink,
May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst,
Pleading no right but merely that of thirst,
At the pure waters of the living well,
Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell!
Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy,
A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy
May play untaught, whilst, without art or force,
Make it but jingle, music comes of course.

Little do such men know the toil, the pains,
The daily, nightly racking of the brains,
To range the thoughts, the matter to digest,
To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest;

To know the times when Humour on the cheek
Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should
speak,

And when be silent; when to use the pow'rs
Of ornament, and how to place the flow'rs,
So that they neither give a tawdry glare,
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;
To form (which few can do, and scarcely one,
One critic in an age can find, when done)
To form a plan, to strike a grand outline,
To fill it up, and make the picture shine
A full, and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme
Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time;
To make proud Sense against her nature bend,
And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend.
Some fops there are, among the scribbling tribe,
Who make it all their business to describe,
No matter whether in, or out of place;
Studious of finery, and fond of lace,
Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings,
The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings.
Let dull Propriety in state preside

O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide,
Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence
Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense,
Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime
Of keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time.
Let liquid gold emblaze the Sun at noon,
With borrow'd beams let silver pale the Moon,
Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore,
Let streams meander, and let torrents roar,
Let them breed up the melancholy breeze
To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees,

Let vales embroid'ry wear, let flow'rs be ting'd
With various tints, let clouds be lac'd or fring'd,
They have their wish; like idle monarch boys,
Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys:
Give them the crown, the sceptre, and the robe,
Who will may take the pow'r, and rule the globe.
Others there are, who, in one solemn pace,
With as much zeal as quakers rail at lace,
Railing at needful ornament, depend

On Sense to bring them to their journey's end.
They would not (Heav'n forbid!) their course delay,
Nor for a moment step out of their way,
To make the barren road those graces wear,
Which Nature would, if pleas'd, have planted there.
Vain men! who, blindly thwarting Nature's plan,
Ne'er find a passage to the heart of man;
Who, bred 'mongst fogs in academic land,
Scorn ev'ry thing they do not understand;
Who, destitute of humour, wit, and taste,
Let all their little knowledge run to waste,
And frustrate each good purpose, whilst they wear
The robes of Learning with a sloven's air.
Though solid reas'ning arms each sterling line,
Though Truth declares aloud, "This work is mine,"
Vice, whilst from page to page dull morals creep,
Throws by the book, and Virtue falls asleep.

Sense, mere, dull, formal Sense, in this gay town
Must have some vehicle to pass her down,
Nor can she for an hour ensure her reign,
Unless she brings fair Pleasure in her train.
Let her, from day to day, from year to year,
In all her grave solemnities appear,

And, with the voice of trumpets, through the streets
Deal lectures out to ev'ry one she meets,
Half who pass by are deaf, and t' other half
Can hear indeed, but only hear to laugh.

Quit then, ye graver sons of letter'd Pride,
Taking for once Experience as a guide,
Quit this grand errour, this dull college mode;
Be your pursuits the same, but change the road;
Write, or at least appear to write with ease,
And, if you mean to profit, learn to please.

In vain for such mistakes they pardon claim,
Because they wield the pen in Virtue's name.
Thrice sacred is that name, thrice bless'd the man
Who thinks, speaks, writes, and lives on such a plan
This, in himself, himself of course must bless,
But cannot with the world promote success.
He may be strong, but with effect to speak,
Should recollect his readers may be weak;
Plain, rigid truths, which saints with comfort bear,
Will make the sinner tremble, and despair.
True Virtue acts from love, and the great end
At which she nobly aims, is to amend;
How then do those mistake, who arm her laws
With rigour not their own, and hurt the cause
They mean to help, whilst with a zealot rage
They make that goddess, whom they'd have engage
Our dearest love, in hideous terrour rise!
Such may be honest, but they can't be wise.

In her own full, and perfect blaze of light,
Virtue breaks forth too strong for human sight;
The dazzled eye, that nice but weaker sense,
Shuts herself up in darkness for defence.
But, to make strong conviction deeper sink,
To make the callous feel, the thoughtless think,
Like God made Man, she lays her glory by,
And beams mild comfort on the ravish'd eye.
In earnest most, when most she seems in jest,
She worms into, and winds around the breast;