Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.
With hairy springes we the birds betray,
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,
And beauty draws us with a single hair.

The adventurous Baron the bright locks admire;
He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspired.
Resolved to win, he meditates the way,
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;
For when success a lover's toil attends,
Few ask, if fraud or force attained his ends.

But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill!
Just then Clarissa drew, with tempting grace,
A two-edged weapon from her shining case:
So ladies in romance assist their knight,
Present the spear and arm him for the fight.
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends
The little engine on his fingers' ends;
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.
Swift to the Lock a thousand sprites repair,
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair;
And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear;
Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near.
Just in that instant anxious Ariel sought
The close recesses of the virgin's thought:
As on the nosegay in her breast reclined,
He watch'd the ideas rising in her mind,
Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art,
An earthly lover lurking at her heart.
Amazed, confused, he found his power expired,
Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retired.

The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide,
To enclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide.
Even then, before the fatal engine closed,
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed;
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain,
(But airy substance soon unites again ;)
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever!

Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies; Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast, When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last; Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high, In glittering dust and painted fragments lie!

FROM "THE DUNCIAD."

BUT, high above, more solid learning shone,
The classics of an age that heard of none;
There Caxton slept, with Wynkyn at his side,
One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide;
There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year,
Dry bodies of divinity appear:

De Lyra there a dreadful front extends,
And hear the groaning shelves Philemon bends.
Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size,
Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies,
Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise:
An hecatomb of pure unsullied lays
That altar crowns: a folio commonplace
Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base:
Quartos, octavos, shape the lessening pyre;
A twisted birthday ode completes the spire.
Then he: Great tamer of all human art!
First in my care, and ever at my heart;
Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend,
With whom my muse began, with whom shall end;
E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig was praise,
To the last honours of the Butt and Bays:
O thou! of business the directing soul!

To this our head like bias to the bowl,

Which, as more ponderous, made its aim more true,
Obliquely waddling to the mark in view:
Oh! ever gracious to perplex'd mankind,
Still spread a healing mist before the mind;
And lest we err by wit's wild dancing light,
Secure us kindly in our native night.
Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence,
Guard the sure barrier between that and sense;
Or quite unravel all the reasoning thread,

And hang some curious cobweb in its stead!
As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly,
And ponderous slugs cut swiftly through the sky;
As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe,
The wheels above urged by the load below:
Me emptiness, and dulness could inspire,
And were my elasticity, and fire.

Some demon stole my pen (forgive the offence)
And once betray'd me into common sense:
Else all my prose and verse were much the same;
This, prose on stilts; that, poetry fallen lame.
Did on the stage my fops appear confined?
My life gave ampler lessons to mankind.
Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove?
The brisk example never fail'd to move.
Yet sure had Heaven decreed to save the state,
Heaven had decreed these works a longer date.
Could Troy be saved by any single hand,
This gray-goose weapon must have made her stand.

FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

P. Shut up the door, good John! fatigued I said,
Tie up the knocker; say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dog-star rages? nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All bedlam or Parnassus is let out:

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Even Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me;
Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson, much bemused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross ?

Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls!
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain

Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and to my works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my life!-which did you not prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song—
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;

If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I,
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility; I read

With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

This saving counsel: "Keep your piece nine years."
Bless me! a packet-"'Tis a stranger sues,

A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse."

If I dislike it, "furies, death, and rage!
If I approve, "commend it to the stage."
There-thank my stars-my whole commission ends,
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

Fired that the house reject him, "Sdeath! I'll print it,
And shame the fools—your interest, sir, with Lintot."
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much :
"Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch."
All my demurs but double his attacks:
At last he whispers: "Do, and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
"Sir, let me see your works and you no more."
You think this cruel? Take it for a rule,
No creature smarts so little as a fool.

John Gay.

{

Born 1688.

Died 1732.

Was born at Barnstaple, Devon, in 1688, of an old but decayed family. He was apprenticed to a silk mercer in London, but he soon showed such a dislike to the business that his master cancelled his indentures, and he was free to follow his taste for literary pursuits. In 1713 he published his "Rural Sports," which gained him the acquaintance of Pope; and in

1714 appeared "The Shepherd's Week," which, being a true picture of rural life, became very popular. In 1715 he brought out "What d'ye call it ?" a comic drama which met with little favour. This was followed in 1716 by "Trivia" and "The Fan." Gay had obtained in 1714 the post of secretary of the embassy to Hanover; but he was quite unfit for the duties, and returned to England in a couple of months. In 1720 he published a collected edition of his poems by subscription, which brought him about L.1000, and in 1726 he cleared about L.700 by "The Beggar's Opera." Gay is also known as a writer of fables; one volume was published in 1726, and the other after his death, which occurred on 4th December 1732. He was buried in Westminster Abbey.

ETERNITY.

ERE the foundations of the world were laid,
Ere kindling light th' Almighty word obeyed,
Thou wert; and when the subterraneous flame
Shall burst its prison, and devour this frame,
From angry heaven when the keen lightning flies,
When fervent heat dissolves the melting skies,
Thou still shalt be; still as thou wert before,
And know no change, when time shall be no more.
O endless! though divine !—Eternity,

Th' immortal soul shares but a part of thee!
For thou wert present when our life began,
When the warm dust shot up in breathing man.

Ah! What is life? with ill encompassed round,
Amidst our hopes, fate strikes the sudden wound :
To-day the statesman of new honour dreams,
To-morrow, death destroys his airy schemes.
Is mouldy treasure in thy chest confined?
Think, all that treasure thou must leave behind;
Thy heir with smiles shall view thy blazoned hearse,
And all thy hoards with lavish hands disperse.
Should certain fate the impending blow delay,
Thy mirth will sicken, and thy bloom decay :
Then feeble age will all thy nerves disarm,
No more thy blood its narrow channels warm.
Who then would wish to stretch this narrow span,
To suffer life beyond the date of man?

The virtuous soul pursues a nobler aim,
And life regards but as a fleeting dream :
She longs to wake, and wishes to get free,
To launch from earth into eternity.

For while the boundless theme extends our thought,
Ten thousand thousand rolling years are nought.