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The morals blacken'd when the writings 'scape,
The libell'd person, and the pictur'd shape;
Abuse on all he lov'd, or lov'd him, spread,
A friend in exile, or a father dead;
The whisper, that, to greatness still too near,
Perhaps yet vibrates on his sovereign's ear-
Welcone for thee, fair virtue! all the past :
For thee, fair virtue! welcome ev'n the last!

A. But why insult the poor, affront the great ?
P. A knave's a knave to me in every state;
Alike my scorn, if he succeed or fail,
Sporus at court, or Japhet in a jail ;
A hireling scribbler, or a hireling peer,
Knight of the post corrupt, or of the shire ;
If on a pillory, or near a throne,
He gain his prince's ear or lose his own.

Yet soft by nature, more a dupe than wit, Sappho can tell you how this man was bit : This dreaded satirist Dennis will confess Foe to his pride, but friend to his distress : So humble, he has knock'd at Tibbald's door, Has drunk with Cibber, nay, has rhym'd for Moore. Full ten years slander'd, did he once reply?Three thousand suns went down on Welsted's lie. To please a mistress, one aspers'd his life ; He lash'd him not, but let her be his wife : Let Budgell charge low Grub-street on his quill, And write whate'er he pleas'd, except his will; Let the two Curlls of town and court abuse His father, mother, body, soul, and muse : Yet why? that father held it for a rule, It was a sin to call our neighbour fool; That harmless mother thought no wife a whore: Hear this, and spare his family, James Moore ! Unspotted names, and memorable long! If there be force in virtue, or in song.

Of gentle blood (part shed in honour's cause,
While yet in Britain honour had applause)
Each parent sprung-A. What fortune, pray?-

P. Their own ;
And better got than Bestia's from the throne,

Born to no pride, inheriting no strife,
Nor marrying discord in a noble wife,
Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious through his age :
No courts he saw, no suits would ever try,
Nor dar'd an oath, nor hazarded a lie.
Unlearn'd, he knew no schoolman's subtle art,
No language but the language of the heart.
By nature honest, by experience wise,
Healthy by temperance and by exercise ;
His life, though long, to sickness fast unknown,
His death was instant and without a groan.
O grant me thus to live, and thus to die !
Who sprung from kings shall know less joy than I.
O friend! may each domestic bliss be thine !
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine:
Me, let the tender office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing age,
With lenient arts extend a mother's breath,
Make langour smile, and smoothe the bed of death;
Explore the thought, explain the asking eye,
And keep a while one parent from the sky !
On cares like these, if length of days attend,
May Heav'n, to bless those days, preserve my friend!
Preserve him social, cheerful, and serene,
And just as rich as when he serv'd a queen.

A. Whether that blessing be denied or giv'n, Thus far was right;-the rest belongs to Heav'n.

AMBROSE PHILLIPS.

AN EPISTLE,

From Mr. Phillips to the Earl of Dorset.

Copenbagen, March 9, 1709. FROM frozen climes and endless tracks of snow,

From streams that northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorsét bring, Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing ? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects that to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The fow'ry plains, and silver streaming floods, By snow disguis’d, in bright confusion lie, And, with one dazzling waste, fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmor'd, the boist'rous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast Leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day. The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. For many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain : There solid billows, of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise, And yet but lately have I seen, e'en here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasur'd snow, Or winds begun thro' hazy skies to blow, At ev'ning a keen eastern breeze arose ; And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view

The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd every object to my eyes :
For ev'ry shrub, and every blade of grass,
And ev'ry pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass,
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns shew,
While thro' the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds the wat'ry marshes yield
Seem polish'd lances in a hostile field.
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow'ring pine,
Glaz'd over, in the freezing æther shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
That wave and glitter in the distant sun.
When, if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies :
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends,
And in a spangled show'r the prospect ends;
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees.

Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads
Thro' fragrant bow'rs, and thro' delicious meads;
While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wand'ring feet the magic paths pursue ;
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways, appear :
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns,

EDWARD YOUNG.

TIR'D

NIGHT I. ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. To the Right Hon. Arthur Onslow, Esq. Speaker of

the House of Commons. Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes : Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose I wake : how happy they who wake no more! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought From ware to wave of fancied misery At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restor'd 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change!) severer for severe : The day too short for my distress; and night, Ey'n in the zenith of her dark domain, Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.

Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. Silence how dead! and darkness how profound! Nor eye nor listening ear an object finds; Creation sleeps. Tis as the general pulse of life stood still, and Nature made a pause; An awful pause! prophetic of her end. And let her prophecy be soon fulfill'd: Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.

Silence and Darkness ! solemn sisters ! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve, (That column of true majesty in man) Assist me: I will thank you in the grave;

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