Then crop-sick down the stairs he flings,
Before his master's bell yet rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By hoofs and wheels soon lull'd to sleep.
But the city takes me then,
And the hums of busy men,

Where throngs of train-band captains bold
In time of peace fierce meetings hold,
With stores of stock-jobbers, whose lies
Work change of stocks and bankruptcies;
Where bulls and bears alike contend
To get the cash they dare not spend.
Then let aldermen appear,
In scarlet robes, with chandelier,
And city feasts and gluttony,
With balls upon the lord-mayor's day;
Sights that young 'prentices remember,
Sleeping or waking, all November. -
Then to the play-houses anon,
If Quick, or Bannister be one;
Or drollest Parsons, child of Drury,
Bawls out his damns with comic fury.
And ever against hum-drum cares,
Sing me some of Dibdin's airs,
Married to his own queer wit,
Such as my shaking sides may split,
In notes with many a jolly bout,
Near Beaufort Buildings oft roar'd out,
With wagging curls and smirk so cunning,
His rig on many a booby running,
Exposing all the ways and phizzes
Of" wags, and oddities, and quizzes ;"
That Shuter's self might heave his head
From drunken snoozes, on a bed
Of pot-house benches sprawl'd, and hear
Such laughing songs as won the ear
Of all the town, his slip to cover,
Whene'er he met 'em half-seas over.

Freaks like these if thou canst give,
Fun, with thee I wish to live.

A PORTRAIT, at my lord's command
Completed by a curious hand,
For dabblers in the nice virtù
His lordship set the piece to view,
Bidding their connoisseurships tell
Whether this work was finish'd well:
Why, says the loudest, on my word,
Tis not a likeness, good my ford;
Nor, to be plain, for speak I must,
Can I pronounce one feature just.
Another effort straight was made,
Another portraiture essay'd;
The judges were again besought
Each to deliver what he thought.
Worse than the first, the critics bawl;

Oh what a mouth! how monstrous small!

Look at the cheeks-how lank and thin!
See, what a most preposterous chin!
After remonstrance made in vain,
I'll, says the painter, once again
(If my good lord vouchsafes to sit)
Try for a more successful hit:
If you'll to-morrow deign to call,
We'll have a piece to please you all.
To-morrow comes-a picture's plac'd
Before those spurious sons of taste-
In their opinions all agree,

This is the vilest of all three.
"Know-to confute your envious pride"
(His lordship from the canvass cried),
"Know-that it is my real face,
Where you could no resemblance trace:
I've tried you by a lucky trick,
And prov'd your genius to the quick;
Void of all judgement, goodness, sense,
Out, ve pretending varlets,-hence!"

The connoisseurs depart in haste,
Despis'd, neglected, and disgrac'd.

$215. The Modern Fine Gentleman. Written in the Year 1746.

SOAME JENYNS.

Quale portentum neque militaris
Daunia in latis alit esculetis,
Nec Juba tellus generat, leonum
Arida nutrix.

JUST broke from school, pert, impudent, and

raw,

Expert in Latin, more expert in taw,

His honor posts o'er Italy and France,
Measures St. Peter's dome, and learns to dance;
Thence, having quick through various countries
flown,

Glean'd all their follies and expos'd his own,
He back returns, a thing so strange all o'er,
As never ages past produc'd before;
A monster of such complicated worth,
As no one single clime could e'er bring forth;
Half atheist, papist, gamester, bubble, rook,
Half fiddler, coachman, dancer, groom, and
cook,

Next, because business is now all the vogue,
And who'd be quite polite must be a rogue,
In parliament he purchases a seat,

To make th' accomplish'd gentleman complete.
There safe in self-sufficient impudence,
Without experience, honesty, or sense,
Unknowing in her interest, trade, or laws,
He vainly undertakes his country's cause:
Forth from his lips, prepar'd at all to rail,
Torrents of nonsense burst like bottled ale,
*Though shallow, muddy; brisk, though
mighty dull;

Fierce, without strength; o'erflowing, though

not full.

Have by good fortune little share
Of its diversions, or its care:
For seldom I with squires unite,
Who hunt all day and drink all night,
Nor reckon wonderful inviting,
A quarter-sessions, or cock-fighting:
But then no farm I occupy,
With sheep to rot, and cows to die;
Nor rage I much, or much despair,
Though in my hedge I find a snare;
Nor view 1, with due admiration,
All the high honors here in fashion;
The great commissions of the quorum,
Terrors to all who come before 'em ;
Militia scarlet edg'd with gold,
Or the white staff high-sheriffs hold;
The representative's caressing,
The judge's bow, the bishops blessing;
Nor can I for my soul delight

In the dull feast of neighb'ring knight,
Who, if you send three days before,
In white gloves meets you at the door,
With superfluity of breeding

First makes you sick, and then with feeding:
Or if, with ceremony cloy'd,

You would next time such plagues avoid, And visit without previous notice, "John, John, a coach!-I can't think who 'tis,"

My lady cries, who spies your coach

Ere

you the avenue approach:
"Lord, how unlucky!-washing-day!
And all the men are in the hay!"
Entrance to gain is something hard,
The dogs all bark, the gates are barr'd;
The yard's with lines of linen cross'd,
The hall-door's lock'd, the key is lost:
These difficulties all o'ercome,
We reach at length the drawing-room;
Then there's such trampling over-head,
Madam you'd swear was brought to-bed:
Miss in a hurry bursts her lock,

Το
get clean sleeves to hide her smock;
The servants run, the pewter clatters,
My lady dresses, calls, and chatters;
The cook-maid raves for want of butter,
Pigs squeak, fowls scream, and green geese
Autter.

Now after three hours' tedious waiting,
On all our neighbours' faults debating,
And having nine times view'd the garden,
In which there's nothing worth a farthing,
In comes my lady and the pudding;
"You will excuse, sir, on a sudden"
Then, that we may have four and four,
The bacon, fowls, and cauliflower
Their ancient unity divide,
The top one graces, one each side;
And by and by the second course
Comes lagging like a distanc'd horse;
A salver then to church and king,
The butler sweats, the glasses ring:
The cloth remov'd, the toasts go round,
Bawdy and politics abound;

And, as the knight more tipsy waxes,
We damn all ministers and taxes.
At last the ruddy sun quite sunk,
The coachman tolerably drunk,
Whirling o'er hillocks, ruts, and stones,
Enough to dislocate one's bones,
We home return, a wondrous token
Of Heaven's kind care, with limbs unbroken.
Afflict us not, ye gods, though sinners,
With many days like this, or dinners!

But if civilities thus tease me,
Nor business nor diversions please me;
You'll ask, my lord, how time I spend ?
I answer, with a book or friend;
The circulating hours dividing
"Twixt reading, walking, eating, riding :
But books are still my highest joy,
These earliest please, and latest cloy.
Sometimes o'er distant climes I stray,
By guides experienc'd taught the way;
The wonder of each region view,
From frozen Lapland to Peru;

Bound o'er rough seas, and mountains bare,
Yet ne'er forsake my elbow chair.
Sometimes some fam'd historian's pen
Recalls past ages back again;
Where all I see, through every page,
Is but how men, with senseless rage,
Each other rob, destroy, and burn,
To serve a priest's, a statesman's turn:
Though loaded with a different aim,
Yet always asses much the same.
Sometimes I view with much delight,
Divines their holy game-cocks fight:
Here faith and works, at variance set,
Strive hard who shall the vict'ry get;
Presbytery and episcopacy,
They fight so long, it would amaze ye:
Here free-will holds a fierce dispute
With reprobation absolute;
There sense kicks transubstantiation,
And reason pecks at revelation.
With learned Newton now I fly
O'er all the rolling orbs on high,
Visit new worlds, and for a minute
This old one scorn, and all that's in it:
And now with lab'ring Boyle I trace
Nature through every winding maze;
The latent qualities admire
Of vapors, water, air, and fire;
With pleasing adiniration see
Matter's surprising subtilty;
As how the smallest lamp displays,
For miles around, its scatter'd rays;
Or how (the case more to explain)
A fart, that weighs not half a grain,
The atmosphere will oft perfume
Of a whole spacious drawing-room.
Sometimes I pass a whole long day
In happy indolence away,
In fondly meditating o'er

Past pleasures, and in hoping more;
Or wander through the fields and woods,
And gardens bath'd in circling floods;

There blooming flow'rs with rapture view,
The sparkling gems of morning dew,
Whence in my mind ideas rise
Of Celia's cheeks, and Chloe's eyes.
"Tis thus, my Lord, I, free from strife,
Spend an inglorious country life:
These are the joys I still pursue,
When absent from the town and you;
Thus pass long summer suns away,
Busily idle, calmly gay;

Nor great, nor mean, nor rich, nor poor,
Not having much, nor wishing more;
Except that you, when weary grown
Of all the follies of the town,
And seeing in all public places
The same vain fops and painted faces,
Would sometimes kindly condescend
To visit a dull country friend :
Here you'll be ever sure to meet
A hearty welcome, though no treat;
One who has nothing else to do,
But to divert himself and you:
A house, where quiet guards the door,
No rural wits smoke, drink, and roar;
Choice books, safe horses, wholesome liquor,
Billiards, backgammon, and the vicar.

§ 217. Horace. Book II. Ode 10. CowPER.

RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse fortune's pow'r :
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treach'rous shore.

He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbut'ring all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the pow'r
Of wintry blast; the loftiest tow'r

Comes heaviest to the ground:

The bolts that spare the mountain's side
His cloud-capt eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.

The well-inform'd philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes in spite of pain:
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast ?
The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky:

The God that strings the silver bow
Awakes sometimes the muses too,
And lays his arrows by.

§ 219. The Shrubbery. Written in a Time of Affliction. COWPER.

O HAPPY shades! to me unblest,
Friendly to peace, but not to me;
How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable care

Foregoes not what she feels within;
Shows the same sadness every where,
And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
While peace possess'd these silent bow'rs,
Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost it beauties and its pow'rs.
The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley, musing slow;
They seek, like me, the secret shade,
But not, like me, to nourish woe.
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam :
These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.

$220. Mutual Forbearance necessary to the Happiness of the Married State. CowPER.

THE Lady thus address'd her spouse→→ What a mere dungeon is this house! By no means large enough; and, was it, Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, Those hangings with their worn-out Graces, Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, Are such an antiquated scene, They overwhelm me with the spleen.

Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, Makes answer quite beside the mark; No doubt, my dear; I bade him come, Engag'd myself to be at home,

And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four.

You are so deaf, the lady cried,

(And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside,) You are so sadly deaf, my dear, What shall I do to make you hear? Dismiss poor Harry! he replies, Some people are more nice than wise; For one slight trespass all this stir! What if he did ride whip and spur? 'Twas but a mile-your fav'rite horse Will never look one hair the worse.— Well, I protest, tis past all bearing! Child, I am rather hard of hearing! Yes, truly-one must scream and bawl; I tell you, you can't hear at all. Then with a voice exceeding low, No matter if you hear or no. Alas! and is domestic strife, That sorest ill of human life, A plague so little to be fear'd, As to be wantonly incurr'd; To gratify a fretful passion, On every trivial provocation? The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear, And something ev'ry day they live. To pity, and perhaps forgive. But if infirmities that fall In common to the lot of all, A blemish, or a sense impair'd, Are crimes so little to be spar'd, Then farewell all that must create The comfort of the wedded state. Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, And tumult, and intestine war. The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserv'd by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention; But lives when that exterior grace Which first inspir'd the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure: But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows Love to be a mere profession, Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is.

While earth wears a mantle of snow, The pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May. See how they have safely surviv'd The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late-blowing rose Seem grac'd with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows The truth of a friend such as you.

$222. Boadicea, an Ode. COWPER. WHEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods; Sage, beneath a spreading oak, Sat the Druid, hoary chief, Ev'ry burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief: Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renown'd
Tramples on a thousand states,
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.
Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow,
Rush'd to battle, fought and died,
Dying hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

§ 223. Heroism. CowPER. THERE was a time when Ætna's silent fire Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire ; When, conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow; No thunders shook with deep intestine sound The blooming groves that girdled her around;