And then exactly match'd would be
Your house and hospitality.

Upon feeing Mr. Taylor's Picture of Bath, and
bearing a Connoiffeur declare that "they were
finely painted for a Gentleman." GARRICK.
TELL
me the meaning, you who can,
Offmely for a gentleman!"
Is genius, rareft gift of Heaven,
To the hir'd artist only given?
Or, like the Catholic falvation,
Pal'd in for any class or station?
Is it bound 'prentice to the trade,
Which works, and as it works is paid?
Is there no skill to build, invent,
Unless infpir'd by five per cent?
And fhalt thou, Taylor, paint in vain,
Unless impeil d by hopes of gain?
Be wife, my friend, and take thy fee,
That Claude Loraine may yield to thee.

Tom Fool to Mr. Hoskins, his Counsellor and

fuit,

Friend.

IBID.

ON your care mult depend the fuccefs of my
The poffeffion I mean of the house in difpute.
Confider, my friend, an attorney's my foe,
The worst of his tribe, and the best is fo-fo.
O let not his quiddits and quirks of the law,
O let not this harpy your poor client claw;
In law as in life, I know well 'tis a rule,
That a knave should be ever too hard for a fool:
To this rule one exception your poor client
implores,
[of doors.
That the fool may for once beat the knave out

FOR

me my fair a wreath has wove, Where rival flowers in union meet; As oft the kifs'd the gift of love,

Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet. A bee within a damask rose

Had crept, the nectar'd dew to fip;
But leffer fweets the thief foregoes,-
And fixes on Louifa's lip.

There tasting all the bloom of spring,
Wak'd by the ripening breath of May,
Th' ungrateful spoiler left his fting,
And with the honey flew away.

An Epitaph upon the celebrated Claudius Philips,
Mufician, who died very poor. IBID.
PHILIPS, whofe touch harmonious could
The pangs of guilty pow'r and hapless love,

remove

raife,

Epitaph on Laurence Sterne |. IBID. SHALL pride a heap of sculptur'd marble Some worthlefs, unmourn'd titled fool to praise; And fhall we nut by one poor grave-tone learn Where genius, wit, and humour fleep with

Sterne !

NEAR

Epitaph on Mr. Beighton, who had been Vicar of Egham forty-five Years. IBID. half an age, with every good man's praise, Among his flock the fhepherd pass'd his days; The friend, the comfort of the fick and poor, Want never knock'd unheeded at his door; Oft when his duty call'd, disease and pain Strove to confine him, but they strove in vain. All moan his death, his virtues long they try'd,

They knew not how they lov'd him till he dy'd.

Peculiar bleffings did his life attend,
He had no foe, and Camden was his friend.

+ He died October 26, 1764.

Mr. Quin died January 1766.

18, 1768.

Epitaph

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From av'rice and ambition free,

And pleasure's fatal wiles;
For whom, alas ! doft thou prepare
The fweets that I was wort to fhare,
The banquet of thy fmiles?

The great, the gay, fhall they partake
The heav'n that thou alone canft make,
And wilt thou quit the stream
That murmurs through the dewy mead,
The grove and the fequefter'd shed,
To be a guest with them?

For thee I panted, thee I priz'd,
For thee I gladly facrific'd

Whate'er I lov'd before;
And fhall I fee thee start away,
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee fay-
Farewell! we meet no more ?

Human Frailty.

WEAK and irrefolute is man;

The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan, To-morrow rends away.

COWPER.

The bow well bent and finart the spring,
Vice feems already flain,

But paffion rudely fnaps the ftring,
And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent

Finds out his weaker part,

Virtue engages his assent,
But pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wife

Through all his art we view, And while his tongue the charge denies, His confcience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length

And dangers little known, A ftranger to fuperior ftrength, Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail

To reach the distant coast,

The breath of heav'n must fwell the fail, Or all the toil is loft."

IBID.

The Nightingale and Glow-Worm. IBID.

A Nightingale, that all day long

Had cheer'd the village with his fong,
Nor yet at eve his note fufpended,
Nor yet when even-tide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He fpied far off, upon the ground,
A fomething fhining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark,
So, ftooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop ;
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangu'd him thus, right eloquent:
Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelly,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your fong,
For 'twas the felf-fame Power divine,
Taught you to fing, and me to fhine,
That you with mufic, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.
The fongfter heard his fhort oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Releas'd him, as my story tells,
And found a fupper fomewhere else.
Hence jarring fectaries may learn
Their real int'refts to difcern:

That brother fhould not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other,
But fing and fhine by fweet confent,
'Till life's poor tranfient night is spent,
Refpecting in each other's cafe
The gifts of nature and of grace.

Thofe Chriftians beft deferve the name
Who ftudiously make peace their aim;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.

On a Goldfinch farved to death in his Cage.

T

IME was when I was free as air,

The thistle's downy feed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;

I perch'd at will on ev'ry spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My ftrains for ever new.

But gawdy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel, were all in vain,

And of a tranfient date;

IBID.

For caught and cag'd, and starv'd to death,
In dying fighs my little breath

Soon pafs'd the wiry grate.
Thanks, gentle fwain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual clofe

And cure of ev'ry ill!

More cruelty could none express, And I, if you had fhewn me lefs, Had been your pris'ner ftill.

A bee of moft difcerning tafte
Perceiv'd the fragrance as he pafs'd.
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And fearch'd for crannies in the frame,
Urg'd his attempt on ev'ry fide,
To ev'ry pane his trunk applied,
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light.
Thus having wafted half the day,
He trim'd his flight another way.
Methinks, I faid, in thee I find
The fin and madnefs of mankind;
To joys forbidden man atpires,
Confumes his foul with vain defires;
Folly the fpring of his purfuit,
And difappoinment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles as the pafles

The nymph between two chariot-glaffes,
She is the pine-apple, and he
The filly unfuccefsful bee.

The maid who views with penfive air

The fhow-glass fraught with glitt ring ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But fighs at thought of empty pockets ;
Like thine her appetite is keen,
But ah the cruel glafs between!

Our dear delights are often fuch,
Expos'd to view, but not to touch;
The fight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine-apples in frames,
With hopeless with one looks and lingers,
One breaks the glafs, and cuts his fingers;
But they whom truth and wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.

Horace. Book ii. Ode 10.

COWPER.

RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,

So fhalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverfe fortune's pow'r;
Not always tempt the diftant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treach rous thore.

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,
Imbitt'ring all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the pow'r
Of wintry blast, the loftieft tow'r

Comes heaviest to the ground,

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

And spread the ruin round.
The well-inform'd philofopher
Rejoices with an whole fome fear,

And hopes in fpite of pain;
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet fring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.

What if thine heav'n be over-cast,
The dark appearance will not last,

Expect a brighter sky;

The God that ftrings the filver bow
Awakes fometimes the mufes too,
And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy ftrength be feen :
But oh! if fortune fill thy fail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in.

A Reflection on the foregoing Ode. IBID. AND is this all? Can reafon do no more

Than bid me thun the deep, and dread the
shore ?

Sweet moralit! afloat on life's rough fea
The Chriftian has a heart unknown to thee;
He holds no parley with unmanly fears,
Where duty bids he confidently steers;
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,
And trufting in his God, furmounts them all.

The Shrubbery. Written in a Time of Afiction.
IBID.

OH happy fhades! to me unbleft,

Friendly to peace, but not to ine, How ill the fcene that offers reft,

And heart that cannot rest, agree!

This glaffy ftream, that fpreading pine,

Thofe alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might foothe a foul lefs hurt than mine,
And pleafe, if any thing could please.
But fixt unalterable care

Foregoes not what she feels within,
Shows the fame fadnefs ev'ry where,
And flights the season and the scene.
For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
While peace poffets'd thefe filent bow'rs,
Her animating fimile withdrawn,

Hath loft its beauties and its pow'rs.

The faint or moralift should tread
This mofs- grown alley, inufing flow,
They feek, like me, the fecret shade,
But not, like me, to nourish woe.

Me fruitful fcenes and profpects waste
Alike admonish not to roam,
These tell me of enjoyments past,

And thofe of forrows yet to come.

No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engag'd myself to be at home,
And fhall expect him at the door
Precifely when the clock ftrikes four.

You are to deaf, the Lady cried,
(And rais'd her voice, and frown'd befide)
You are fo fadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to m ke you hear?
Difmifs poor Harry! her plies,
Some people are more nice than wife;
For one flight trefpats all this ftir!
What if I did ride, whip, and (pur,
'Twas but a mile- your fav'rite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.-
Well, I proteit 'tis paft all bearing!
Child! I am rather hard of hearing
Yes, truly-one muft fcream 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 ftrife, That foreft ill of human life, A plague fo little to be fear'd, As to be wantonly incurr'd'; To gratify a fietful paffion, On ev'ry trivial provocation? The kindeft and the happiest pair Will find occafion to forbear, And fomething 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 fente impair'd, Are crimes fo 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 inteftine war. The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof again fickness and old age, Preferv'd by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention, But lives, when that exterior grace Which firft inspired the flame, decays, 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compaffionate or blind, And will with fympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure, But angry, coarfe, and harfli expreffion Shews love to be a mere profeffion, Proves that the heart is none of his, Or foon expels him if it is.

COWPER.

A fortress to which the retreats,

From the cruel affaults of the clime. While earth wears a mantle of now,

Thefe pinks are as fresh and as gay, As the fairest and sweeteft that blow On the beautiful bofom of May. See how they have fafely furviv'd

The frowns of a sky fo fevere, Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd Through many a turbulent year. The chaims of the late blowing rofe Seem grac'd with a livelier hue, And the winter of forrow best shows The truth of a friend, such as you.

W

Boadicea, an Ode.

7HEN 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:
Princefs! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchlefs wrongs, 'Tis becaule refentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues. Rome fhall perith—write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perith hopeless and abhor`d,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states, Soon he pride fhall kifs the groundHark? the Gaul is at her gates. Other Romans fhall arife,

Heedlefs of a foldier's name, Sounds, not aris, fhall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs

From the forefts of our land, Arin'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæfar never knew,

Thy pofterity fhall fway,
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he fwept the chords
Of his fweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bolom glow,
Rufh'd to battle, fought and died,
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heav'n awards the vengeance due, Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

4 K

IBID.