ODE for the New YEAR, Jan. 1, 1767.

THEN first the 'rude, o'er-peopled north,
At large, in alien climes, to roam,
And seek a newer better home,

From the bleak mountain's barren head,
The marshy vale, th' ungrateful plain,

From cold and penury they fed
To warmer funs and Ceres' golden reign.

At ev'ry step the breezes blew
Soft and more foft: the lengthen'd view

Did fairer scenes expand :
Unconscious of approaching foes
The farm, the town, the city rose,

To tempt the spoiler's hand.
Not Britain fo. For nobler ends
Her willing, daring fons the sends,
Fraught like the fabled car of old,
Which scatter'd bleffings as it rollid.

From cultur'd fields, from fleecy downs,
From vales that wear eternal bloom,

From peopled farms, and busy towns,
Where shines the ploughshare, and where sounds the loom,

To sandy desarts, pathless woods,
Impending steeps, and headlong floods

She sends th' industrious swarm :
To where, felf-strangled, Nature lies,
'Till social art shall bid her rise

From chaos into form,
Thus George and Britain bless mankind.
And, left the parent realm Mould find
Her numbers Thrink, with flag unfurl'd
She stands th' asylum of the world.

From foreign strands new subjects comè;
New arts accede a thousand ways,

For here the wretched finds a home,
And all her portals charity displays.

From each proud master's hard command,
From tyrant Zeal's oppreflive hand

exiles fly!
" Give us, they cry, 'is Nature's cause,
O give us liberty and laws,

Beneath a harsher sky."
Thus George and Britain bless mankind.

-Away, ye barks; the favouring wind
Vol. X.




Springs from the East : ye pow'rs, divide
The vast Atlantic's heaving tide,

Britannia, from each rocky height,
Pursues you with applauding hands;

Afar, impatient for the freight,
See, the whole western world expecting stands !

Already fancy paints each plain,
The desarts nod with golden grain,

The wond’ring vales look gay:
The woodman's Itroke the forests feel,
The lakes admit the merchant's keel

Away, ye barks, away!

Translation of a Greek Epigram, on a Grecian Beauty.

HY eyes declare th' imperial wife of Jove,

Thy breafts disclose the Cyprian queen of love ;
Minerva's fingers thy fair hand displays,
And Thetis' limbs each graceful ftep betrays.
Blest man! whose eye on thy bright form has hong;
Thrice bleft! who hears the music of thy tongue.
As monarchs happy! who thy lips has preft;
But who embraces, as the Gods is bleft.

An Original Poem, from the Appendix newly published to Dr. Swift's


Letter to the Dean, when in England, in 1726.


OU will excuse me, I fuppose,

For sending rhyme instead of prose,
Because hot weather makes me lazy ;
To write in metre is more easy.

While you are trudging to the town,
I'm strolling Dublin up and down;
While you converse with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix'd in an elbow chair, at ease,
I chuse companions as I please.
I'd rather have one single shelf,
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For, after all that can be said,
Our best acquaintance are the dead.
While you're in raptures with Faustina,
I'm charm’d at home with our Sheelina,

While you are starving there in state,
I'm cramming here with butcher's meat,
You say, when with those lords you dine,
They treat you with the best of wine,
Bargundy, Cyprus, and Tokay ;
Why so can we, as well as they.
No reason then, my dear good Dean,
But you should travel home again.
What though you mayn't in Ireland hope
To find such folk as Gay and Pope;

you with rhymers here would share
Bué half the wit that you can spare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that, in twelve days,
You'd make a doz'n of Popes and Gays.

Our weather's good, our sky is clear,
We've ev'ry joy, if you were here;
So lofty, and so bright a sky,
Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I shall to Quilca go ;
To see M Fayden's horny brothers,
First suck, and after bull their mothers.
To see, alas ! my wither'd trees!
To see, what all the country sees!
My ftunted quicks, my familh'd beeves s
My servants such a pack of thieves ;
My shatter'd firs, my blafted oaks ;
My house in common to all folks :
No cabbage for a single fnail;
My turnips, carrots, parsnips fail ;
My no green pease, my few green fotoats ;
My mother always in the pouts :
My horses rid, or gone astray ;
My fish all stol’n, or run away
My mutton lean, my pullets old,
My poultry starv'd, the corn alí fold.

A man, come now from Quilca, says, They've stol'n the locks from all your keys ; But, what must ftet and vex me more, He says, they stole the keys before. They've ftol'n the knives from all the forks, And half the cows from half the sturks ; Nay more, the fellow swears and vows, They've stol'n the sturks from half the cows. With many more accounts of woe, Yet, though the Devil be there, I'll go : "Twixt you and me, the reason's clear, Because I've more vexation here.


An Ode to SPRING.

Supposed to have been written by the celebrated Vaneffa, in confequence

of her passion for Dean Swift.
HA AIL, blushing goddess, beauteous spring,

Who, in thy jocund train, doft bring
Loves and graces, smiling hours,
Balmy breezes, fragrant Howers ;
Comé, with tints of roseate hue,
Nature's faded charms renew.

Yet why should I thy presence hail?
To me no more the breathing gale
Comes fraught with sweets, no more the rose
With such transcendent beauty blows,
As when Cadenus bleft the scene,
And shar'd with me these joys serene.
When, unperceiv'd, the lambent fire
Of friendship kindled new desire ;
Still lift'ning to his tuneful tongue,
The truths which angels might have sung,
Divine impreft their gentle fway,
And sweetly stole my soul away,
My guide, inftructor, lover, friend,
(Dear names) in one idea blend ;
Oh! ftill conjoin'd, your incense rise,
And waft sweet odours to the skies.

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A Refle&tion on the Death of the Marquis of Tavistock.

row sleep the brave, who fink to reft,

With all their country's wishes bleft!
When spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod,
Than fancy's feet have ever trod,

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There honour comes a pilgrim. grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.



Whose tree does wave its verdant brow,
And spreading shades the diftant brook,
Accept these lines, dear fifter Rook!
And when thou'st read my mournful lay,
Extend thy wing, and fly away,
Left pinion-maim'd by fery shot,
Thou should'st like me bewail thy lot ;
Left in thy rook'ry be renew'd,
The tragic scene which here I view'd.

The day declin'd, the evening breeze
Gently rock'd the filent trees,
While spreading o'er my peopled neft,
I hush'd' my callow young to rest :
When suddenly an hostile sound,
Explosion dire! was heard around:
And level'd by the hand of Fate,
The angry bullets pierc'd my mate;
I saw him fall from spray to spray,
'Till on the distant ground he lay :
With tortur'd wing he beat the plain,
And never caw'd to me again.

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