Hard is my fate if murmurings there be,
Because the favour is announc'd by me.
Anxious, alarm'd and aw'd by ev'ry frown,
May I intreat the candour of the town?
You fee me here by no unworthy art;
My all I venture-where I've fix'd my heart.
Fondly ambitious of an honeft fame,
My humble hopes your kind indulgence claim.
I wish to hold no right but by your choice;
I'll risk my PATENT on the PUBLIC VOICE,
On the much lamented Death of the Marquis of Tavistock.*
Sunt lacrymæ rerum, & mentem mortalia tangunt.
Thank Heay'n, I knew thee not-I ne'er fhall feel
The keen regret thy drooping friends fuftain;
Yet will I drop the fympathizing tear,
And his due tribute to thy memory bring;
Not that thy noble birth provokes my fong,
Or claims fuch offering from the Mufes' fhrine;
But that thy fpotlefs undiffembling heart,
Thy unaffected manners, all-unftain'd
With pride of pow'r, and infolence of wealth;
Thy probity, benevolence, and truth,
(Beft inmates of man's foul) for ever loft,
Cropt, like fair flow'rs, in life's meridian bloom,
Fade undiftinguifh'd in the filent grave.
O Bedford-pardon, if a Mufe unknown,
Smit with thy heart-felt grief, directs her way,
To forrow's dark abode, where thee fhe views,
Thee, wretched fire, and pitying hears thee mourn
Thy Ruffel's fate-" Why was he thus belov'd ?
"Why did he blefs my life?"-Fond parent, ceafe;
Count not his virtues o'er-Hard task !-Call forth
Thy firm hereditary ftrength of mind.
Lo! where the fhade of thy great ancestor,
Fam'd Ruffel ftands, and chides thy vain complaint;
His philofophic foul, with patience arm'd,
And christian virtue brav'd the pangs of death;
Admir'd, belov'd, he dy'd; (if right I deem),
Not more lamented than thy virtuous fon:
Yet calm thy mind; fo may the lenient hand
Of Time, all-foothing Time, thy pangs affuage,
Heal thy fad wound, and close thy days in peace.
* Occafioned by a fall from his horfe
See where the object of his filial love,
His mother, loft in tears, laments his doom:
Speak comfort to her foul :-
O! from the facred fount, where flow the ftreams
Of Heav'nly confolation, O! one drop,
To footh his haplefs wife! fharp forrow preys
Upon her tender frame-Alas, the faints,-
She falls! ftill grafping in her hand
The picture of her lord-All-gracious Heav'n!
Juft are thy ways, and righteous thy decrees,
But dark and intricate; elfe why this meed
For tender faithful love; this fad return
For innocence and truth? was it for this
By Virtue and the fmiling Graces led,
(Fair types of long fucceeding years of joy),
She twin'd the votive wreath at Hymen's fhrine,
So foon to fade and die?-Yet O! reflect,
Chafte partner of his life! you ne'er deplor'd
'His alienated heart: (difaftrous state!
Condition worse than death!) the facred torch
Burnt to the laft its unremitted fires!
No painful felf-reproach haft thou to feel;
The confcious thought of every duty paid,
This fweet reflection fhall fupport thy mind.
Be this thy comfort:-Turn thine eyes a while,
Nor with that lifelefs picture feed thy woe;
Turn yet thine eyes; fee how they court thy fmiles.
Thofe infant pledges of connubial joy!
Dwell on their looks, and trace his image there :
And O! fince Heav'n, in pity to thy lofs,
For thee one future bleffing has in ftore,
Cherish that tender hope-Hear reafon's voice;
Hufh'd be the ftorms that vex thy troubled breaft.
And angels guard thee in the hour of pain.
Accept this ardent pray'r; a mufe forgive,
Who for thy forrow draws the penfive figh,
Who feels thy grief, tho' erft in frolic hour
She tun'd her comic rhymes to mirth and joy,
Unfkill'd (I ween) in lofty verfe, unus'd
To plaintive strains, yet by foft pity led,
Trembling revifits the Pierian vale;
There culls each fragrant flow'r, to deck the tomb
Where generous Ruffel lies.
ODE for the NEW YEAR, Jan. 1, 1767.
THEN firft the 'rude, o'er-peopled north,
Pour'd his prolific offspring forth
At large, in alien climes, to roam,
And feek a newer better home,
From the bleak mountain's barren head,
The marshy vale, th' ungrateful plain,
From cold and penury they fled
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 fpoiler's hand.
Not Britain fo. For nobler ends
Her willing, daring fons fhe fends,
Fraught like the fabled car of old,
Which fcatter'd bleffings as it roll'd.
From cultur'd fields, from fleecy downs,
From vales that wear eternal bloom,
From peopled farms, and bufy towns,
Where fhines the ploughfhare, and where founds the loom,
To fandy defarts, pathlefs woods,
Impending steeps, and headlong floods
She fends th' induftrious fwarm:
To where, felf-ftrangled, Nature lies,
'Till focial art fhall bid her rife
'From chaos into form.
Thus George and Britain bless mankind.
And, left the parent realm fhould find
Her numbers fhrink, with flag unfurl'd
She ftands th' afylum of the world.
From foreign ftrands new fubjects come,
New arts accede a thousand ways,
For here the wretched finds a home,
And all her portals charity difplays.
From each proud mafter's hard command,
From tyrant Zeal's oppreffive hand
What eager exiles fly!
"Give us, they cry, 'tis Nature's cause,
O give us liberty and laws,
Beneath a harfher sky."
Thus George and Britain blefs mankind.
-Away, ye barks; the favouring wind
Springs from the Eaft: ye pow'rs, divide
The vaft Atlantic's heaving tide,
Britannia, from each rocky height,
Purfues you with applauding hands;
Afar, impatient for the freight,
See, the whole weftern world expecting ftands!
Already fancy paints each plain,
The defarts nod with golden grain,
The wond'ring vales look gay:
The woodman's ftroke the forefts feel,
The lakes admit the merchant's keel
Away, ye barks, away!
Tranflation of a Greek Epigram, on a Grecian Beauty.
HY eyes declare th' imperial wife of Jove,
T Thy breafts difclofe the Cyprian queen of love;
Minerva's fingers thy fair hand difplays,
And Thetis' limbs each graceful ftep betrays.
Bleft man! whofe eye on thy bright form has hung;
Thrice bleft! who hears the mufic 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 excufe me, I fuppofe,
Y For fending rhyme inftead of profe,
Because hot weather makes me lazy;
To write in metre is more eafy.
While you are trudging to the town,
I'm ftrolling Dublin up and down;
While you converfe with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix'd in an elbow chair, at ease,
I chufe companions as I please.
I'd rather have one fingle shelf,
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For, after all that can be faid,
Our beft acquaintance are the dead.
While you're in raptures with Fauftina,
I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina,
While you are starving there in ftate,
I'm cramming here with butcher's meat.
You fay, when with thofe lords you dine,
They treat you with the best of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why fo can we, as well as they.
No reafon then, my dear good Dean,
But you fhould travel home again.
What though you mayn't in Ireland hope
To find fuch folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would share
But half the wit that you can fpare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that, in twelve days,
You'd make a doz'n of Popes and Gays.
Our weather's good, our fky is clear,
We've ev'ry joy, if you were here;
So lofty, and fo bright a fky,
Was never feen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I fhall to Quilca go;
To fee M'Fayden's horny brothers,
Firft fuck, and after bull their mothers.
To fee, alas! my wither'd trees!
To fee, what all the country fees!
My ftunted quicks, my famifh'd beeves ;
My fervants fuch a pack of thieves ;
My fhatter'd firs, my blafted oaks;
My house in common to all folks :
No cabbage for a fingle fnail;
My turnips, carrots, parfnips fail;
My no green peafe, my few green fpronts ;
My mother always in the pouts :
My horfes rid, or gone aftray;
My fish all ftol'n, or run away;
My mutton lean, my pullets old,
My poultry ftarv'd, the corn all fold.
A man, come now from Quilca, fays,
They've ftol'n the locks from all your keys;
But, what muft ftet and vex me more,
He fays, they ftole the keys before.
They've ftol'n the knives from all the forks,
And half the cows from half the turks;
Nay more, the fellow fwears and vows,
They've ftol'n the fturks 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.
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