On Her Leaving The Town After The Coronation.[74]

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the town to wholesome country air, Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh; From the dear man unwilling she must sever, Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever: Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caused her discontent, She sigh'd not that they staid, but that she went.

She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a-day: To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea; Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'squire; Up to her godly garret after seven, There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.

Some 'squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is whist, whose treat, a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries--No words! Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things--but his horse.

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fancied scene, See coronations rise on every green; Before you pass the imaginary sights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights, While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes; Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies. Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!

So when your slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of you; Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite, Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight; Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow, Look sour, and hum a tune, as you do now.

* * * * *

TO MRS M. B. ON HER BIRTHDAY.

Oh, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend: Not with those toys the female world admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. With added years, if life bring nothing new, But, like a sieve, let every blessing through, Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o'er, And all we gain, some sad reflection more; Is that a birthday? 'tis alas! too clear 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content, And the gay conscience of a life well spent, Calm every thought, inspirit every grace, Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face Let day improve on day, and year on year, Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear; Till death unfelt that tender frame destroy, In some soft dream, or ecstasy of joy, Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the tomb, And wake to raptures in a life to come.

* * * * *

TO MR THOMAS SOUTHERN, ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742.

Resign'd to live, prepared to die, With not one sin, but poetry, This day Tom's fair account has run (Without a blot) to eighty-one. Kind Boyle, before his poet lays A table, with a cloth of bays; And Ireland, mother of sweet singers, Presents her harp still to his fingers. The feast, his towering genius marks In yonder wild goose and the larks; The mushrooms show his wit was sudden; And for his judgment, lo, a pudden! Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout, And grace, although a bard, devout. May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise The price of prologues and of plays, Be every birthday more a winner, Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; Walk to his grave without reproach, And scorn a rascal and a coach.

* * * * *

VARIATION.

VER. 15. Originally thus in the MS.:--

And oh, since Death must that fair frame destroy, Die, by some sudden ecstasy of joy; In some soft dream may thy mild soul remove, And be thy latest gasp a sigh of love.

TO MR JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

1 How much, egregious Moore, are we Deceived by shows and forms! Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, All humankind are worms.

2 Man is a very worm by birth, Vile reptile, weak and vain! A while he crawls upon the earth, Then shrinks to earth again.

3 That woman is a worm, we find E'er since our grandame's evil; She first conversed with her own kind, That ancient worm, the Devil.

4 The learn'd themselves we book-worms name, The blockhead is a slow-worm; The nymph whose tail is all on flame, Is aptly term'd a glow-worm:

5 The fops are painted butterflies, That flutter for a day; First from a worm they take their rise, And in a worm decay.

6 The flatterer an earwig grows; Thus worms suit all conditions; Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaux. And death-watches, physicians.

7 That statesmen have the worm, is seen By all their winding play; Their conscience is a worm within, That gnaws them night and day.

8 Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd, And greater gain would rise, If thou couldst make the courtier void The worm that never dies!

9 O learnèd friend of Abchurch Lane, Who sett'st our entrails free! Vain is thy art, thy powder vain, Since worms shall eat even thee.

10 Our fate thou only canst adjourn Some few short years--no more; Even Button's Wits to worms shall turn, Who maggots were before.

TO MR C., ST JAMES'S PLACE.

1 Few words are best; I wish you well: Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here; Some morning walks along the Mall, And evening friends, will end the year.

2 If in this interval, between The falling leaf and coming frost, You please to see, on Twit'nam green, Your friend, your poet, and your host:

3 For three whole days you here may rest From office business, news, and strife; And (what most folks would think a jest) Want nothing else except your wife.

* * * * *

EPITAPHS.

I. ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET, IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, IN SUSSEX.

'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!'

VIRG.

Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride, Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died. The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great, Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state: Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay, His anger moral, and his wisdom gay. Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true, As show'd vice had his hate and pity too. Blest courtier! who could king and country please, Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease. Blest peer! his great forefathers' every grace Reflecting, and reflected in his race; Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine, And patriots still, or poets, deck the line.