On One Who Made Long Epitaphs.[129]

Friend, for your epitaphs I'm grieved, Where still so much is said; One half will never be believed, The other never read.

ON AN OLD GATE.

ERECTED IN CHISWICK GARDENS.

O gate, how cam'st thou here? Gate. I was brought from Chelsea last year, Batter'd with wind and weather. Inigo Jones put me together; Sir Hans Sloane Let me alone: Burlington brought me hither.

A FRAGMENT.

What are the falling rills, the pendant shades, The morning bowers, the evening colonnades, But soft recesses for th' uneasy mind To sigh unheard in, to the passing wind! So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part, Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart); There hid in shades, and wasting day by day, Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.

TO MR GAY,

WHO HAD CONGRATULATED POPE ON FINISHING HIS HOUSE AND GARDENS.

'Ah, friend! 'tis true--this truth you lovers know-- In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow, In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens: Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies, And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes.

'What are the gay parterre, the chequer'd shade, The morning bower, the evening colonnade, But soft recesses of uneasy minds, To sigh unheard in, to the passing winds? So the struck deer in some sequester'd part Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart, He, stretch'd unseen in coverts hid from day, Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away.'

ARGUS.

When wise Ulysses, from his native coast Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss'd, Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone, To all his friends, and even his queen unknown: Changed as he was with age, and toils, and cares, Furrow'd his reverend face, and white his hairs, In his own palace forced to ask his bread, Scorn'd by those slaves his former bounty fed, Forgot of all his own domestic crew; The faithful dog alone his rightful master knew: Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay, Like an old servant now cashier'd, he lay; Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful man, And longing to behold his ancient lord again. Him when he saw he rose, and crawl'd to meet, ('Twas all he could) and fawn'd and kiss'd his feet, Seized with dumb joy: then falling by his side, Own'd his returning lord, look'd up, and died!

PRAYER OF BRUTUS.

FROM GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH.

Goddess of woods, tremendous in the chase, To mountain wolves and all the savage race, Wide o'er th' aerial vault extend thy sway, And o'er th' infernal regions void of day. On thy third reign look down; disclose our fate, In what new station shall we fix our seat? When shall we next thy hallow'd altars raise, And choirs of virgins celebrate thy praise?

LINES ON A GROTTO, AT CRUX-EASTON, HANTS.

Here shunning idleness at once and praise, This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise; The glittering emblem of each spotless dame, Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame; Beauty which nature only can impart, And such a polish as disgraces art; But Fate disposed them in this humble sort, And hid in deserts what would charm a court.