VERSES, sent to the Bookseller, for the Unknown Author of the beautiful new Piece call'd PAMELA

Blest be thy pow'rful Pen, whoe'er thou art, Thou skill'd, great Moulder of the master'd Heart! Where hast thou lain conceal'd! — or why thought fit, At this dire Period, to unveil thy Wit? O! late befriended Isle! had this broad Blaze, With earlier Beamings, bless'd our Fathers Days, The Pilot Radiance, pointing out the Source, Whence public Health derives its vital Course, Each timely Draught some healing Pow'r had shown, Ere gen'ral Gangrene blacken'd, to the Bone. But, fest'ring now, beyond all Sense of Pain, 'Tis hopeless: and the Helper's Hand is vain. Sweet Pamela! forever-blooming Maid! Thou dear, unliving, yet immortal, Shade! Why are thy Virtues scatter'd to the Wind? Why are thy Beauties flash'd upon the Blind? What, tho' thy flutt'ring Sex might learn, from thee, That Merit forms a Rank, above Degree? That Pride, too conscious, falls, from ev'ry Claim, While humble Sweetness climbs, beyond its Aim? What, tho' Religion, smiling from thy Eyes, Shews her plain Power, and charms without Disguise? What, tho' thy warmly-pleasing moral Scheme Gives livelier Rapture, than the Loose can dream? What, tho' thou build'st, by thy persuasive Life, Maid, Child, Friend, Mistress, Mother, Neighbour, Wife? Tho' Taste like thine each Void of Time, can fill, Unsunk by Spleen, unquicken'd by Quadrille! What, tho' 'tis thine to bless the lengthen'd Hour! Give Permanence to Joy, and Use to Pow'r? Lend late-felt Blushes to the Vain and Smart? And squeeze cramp'd Pity from the Miser's Heart? What, tho' 'tis thine to hush the Marriage Breeze, Teach Liberty to tire, and Chains to please? Thine tho', from Stiffness to divest Restraint, And, to the Charmer, reconcile the Saint? Tho' Smiles and Tears obey thy moving Skill, And Passion's ruffled Empire waits thy Will? Tho' thine the fansy'd Fields of flow'ry Wit, Thine, Art's whole Pow'r, in Nature's Language writ! Thine, to convey strong Thought, with modest Ease, And, copying Converse, teach its Style to please? Tho' thine each Virtue, that a God cou'd lend? Thine, ev'ry Help, that ev'ry Heart, can mend? 'Tis Thine in vain!—Thou wak'st a dying Land: And lift'st departed Hope, with fruitless Hand: Death has NO CURE. Thou hast mis-tim'd thy Aim; Rome had her GOTHS: and all, beyond, was Shame.