Puslapio vaizdai


H! friend! to dazzle let the vain design;

A , be thine!

That charm thall grow, while what fatigues the rings
Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing:
So when the sun's broad beam has tir'd the fight,
All mild ascends the moon's more sober light,
Serene in virgin modesty the shines,
And unobserv'd the glaring orb declines,

Oh! bleft with temper, whose unclouded ray,
Can make to-morrow chearful as to-day:
She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear
Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear;
She who ne'er answers 'till a husband cools,
Or, if the rules bim, never shews the rules;
Charms by accepting, by fulamicting Iways,
Yet has her humour most, when she obeys;
Let fops or fortune fly which way they will,
Disdains all loss of tickets or codille ;
Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all
And mistress of herfelf, tho’ China fall.
The MAN of ROSS .

UT all our praises why should lords engross?

Rife, honelt mufe ! and fing the MAN of Rose:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro? her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brown:
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow;
Not to the skies in useless columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,
But clear and artless, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain?
Whose cause-way parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whose feats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that Heav'n-directed spire to rife?

The Man of Ross," each Visping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! 19
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate;

Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any fick? the Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Baulk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attornies, now an useless race.

Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do!
Oh say! what sums that gen'rous hand fupply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity?

Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man poffeft-five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your

blaze! Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays.

And what? no monument, inscription, ftone!

race, his form, his name almost unknown?
Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, search it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between;
Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been.



UT most by numbers judge a poet's fong;

And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong:
In the bright muse tho' thousand charms conspire,
Her voice is all thefe tuneful fools admire;
Who haunt Parnafsus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as fome to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the mufic there.
These equal fyllables alone require,
Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire;
While expletives their feeble: aid do join' ;
And ten low words oft creep in one dull line:
While they ring round the fame unvary'd chimes,
With fure returns of ftill expected rhymes;
Where-e'er you find the cooling western breeze,
In the next line, it " whispers thro' the trees :"



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If crystal streams “ with pleasing murmurs creep,
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with “sleep:'
Then, at the last and only couplet fraught
With some unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the easy vigour of a line,
Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense :
Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lath the founding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar:
When Ajax strives some rock's vaft weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move flow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th’unbending corn, and skims along the main. ::
Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rife!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdu'd by found!
The pow'r of music all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

The Parting of HECTOR and ANDROMACHE.

[Pope's Homer's ILIAD.] HE

ECTOR, this heard, return’d without delay;

Swift thro' the town he trod his former way,
Through streets of palaces, and walks of state;
And met the mourner at the Scæan Gate.
With hafte to meet him fprung the joyful fair,
His blameless wifc, Aëtion's wealthy heir:


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(Cilician Thebè great Aëtion fway’d,'.!!!
And Hippoplacus' wide-extended shade)
The nurse stood near, in whose embraces prest
His only hope hung smiling at her breaft,
Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn.
To this lov'd infant Hector gave the name
Scamandrius, from Scamander's honour'd stream;
Aftyanax the Trojans call'd the boy,
From his great father, the defence of Troy.
Silent the warriour smil'd, and pleas'd refign'd
To tender passions all his mighty mind.
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke ;
Her bofom labour'd with a boding sigh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

Too daring prince! ah whither dost thou run;
Ah too forgetful of thy wife and fon!
And think It thou not how wretched we shall be,
A widow I, an helpless orphan he!"
For sure such courage length of life denies,
And thou must fall, thy virtue's facrifice.
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain;
- Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be fain!

t me, gods! e'er Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of Heav'n, an early tomb! 0%;

So shall my days in one sad tenour ruit,
And end with forrows as they first begun.
No parent now remains my grief to share,
No father's aid, no mother's tender care.
The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,
Laid Thebe waste, and few my warlike fire !
His fate compassion in the victor bred;
Stern as he was, he yet rever'd the deady
His radiant arms preserv'd from hostile spoil;
And laid him decent on the fun'ral pile;
Then rais'd a mountain, where his bones were burnid:
The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorn'd,
Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow
A barren shade, and in his honour grow.

By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell;
In one sad day beheld the gates of hell:
While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed ;
Amid their fields the hapless heroes bled!


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My mother liv'd to bear the victor's bands, ton
The Queen of Hippoplacia's filvan lands :
Redeem's too late, the scarce beheld again
Her pleasing empire and her native plain, och
When ah! oppreft by life-consuming woe,
She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

Yet while my Hector till survives, I see
My father, mother, brethren, all in thee:
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share:
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!
That quarter molt the skilful Greeks annoy,
Where yon' wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy :
Thou, from this tow'r, defend the important poft;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful hoft,
That país. Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain,
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.
Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have giv'n,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from Heav'n.
Let others in the field their arms employ,
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy.

The Chief reply'd: that poft fhall be my care,
Nor that alone, but all the works of war.
How would the fons of Troy, in arms renown'd,
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the

Attaint the lustre of my former name,
Should Hector bafely quit the field of fame?
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My soul impels me to th' embatti'd plains :
Let me be foremost to defend the throne,
And guard my father's glories, and my own.

Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates:
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates !)
The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend,
And fee thy warriours fall, thy glories end.

yet no dire presage so wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore;
As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led.!

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