Puslapio vaizdai
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H! friend! to dazzle let the vain defign;

To raise the thought, and touch the heart be thine! That charm fhall grow, while what fatigues the ring, Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing:

So when the fun's broad beam has tir'd the fight,
All mild afcends the moon's more sober light,
Serene in virgin modefty fhe fhines, anch
And unobferv'd the glaring orb declines.

Oh! bleft with temper, whofe unclouded ray,
Can make to-morrow chearful as to-day:
She, who can love a fifter's charms, or hear
Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear;
She who ne'er anfwers 'till a husband cools,
Or, if fhe rules him, never fhews the rules; .
Charms by accepting, by fubmitting fways,
Yet has her humour moft, when he obeys;
Let fops or fortune fly which way they will,
Difdains all lofs of tickets or codille;

Spleen, vapours, or fmall-pox, above them all,
And mistress of herfelf, tho' China fall.

The MAN of ROSS.


UT all our praifes why fhould lords engrofs?
Rife, honeft mufe! and fing the MAN of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarfe applaufe refounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow;
Not to the fkjes in ufelefs columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,

But clear and artlefs, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain?
Whofe caufe-way parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whose feats the weary traveller repofe?!
Who taught that Heav'n-directed fpire to rife?
"The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erfpread by fo
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread:40
He feeds yon alms-houfe, neat, but void of ftate,
Where age and want fit fmiling at the gate;

Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft, The young who labour, and the old who reft. any fick? the MAN of Ross relieves,


Prefcribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,

Baulk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more.
Defpairing quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile attornies, now an ufelefs race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo with, but want the pow'r to do!
Oh fay! what fums that gen'rous hand fupply?
What mines to fwell that boundless charity?

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

Ye little ftars! hide your diminifh'd rays.

And what? no monument, infcription, ftone?
His race, his form, his name almoft unknown?
Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, fearch it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough, that virtue fill'd the fpace between;
Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been.


[POPE.] [300

UT moft by numbers judge a poet's fong;

And fmooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong:

In the bright mufe tho' thoufand charms confpire,
Her voice is all thefe tuneful fools admire;

Who haunt Parnaffus but to please their ear,
Not mend their minds; as fome to church repair,
Not for the doctrine, but the mufic there.
Thefe 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" whifpers thro' the trees:'



If crystal streams "with pleafing murmurs creep,"
The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "fleep"
Then, at the laft and only couplet fraught

With fome unmeaning thing they call a thought,
A needlefs Alexandrine ends the fong,

That, like a wounded fnake, drags its flow length along.
Leave fuch to tune their own dull rhymes, and know
What's roundly fmooth, or languishingly flow;
And praise the eafy vigour of a line,

Where Denham's ftrength, and Waller's sweetness join.
True eafe in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harthness gives offence,
The found must seem an echo to the fense:
Soft is the ftrain when zephyr gently blows,
And the fmooth ftream in fmoother numbers flows;
But when loud furges lafh the founding fhore,
The hoarfe, rough verfe fhould like the torrent roar :
When Ajax ftrives fome rock's vaft weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move flow;
Not fo, when fwift Camilla fcours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and fkims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays furprise,

And bid alternate paffions fall and rife!

While, at each change, the fon of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with fparkling fury glow,
Now fighs fteal out, and tears begin to flow:
Perfians and Greeks like turns of nature found.
And the world's victor ftood fubdu'd by found!
The pow'r of mufic all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now..

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The Parting of HECTOR and ANDROMACHE.



TECTOR, 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 blamelefs wife, Aëtion's wealthy heirkete


(Cilician Thebe great Aëtion sway'd, c‡ !
And Hippoplacus wide-extended fhade)
The nurfe ftood near, in whofe embraces preft
His only hope hung fmiling at her breast,
Whom each foft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new-born ftar that gilds the morn.
To this lov'd infant Hector gave the name
Scamandrius, from Scamander's honour'd ftream;
Aftyanax the Trojans call'd the boy,

From his great father, the defence of Troy.
Silent the warriour fmil'd, and pleas'd refign'd
To tender paffions all his mighty mind.
His beauteous princefs caft a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected fpoke;
Her bofom labour'd with a boding figh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

Too daring prince! ah whither doft thou run;
Ah too forgetful of thy wife and fon!

And think it thou not how wretched we fhall be,
A widow I, an helpless orphan he!

For fure fuch courage length of life denies,

And thou must fall, thy virtue's facrifice.
Greece in her fingle heroes ftrove in vain;

Now hofts oppofe thee, and thou must be flain!
Oh grant me, gods! e'er Hector meets his doom,
All I can ask of Heav'n, an early tomb!

So fhall my days in one fad tenour run,
And end with forrows as they firft begun.
No parent now remains my grief to fhare,
No father's aid, no mother's tender care.
The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,
Laid Thebè wafte, and flew my warlike fire!
His fate compaffion in the victor bred;
Stern as he was, he yet rever'd the dead,
His radiant arms preferv'd from hoftile fpoil,
And laid him decent on the fun❜ral pile;

Then rais'd a mountain, where his bones were burn'd:
The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorn'd,
Jove's fylvan daughters bade their elms beftow

A barren fhade, and in his honour grow.
By the fame arm my seven brave brothers fell;
In one fad day beheld the gates of hell:
While the fat herds and fnowy flocks they fed;
Amid their fields the hapless heroes bled!


My mother liv'd to bear the victor's bands,
The Queen of Hippoplacia's filvan lands:
Redeem'd too late, fhe fcarce beheld again

Her pleafing empire and her native plain, fotod y naill
When ah! oppreft by life-confuming woe,
She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

Yet while my Hector ftill furvives, I fee
My father, mother, brethren, all in thee:
Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all
Once more will perifh, if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger fhare:
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!
That quarter moft the fkilful 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, ftrive 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 ftay 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, whofe garments fweep the

Attaint the luftre of my former name,

Should Hector bafely quit the field of fame?
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My foul impels me to th' embattl'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.
And yet no dire prefage fo 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 gafping on the fhore;
As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread
I fee thee trembling, weeping, captive led

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