Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, Before the sprightly tempest tossing light: Certes, he was a most engaging wight, Of social glee, and wit humane, though keen, Turning the night to day, and day to night: For him the merry bells had rung, I ween, If in this nook of quiet, bells had ever been. But not even pleasure to excess is good: The higher still th' exulting billows flow, As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly, Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along, Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky, Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round. Another guest there was,* of sense refined, Who felt each worth, for every worth he had; Serene, yet warm; humane, yet firm his mind, As little touch'd as any man's with bad; Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, To him the sacred love of nature lent, And sometimes would he make our valley glad; When as we found he would not here be pent, To him the better sort this friendly message sent. "Come, dwell with us, true son of virtue, come! Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age;† But call'd by Fame, in soul ypricked deep, A noble pride restored him to the stage, And roused him like a giant from his sleep, Even from his slumbers we advantage reap: With double force th' enliven'd scene he wakes Yet quits not natures bounds. He knows to keep Each due decorum: now the heart he shakes, And now, with well-urged sense, th' enlighten'd judgment takes. [* Lord Lyttleton.] Quin, whom a quarrel with Garrick had driven temporarily off the stage.] A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems; Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes, Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain: The world forsaking with a calm disdain, Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat; Here quaff'd encircled with the joyous train, Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, Of clerks great plenty here you mote espy. A little, round, fat, oily man of God,§ Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry: He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, If a tight damsel chaunced to trippen by; Which when observed, he shrunk into his mew, And straight would recollect his piety anew. Nor be forgot a tribe who minded nought (Old inmates of the place) but state affairs: They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought; And on their brow sat eve'ry nation's cares. The world by them is parcell'd out in shares, When in the hall of smoke they congress hold, And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears Has clear'd their inward eye: then,smoke-enroll'd, Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old. Here languid beauty kept her pale-faced court: Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree, From every quarter hither made resort: [free, Where, from gross mortal care and business They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury. Or should they a vain show of work assume, Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be? To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom; But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom. Their only labour was to kill the time; And labour dire it is, and weary woe. They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme; Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow. This soon too rude an exercise they find; Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw. Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclined, And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the wind. Now must I mark the villainy we found, But ah! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown. For of these wretches taken was no care: [were. Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses [Thomson himself. This stanza was written by Lord Lyttleton.] [The Rev. Patrick Murdoch, the poet's friend and biographer. His sleek, rosy visage, and roguish eye, are preserved on canvas at Culloden.] AMBROSE PHILIPS. [Born, 1671, Died, 1749.] AMBROSE PHILIPS, the pastoral rival of Pope, | prelate, received considerable preferments, and was educated at Cambridge, and distinguished for many years in London as a member of clubs witty and political, and as a writer for the Whigs. By the influence of that party he was put into the commission of the peace soon after the accession of George I., and, in 1717, was appointed one of the commissioners of the lottery. When his friend Dr. Boulter was appointed primate of Ireland, he accompanied the was elected member for Armagh in the Irish Commons. He returned to England in the year 1748, and died in the following year, at his lodgings near Vauxhall. The best of his dramatic writings is the Distrest Mother, a translation of Racine's Andromache. His two other tragedies, the Briton, and Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, are not much better than his pastorals. TO THE EARL OF DORSET.† Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day. The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain: There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. And yet but lately have I seen, even here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow, Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow, At evening a keen eastern breeze arose, And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn dicslosed at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And brighten'd every object to my eyes: For every shrub, and every blade of grass, And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass: In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field. [yield, [*The Freethinker, in which A. Philips wrote, began its career on Monday, March 24, 1718, was published twice a week, and terminated with the 159th paper, Monday. September 28th, 1719. Dr. Drake speaks in praise of its easy and perspicuous diction, and thinks a very inte The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise, When if a sudden gust of wind arise, While here enchanted gardens to him rise, A HYMN TO VENUS. FROM THE GREEK OF SAPPHO. O VENUS, Beauty of the skies, If ever thou hast kindly heard resting selection might be made from it.-Essay on Periodical Papers.] [ The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling.-GOLDSMITH.] |