Springs from the Eaft: ye pow'rs, divide
The vaft Atlantic's heaving tide.
Britannia, from each rocky height,
Pursues you with applauding hands;
Afar, impatient for the freight,
See, the whole western world expecting ftands!
Already Fancy paints each plain,
The defarts nod with golden grain,
The wond'ring vales look gay:
The woodman's ftroke the forests feel,
The lakes admit the merchant's keel
Away, ye barks, away!
Tranflation of a Greek Epigram, on a Grecian Beauty.
HY eyes declare th' imperial wife of Jove,
Thy breafts difclofe the Cyprian queen of love;
Minerva's fingers thy fair hand difplays,
And Thetis' limbs each graceful ftep betrays.
Bleft man! whofe eye on thy bright form has hung;
Thrice bleft! who hears the mufic of thy tongue.
As monarchs happy! who thy lips has preft;
But who embraces, as the Gods is bleft.
An Original Poem, from the Appendix newly published to Dr. SWIFT'S
Letter to the Dean, when in England, in 1726.
OU will excufe me, I fuppofe,
For fending rhyme inftead of profe,
Because hot weather makes me lazy;
To write in metre is more easy.
While you are trudging to the town,
I'm ftrolling Dublin up and down;
While you converfe with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix'd in an elbow chair, at eafe,
1 chufe companions as I pleafe.
I'd rather have one fingle fhelf,
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For, after all that can be faid,
Our best acquaintance are the dead.
While you're in raptures with Fauftina,
I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina,
While you are starving there in ftate,
I'm cramming here with butcher's meat.
You fay, when with thofe lords you dine,
They treat you with the best of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why fo can we, as well as they.
No reafon then, my dear good Dean,
But you should travel home again.
What though you mayn't in Ireland hope
To find fuch folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would fhare-
But half the wit that you can spare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that in twelve days,
You'd make a doz'n of Popes and Gays.
Our weather's good, our fky is clear,
We've ev'ry joy, if you were here;
So lofty, and fo bright a fky,
Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I fhall to Quilca go;
To fee Mc Fayden's horny brothers,
First fuck, and after bull their mothers.
To fee, alas! my wither'd trees!
To fee, what all the country fees!
My ftunted quicks, my famith'd beeves ;
My fervants fuch a pack of thieves;
My shatter'd firs, my blafted oaks;
My houfe in common to all folks:
No cabbage for a fingle fnail;
My turnips, carrots, parfnips fail;
My no green peafe, my few green sprouts;
My mother always in the
My horfes rid, or gone aftray;
My fish all stol'n, or run away;
My mutton lean, my pullets old,
My poultry ftarv'd, the corn all fold.
A man, come now from Quilca, fays,
They've ftol'n the locks from all your keys,
But, what muft fret and vex me more,
He fays, they ftole the keys before.
They've ftol'n the knives from all the forks,
And half the cows from half the turks;
Nay more, the fellow fwears and vows,
They've ftol'n the fturks from half the cows,
With many more accounts of woe,
Yet, though the Devil be there, I'll go ;.
"Twixt you and me, the reafon's clear,
Because I've more vexation here,
Supposed to have been written by the celebrated Vaneffa, in confequence of her paffion for Dean Swift.
AIL, blufhing goddefs, beauteous fpring,
Who, in thy jocund train, doft bring
Loves and graces, fmiling hours,
Balmy breezes, fragrant flowers,
Come, with tints of roseate hue,
Nature's faded charms renew.
Yet why should I thy prefence hail?
To me no more the breathing gale
Comes fraught with fweets, no more the rofe
With fuch tranfcendent beauty blows,
As when Cadenus bleft the scene,
And thar'd with me these joys ferene.
When, unperceiv'd, the lambent fire
Of friendship kindled new defire;
Still lift'ning to his tuneful tongue,
The truths, which angels might have fung,
Divine impreft their gentle fway,
And sweetly ftole my foul away.
My guide, inftructer, lover, friend,
(Dear names) in one idea blend;
Oh! ftill conjoin'd, your incenfe rife,
And waft fweet odours to the skies.
More fit affociates find;
And thou alone, within my breaft
O! deign to footh my griefs to rest,
And heal my tortur'd mind.
A Reflection on the Death of the Marquis of Tavistock.
H thou who dwell'ft upon the bough,
Whofe tree does wave its verdant brow,
And spreading fhades the diftant brook,
Accept these lines, dear fifter Rook!
And when thou'ft read my mournful lay,
Extend thy wing and fly away,
Left pinion-maim'd by fiery shot,
Thou should't like me bewail thy lot;
Left in thy rook'ry be renew'd,
The tragic fcene which here I view'd.
The day declin'd, the evening breeze
Gently rock'd the filent trees,
While spreading o'er my peopled neft,
I hufh'd my callow young to reft:
When fuddenly an hoftile found,
Explofion dire! was heard around :
And level'd by the hand of Fate,
The angry bullets pierc'd my mate;
I faw him fall from fpray to fpray,
Till on the diftant ground he lay:
With tortur'd wing he beat the plain,
And never caw'd to me again.
Many a neighbour, many a friend,
Deform'd with wounds, invok'd their end:
All screaming, omen'd notes of woe,
'Gainft man our unrelenting foe:
These eyes beheld my pretty brood,
Flutt'ring in their guiltless blood:
While trembling on the fhatter'd tree,
At length the gun invaded me;
But wayward Fate, feverely kind,
Refus'd the death, I wish'd to find :
Oh! farewell pleafure; peace, farewell,
And with the gory raven dwell.
Was it for this I fhun'd retreat,
And fix'd near man my focial feat!
For this deftroy'd the infect train,
That eat unfeen the infant grain !
For this, with many an honeft note,
Iffuing from my artless throat,
I chear'd my lady, lift'ning near,
Working in her elbow chair!
WEETS to the fweet," farewell! nor, longer mourn
A luckless husband from your bofom torn:
No longer blame a father's treach'rous heart;
Blamelefs yourself, and innocent of art-
Fav'rite of Heav'n! in early life remov'd!
With angels live, and love, and be belov'd!
With angels feel what fate deny'd you here!
Blifs; endless, as the friend and husband's tear ;
In all your virtues may the world agree !
Your failings-bury'd in the grave, and me.
PROLOGUE to the ENGLISH MERCHANT.
ACH year how many English vifit France,
To learn the language, and to learn to dance!
'Twixt Dover cliffs and Calais, in July,
Obferve how thick the birds of paffage fly!
Fair-weather fops in (warms, fresh-water failors,
Cooks, mantua-makers, milliners and taylors.
Our bard too made a trip; and fland'rers fay,
Brought home among fome more run goods, a play:
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