POEMS On Several OCCASIONS.  
Humbly DEDICATED to the Right Honourable the Marchioness of TAVESTOCK.  
By the AUTHOR.  
LONDON, Printed for William Chandler, at the Peacock in the Poultry; and William Davis, at the Bull over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhill. 1699.   

TO THE READER.  
IF every Writer of Verse were to account for his Publications of that kind, I doubt the World would be troubled with worse Apologies than Poems, and Poets more unaccountable than either.  
They tell us, however, That the Common Design of their Poetry is to please, but whether That Design be upon themselves or their Readers, is generally questionable; but for my Own part, my Intention herein is only to please myself and that, not with a Satisfaction resulting from Applause, nor with a Fond Conceit that there is any thing wonderful to be met with among the following Performances; but merely at the having got rid of a parcel of Thoughts, which for some time have played with my Mind, and made it useless to me. So that I am under no manner of Concern about the Success of the Verses, nor harbour the least fear of those Half-witted People called Critics, (who have Sense enough to find fault, but not to mend) for having obtained my End already, I care not to what End they apply Them.   

To the Ingenious Author of the following Poems.  
MOST Men vast Riches would from Plutus hold,  
Even bend beneath the weight of ponderous Gold:  
Hence they the Muse's hate, and Verse sublime,  
Love the Three Sisters better than the Nine:  
But you (like Phoebus' Conquering Beams) my Friend,  
Drive those dull Vapours from your Heavenly Mind:  
(Like Smoke before the Wind) they fly away;  
No misty Garments hid the lovely Day:  
At once you tread secure, and soar on high,  
And cut with equal Wing the yielding Sky,  
Sure, when Lucina aided at thy Birth,  
Some vigorous Planet influenced the Earth:  
With darted Rays (like Lightning from the Pole)  
Stamping Celestial Impress on thy Soul:  
Or else the God of Poets did inspire,  
And warm thy Breast with quick and active Fire.  
If Man Ingrateful will not sound your Fame,  
Nor give due Praise to thy deserving Name:  
To your beloved Shades, and Streams, go on,  
And Wave shall push on Wave to hear thy Song.  
E. P.   

To the Author of the following Poems.  
Adventurous Youth, that in an Age called Wise,  
Sufferest thy Thoughts to wander in Disguise.  
Thinkest thou the Critics will not find thee out,  
And pay thee for thy Sense, they will, no doubt.  
Those Men of Numbers, whose o're-hasty Feet  
Outrun the slow Advances of their Wit;  
Will, to besure, such Innovators curse,  
As honour Reason with the Garb of Verse.  
Go Criminal Poet, writ thine o'er again,  
Of each Substantial Line, at least, make Ten:  
Why, thou art neither Pious, nor Profane,  
But dost alike from Church and Plays abstain;  
Else They had taught thee how to draw thy Thread,  
And write till thou hadst writ thy Subjects dead:  
Who make whole Volumes of one Thought, and spin  
Texts, till they make a Cobweb of a Sin:  
Thy Book had then been fashionably thick,  
But thou canst not so much as Rythm to Trick.   

THE CONTENTS.  

THE Muse. pag. 1  
A Pen, to Sylvia. 3  
To Sylvia, with her Mask on. 4  
Ineffectual. 5  
To Sylvia, after her Recovery from a Dangerous Sickness. 6  
SONG. 7  
Ineffectual. 9  
On the Death of Sylvia. 12  
Strephon to Menalchas. 14  
Damon's Despair. 16  
The Merchant. 17  
An Epitaph on Mr. R. Long. 20  
To Mr. in the Country; with some other Verses. 21  
On Mr. John Milton. To a Friend, who flatteringly desired me to send him some Verses on a proposed Subject. 22  
Upon the Tax on Births and Burials, Granted to His Majesty for Carrying on the War against France. 25  
Reflecting on the Time of the Queen's Death. 26  
An Epitaph on Mr. T. C. 27  
To a Friend in the Country. 28  
To a Painter, whom, after his Removal in B— Ch. Yard, I had not seen of a great while. 29  
To the same, and (partly) on the same Occasion. 30  
Against Gluttony. 31  
An Epitaph on Mr. T. F. 32  
A Letter to Mr. R. C. in the Country. 33  
An Accident. 37  
To a sorry Apothecary, who pretended to Criticise on my Friend's Excellent Sermon. 38  
On Mr. P— n the Quaker's Marrying a Young Wife. 39  
On the Heavy Tax on Paper. 40  
Epitaph on a Famous Liar. 43  
To Celia. ibid.  
The Bravado. 45  
Wedlock. 47  
The Conversion. 48  
To a Friend, Recommending a Contemplative Life. 52  
The Request. 53  
To a Miser, who bade me Farewell upon my going into the Country. 56  
An Enquiry after Wisdom, occasioned by Reading some Verses in Job. 58  
The Eighth Psalm. 60  
On the Concluding of the Peace. 62  
To a Painter, on his Ingenious Poem upon the Art of Painting. 64  
A Country Seat. 65    

POEMS ON Several Occasions.  

The Muse.  
WEre I to write, no Patroness I'd choose  
To guide my Fancy, or bright Thoughts infuse,  
But Sylvia, the Fair Seat of every Muse.  
Hail happy Residents, blessed Muses there,  
You speak not Words, but by her Mien and Air  
Unutterable Thoughts convey.  
Your Language every Feature does display:  
Whose easy Tincture can our Passions move,  
And in true Scenes present existing Love.  
Like Gods ye Language Act, and Speak by Things,  
And from each verying Thought fresh Beauty springs.  
O ye Poetic Powers! Consent at least,  
Since She, your Pantheon is, to make me Priest.  
But if that Boon be even for Gods too great  
To give, or humble Mortals to entreat,  
O then revoke, revoke your Sacred Flame,  
And place it on the Altar whence it came,  
 it to bolder Numbers does Aspire,  
Or touch the slackest String, or whisper on the Lyre:  
For ever, ever, let me silent lie,  
Nor dare to breathe a Thought, nor dare to  a Sigh,  
L●st the created Sounds Revolters prove,  
And when I'd Sing a 〈◊〉, Melt to Love.   

A Pen, to Sylvia.  
GO take thy pleasant Office, happy Pen,  
In her Fair Hand, but don't forget me then.  
Thou knowst I took thee from the labouring Wing,  
Opened thy dumb Mouth, and made thee apt to Sing;  
And how thy first formed Word was Sylvia's Name,  
And that by impulse taught, and not of Fame,  
Her many Virtues flowed in ready Verse.  
Go, and thy early Prophecies rehearse,  
How oft thy lucky fluence tied us fast,  
In knotted Ciphers that must ever last:  
Then if she Blushe●, catch the rising Thought,  
And superscribe it mine, and send i● hot.  
Swerve her strict Hand to write each yielding thing,  
And then once more assume thy Native Wing,  
And swift her very long delayed Promise bring.   

To Sylvia, with her Mask on.  
SO does the Sun, when Clouds confine his Beams,  
Pour down his Light in such resistless Streams.  
That Sable Vizor hides indeed your Face,  
But the great Shine collects into a place,  
And at your Eyes darts forth with burning Rays:  
Hast'n and take it off, thou kind Destroyer,  
Av, tho' thou knowst thyself the Killing Fair,  
Murder downright is better than Manslayer.   

Ineffectual.  
IN vain thou fliest to Fields and Bowers,  
And Solemn Haunts in Solemn Hours;  
In vain thou there dost Sylvia meet,  
And pourest out Numbers at her Feet;  
Hasty Numbers; short, and broke  
To pieces by the Wind, when spoke:  
 they arrive her heedless Ear,  
The Argument does disappear,  
And only leaves the Cadence there.  
Ah! gentle Echo of my Mind,  
If thou canst admittance find,  
Make your Languishing Report  
To her Heart, 'tis that I Court.  
Gently breathe in it your Sighs,  
Swell it till you make it rise,  
And heave Compassion to her Eyes.   

To Sylvia, after her Recovery from a Dangerous Sickness.  
AH! Sylvia come, at last, at last resign,  
And e'er we're Both the Cruel Fates, be Mine.  
We who down Time's steep Current swiftly pass,  
Should struggle with the Tide, and catch a short embrace.  
Who knows but our united Souls would seek  
Some lurking Refuge from the Common Wreck?  
Some private Bay, where hurried Love might Rest,  
And where, if any Fate should come in quest,  
We'd look unfrighted from th' Exalts of Love,  
And awe Its Malice, or Its Rage remove,  
Till Death with slowest pace did drive us thence,  
And so dislodge those Flames he could not quench.   

SONG.  

POor Strephon was laid  
In the Cool of a Shade,  
By the side of a Brook,  
His Sheep were all scattered, and broken his Hook.  
He sighed, and he wept, as he looked on the Stream,  
And thrice he bowed down, and drank from the brim:  
But alas 'twas in vain,  
It allayed not his Pain,  
For 'twas Love, and not Thirst, that afflicted the Swain.   

It broke off his Rest,  
Grew big in his Breast,  
And the fierce Passion would fain be expressed.  
At his Eyes it looked out, in a Languishing Flame,  
And his Heart went apace, but his Tongue was to blame:  
For tho' he would give the whole World it were known,  
Yet he durst not explain it with more than a Groan.   

For alas, the Dear Maid was as Rich as she's Fair,  
And the Shepherd, good Man, was too Mean for her Care:  
He was Honest he vowed, and as other Folks say,  
His Heart was as large as e'er yet went astray:  
But as big as it is, it will never be found,  
So cunning's the Thief, and so secret the Wound,  
That just as he lies, he must sink under ground.    

Ineffectual.  

I Will no longer, therefore Muse be gone,  
Too much I've been imposed upon,  
To let thee settle in my Breast,  
And heat my Fancy, and disturb my Rest,  
Too Courteous I have been, too Rude my Guest.  
I gave thee kind Admission there,  
And Entertained thee with my homely Cheer,  
Tho' sudden and unseasonable you were:  
But on my Mind Imperiously you sat,  
And tasted all my Thoughts with scornful State,  
This is too harsh, you cried, and this too flat.  
And with that specious pretence,  
Would needs employ your mellowing Heat;  
But what does the unhappy Damon get?  
Not one kind Look from Sylvia yet,  
By all thy Oily Words, by all thy Painted Sense.   

I told you all would never do,  
Ay, and I gave you Reasons for it too;  
In spite of very Love I did:  
I told you she was Rich, most plaguy Rich,  
A Circumstance I'm sure which  
Ought to have scared, Audacious Muse, thy flight.  
When guarded round with Eyes severe,  
And Friends in Ambush every where,  
With Jealousy that watchful Owl of Night,  
From whose broad Gaze, not Fairy, thou were't hid.  
Be gone then, or content with meaner Things,  
And flutter low with thy singed Wings;  
Roam through the Fields, and through the Woods,  
And tell the Growth of Flowers and Buds,  
Yet these Mischievous Muse refer  
Thy Traitorous Memory to her;  
The blushing Rose so sweet, so sleek,  
Took Its Complexion from her Cheek,  
The Lily from her Hands and Neck.  
A Brook that rolls itself hard by,  
With ceasless Moans,  
Which unrelenting Stones  
Still multiply,  
Thou'led think th' unconsolable I.    

On the Death of Sylvia.  
WHat hidden Fate attacks my guardless Breast!  
What unseen Hand breaks off my usual Rest!  
Dull nighted Objects pass before my Eyes,  
And working Lungs throw forth prodigious Sighs.  
Strange Birth of Sorrow! What should this portend,  
Or of the World's, or of some Nobler End?  
Perhaps this Notes neglected Black reverse,  
Contains the woeful Charm, the dismal Curse.  
Dead does it say! Ah me, is Sylvia Dead?  
Or does that dim Destruction seize my Head,  
And make my failing Sight fallacious Letters read?  
Oh no! for the Sad News that Sigh confirms,  
And now my Soul dissolves, and now with Anguish burns.  
Roul on thou lingering Orb of Day, roll on,  
And all ye jocund Lights of Life be gone,  
Wait on Her hence unto some happier Globe,  
And over this spread out Night's Eldest Robe,  
That as my Sorrow, Dark may be the Scene,  
As of my Joy you Witnesses have been.  
And now, kind Grief, inform my Soul all o'er,  
Slack every stiff Reserve, and wake each moistening Power:  
For every Virtue send a different Stream,  
Then as those met in Kindness, mingle them.  
Wordless laments, her Modesty'll become  
Great as her Charity, but like that Dumb.  
Highest Applause from unbound Accents rise,  
And Contemplation spent in Ecstasies,  
Must serve us here on Earth, she's praised above the Skies.   

Strephon to Menalchas.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Menalchas hearing of the Death of Zelinda, sends a Letter of Condoleance to his Friend (and her Lover) Strephon. But therein insisting somewhat too largely on the Virtues of the Deceased, he sharp'ns thereby his Friend's Disaster. Strephon sensible of the Disservice, sends him this.  
UNkind my Friend, and inconsistent too  
With your own self, is the sad Scene you drew.  
With Sympathy, you say, you are possessed,  
Loves mighty Beams pierced through me to your Breast.  
But Oh! too feeble were their force I find,  
They burned my Soul but gently warm your Mind;  
Else could you with deliberate Pencil draw,  
In formal touches, what confused I saw?  
Can you describe her Person, say her Mind,  
Oh! could you do all this, yet be unkind?  
You do, you are, that, that is the result,  
What else had Death to do in the Consult?  
Skilful enough your Hand to Draw, nor Err  
Where wretched Strephon, blest Zelinda were.  
And too exact you spread the Desert Place,  
And kind depressions of the willing Grass,  
(Blasted and frustrate now, as are my Hopes,  
Unblessed with moisture, save what sometimes drops  
From my o're-flouded Eyes, that try in vain  
To nourish up the swooning Herb again.  
For Oh! too well myself, and they too, know,  
That should they spring again they'd useless grow.  
Sufficient that and more, what need you go,  
By Oppositions to delineate Woe?  
Was it too little than that Fate did so?  
Why Set so near that Happy Time, its End,  
Again that by the Grave? Oh! why, my Friend?  
And now at last, when she'd been so long laid  
In that still Place, and in my Mind her Shade,  
Why d'ye disturb her Ashes that, and this?  
For which a Tomb, and silent Sorrow fittest is.  
How comes it thus, in Friendship Grief should roll,  
And carry tender Sense from Soul to Soul?   

Damon 's Despair.  
ON a high Mounts cold brow, poor Damon sat,  
And set his Pipe in Consort with his Fate;  
Sad were the Sounds urged forth by deep Despair,  
Mixed with black Sighs that darkened all the Air.  
A while the Swain with shivering Fingers played,  
And roul'd his heavy Eyes towards Heaven, dismayed;  
Not that he asked the least of Blessings thence,  
Or wished to put the Gods to more Expense.  
Enough, said he, I'd lived when Sylvia Died,  
With that he threw his hoarse-grown Pipe aside,  
And stamped upon the ground, and violently cried.  
Then griping Anguish rocked him to and fro,  
Raised by that wounded Passion Love in Wo.  
Ye are unkind, ye Powers, ye are unkind,  
And with the words his Soul dispersed to Wind.   

The Merchant.  
IN vain from Shore's remote you strive to bring  
Your Happiness, that must from Virtue spring.  
In vain your floating Territories Ride,  
And beat with Stern, assault the adverse Tide.  
What gives the Gaudy India's boasted Soil,  
But a feigned Recompense, Fatigue and Toil?  
Not unprovok'd did Wise Democritus  
Laugh at a Humour so Ridiculous.  
Sometimes to Heaven ye hasty Prayers make,  
That It would guide your Fortune, play your Stake:  
That Nature with her widest Jaws would yawn,  
And drive the Idle Vessel faster on:  
Which yet no sooner gains the scanty Seas,  
Than ye revoke your Prayers, the Gods no longer please,  
Less with limp Fanes the Winds then gently move,  
You slack you forward Zeal, and flag the Wings of Love.  
Thus varying Prayers you form from various Moods,  
Enough to puzzle sure th' inferior Gods,  
(If any such there be) that rule the Air,  
And manage all the Nice Transactions there;  
That do the Universal Bellows blow,  
And parcel out the Winds for Humane Use below.  
Such your Attempts, and the so Dangerous Road,  
Implies the guidance of some Footboy God,  
That with sly Steps can tread the Watery Maze,  
And lead the Swarthy Mariner his Ways:  
That can at pleasure baffle every Storm,  
Or guard the Timorous Pinnace from its Harm;  
That can awake the Winds, and Seas from sleep,  
And make the drowsy Waves a useful motion keep▪  
Presumptuous Men!  
But O some gentler Fate  
Give me a Calm, and call me Blest with That!  
For why should froward Storms, or raging Seas,  
Or all the Swarm of Merchant's Destinies,  
Disperse my firm Resolves, or wreck my Mind?  
Why rest my Hopes on the uncertainty of Wind?  
In the still bottom of a Shady Vale  
I'dlye Embarked, and scorn the Aid of Wind and Sail.  
For Time with smooth advance will gain the Port,  
Where all the Happy Fortunate resort.   

An Epitaph on Mr. R. Long.  
BEhold this careless heap interrs Dick Long,  
Fertunes mere Sport, and Nature's constant Wrong:  
For●s Life was very Short, and very Poor,  
And turned at last out through the World's Backdoor.  
No Funeral Torch did flaming Aid afford,  
No drooping Mourner Sigh his dying Word.  
No Females Tears bedewed his lonesome Hearse;  
(For what Affections love an Empty Purse?)  
Silent as Night's dark Curtain he withdrew,  
And the Best Friend he had he's gone unto:  
For Earth at last, when every Friend sorsook,  
At his Misfortune kind impression took,  
And mollified Her Breast, and lodged him there,  
And whom no Man caressed, embracing doth inter.   

To Mr. 〈◊〉 in the Country; with some other Verses.  
THat you are Happy, who can doubt?  
Have you not all the Fields your prey?  
Have you not all the Time of every Day To walk about?  
And yet d'ye want these Lines? Persuade me to't.  
Are not your very Walks more Elegant?  
Do not the charming Birds prevent,  
Or render your Request a Compliment?  
Besides, the Ladies you have in to boot.  
Yet freely ye blest Walks and Shades peruse,  
The feeble Offering of a Captive Muse:  
Who tho' she scorns restraint,  
And sometimes flies  
The noisy World, t'enjoy your Companies;  
Yet is to unfit Organs joined,  
And seated in too low a Mind,  
To express the Ideas that your Objects paint.   

On Mr. John Milton. To a Friend, who flatteringly desired me to send him some Verses on a proposed Subject.  

IF with a Poet's Fate, Heaven would but give  
The Poet's Spirit too, by which they live;  
Can feed on Thoughts that voluntary move  
Harmonious Numbers, free from fumes of Love:  
I'd then no longer lazy Fortune Court,  
(Fortune should be my Fool to make me Sport)  
I'd leave her Service, and her Play-things here,  
And in the Muse's Livery appear,  
Winged with their Plumes, if by their Vigour led:  
But Oh the Muses Great Elijah's fled,  
Wrapped in a Chariot drawn by fiery Steeds,  
And none yet worthy in his place succeeds!  
Whence may One Sacred Ordination get?  
His powerful Mantles sought in vain for yet;  
The Holy Vest is with the Prophet flown,  
For him 'twas only fit, and made for him alone.  
Not Jordan he, but Chaos, with it smote,  
Hither and thither, and went through a Foot.  
Her hidden Chambers opened to his Eye,  
And brought their Secrets to his Scrutiny;  
Whence his collecting Mind observed their use,  
And what their teeming Virtues would produce.  
And as he sung, we find it come to pass,  
This World is the Confusion, then that was.  
Ideas straight of every Being he wrought,  
And to perfection soon the Vision brought.  
Thus the Fair Train of Stars, and Heaven, and Earth,  
In his Harmonious Volume had their Birth.   

What need he then a Successor inspire,  
And further how bestow the Holy Fire?  
When all the Universal Scope he wrote,  
Beyond, Privation Gulfs attempting Thought.    

Upon the Tax on Births and Burials, Granted to His Majesty for Carrying on the War against France.  
'tIS hence the haughty Gauls receive their Doom,  
Our Graves are Cannon made, and every Womb  
A Mortar is, and every Child a Bomb.  
Long has France felt our Valour, now our Wit,  
And tho' Death aims at us, 'tis them we make him hit.  
Even he himself in vain assaults us now,  
For by his Conquests we more Potent grow.   

Reflecting on the Time of the Queen's Death.  
A Dismal Autumn 'twas,  
When Ominous Nature stripped for thee  
Herself of every Gaiety,  
The Trees fell Sick, and every Flower,  
Dismayed at the approaching Hour,  
Grew pale, and seemed to say,  
If the Quick Essence of Britannia  
Retire, we must by Consequence decay.  
And Lo the Heavens resent our Case,  
And blurr with Sable Clouds their Face,  
And down their sightless Eyes the Tears distil apace:  
Wisely ye Heavens ye shut your Eyes,  
There's nought on Earth deserves your sight,  
Our Glory is extinguished quite,  
Since to yourselves you have snatched our only Prize.   

An Epitaph on Mr. T. C.  
DEath (who exerts his Mortal Sovereignty  
Over the World) being grown concerned to see  
Descending Ages towards his Mansions move,  
By the rough Hand of Force, and not of Love:  
Took what might most attract our Wish, the Wise,  
The Pious, and alas! a Public Friend;  
One, whom but just to Name, were to commend,  
And needless that to inform you. Here he Lies.   

To a Friend in the Country.  

HAppy, Happy is your Change,  
For the Town's Tumultuous Noise,  
In the Silent Woods to Range,  
Stored with Innocence and Joys.   

Where the Gliding Silver Streams,  
Seem to Mock you as they Run,  
Hiding from the Scorching Beams,  
Of an Over-Thirsty Sun.   

Whispering through their Mossy Sluice,  
Philomela Sits on the Brink,  
Smooths her Plumes, and Dresses Spruce,  
Sings a Song to buy her Drink.   

Then Ascending on a Bough,  
There she sits and tells her Tale,  
To her Picture that's below,  
In her Looking-Glass and Ale.   

Every thing Contributes there,  
To please the Taste, the Sight, the Ear,  
Pleasures do in a Ring appear,  
And with joined Hands Dance round the Circling Year.    

To a Painter, whom, after his Removal into B— Ch. Yard, I had not seen of a great while.  
THen Buried be thy Soul, and all its Powers,  
If thou canst so Employ,  
The Break and Close of every Day,  
And fill with vain Essays thy Empty Hours.  
Quickly Descending go,  
And be a I imner to the Ghosts below;  
Where All-Confounding Shade  
Shall mar the Features by thy Pencil made,  
And ridicule th' Nice Exertions of thy Trade.   

To the same, and (partly) on the same Occasion. A Meditation on the Platonic Year.  
PLato thou'rt long a coming with thy Year,  
O how I want thy Reverend presence here!  
The World has every sort of Face put on,  
Friendship and Love's mild solaces have gone  
Long since their destined Rounds;  
And now we're whirled about with Rage and Frowns.  
Thus the Old World is tumbling down amain,  
Till striking on thy Tomb it back rebounds,  
Unwinding Time again:  
And then 'twill throw me Dear Zelinda back,  
And then once more I shall see Jack;  
If so, bowl on thou Globe till then,  
— And then for ever Slack.   

Against Gluttony.  
HAil to the Man whose Loaf and good Old Cheese,  
To pay his Nature are sufficient Fees.  
Let Parsons on gross Veal and Bacon Feed,  
Think as a Calf, and get a Hoggish breed.  
They by as Licence from themselves may do't,  
Dissect the Corpse, and Eat the Flesh to boot,  
To see what Wisdom in their Fabric lies,  
And what consent of Tastes will thence arise.  
Hence taught the God of Truth, and god of Lust,  
To Serve the Last, and Compliment the First.  
But I those Purer Substances will Chew,  
Whose Alimental humour's Calm and few,  
Shall let my Thoughts run ever even and true.   

An Epitaph on Mr. T. F.  
SHarp Grief on this would fain imprint,  
The Virtues of the Person in't:  
Fond Passion! Will a Tombstone hear,  
Or take th' Impression of a Tear?  
Th' Attempt forbear.  
How would his Praises Crowded stand,  
Inserted by thy trembling Hand  
On this short Page,  
Canst thou Inscribe what every Mouth  
His Charity has Fed;  
(From faltering Ancients to the lisping Youth)  
Can utter o'er the Dead?  
Besides what the vast Public might have said.  
Then bate thy Rage,  
Fame shall rehearse Him to the coming Age:  
Only writ thou upon this Fatal Door,  
His Name, and who goes in, will hear of more.   

A Letter to Mr. R. C. in the Country.  
DEar Sir, Till now my Thoughts your Course pursued,  
Traced o'er your Steps, and found your Progress Good.  
O'er th' extended Plains, and grassy Meads,  
On whose Rich Banks the flowing Rivers feeds;  
Through every shady Lane, and woody Hill,  
Across each peaceful Vale, and o'er each murmuring Rill.  
Every Delight the Birds in busy Song  
Of gratulating Meeter, did prolong.  
Thus slid my Thoughts—  
When Lo presented straight  
From a recovered Mounts prospective height,  
In bluest distance, Verulam, whom Fame,  
Even in this private Letter, bids me name.  
Thither with cautious awe and pace I drew,  
Modest my Queries there, and grave my View.  
Where aged Grandeur in Its Ruins lie,  
And Bacer smouldering Tomb, whose Self too cannot die.  
Hail Sacred Twine of Fate, the Town, now he  
Is gone, grown crazed with Sick Mortality,  
Will shortly by a passionate Comment,  
Quit her old Form● to Build his Monument.  
Wisely, if for herself she would secure  
A Name, might longer than her Stones endure:  
But vain, if so She think t'ingross his Worth,  
Nor She, nor the wide Circuit of the Earth,  
It Heaven alone can hold that gave him Birth.  
Much She already owes her happy Fate,  
That when among the Blessed his Soul was sat,  
His Body gave to Her, as One for That.  
With Benediction than I named his Fate,  
And Reverence due performed, renewed my Gate.  
No tedious Subburb intercepts the Road,  
But Nature's sudden Hand bestows abroad  
Her best Affections 'mongst the happy Swains,  
And dress with Golden Locks the Neighbouring Plains.  
The Rural Dames beneath the Hedges sat,  
And all the Bounties on the Soil repeat,  
How It no Niggard was, nor in Arrears,  
But Pleasure in Ten Thousand shapes it bears.  
Thus they of Nature, and indulgent Pan,  
And (fired with Rapture) on my Fancy ran.  
But Oh! the Cursed Disturber of my Ease,  
Vexed that Its greatest Opposite should please,  
Vexed that Its Child (for so it called my Thought)  
Should be with those Intrinsic Blessings caught,  
Business o'ertook me traversing your Downs,  
Seized on my Thoughts, and sporting Fancy wounds;  
Plundered my Hopes, and spares me only this,  
Now I'm Its Prisoner, barely Time to Wish.  
Say then yourself, for Oh! I long to know,  
Are you in Health, and Happy? Where? And how?   

To Celia, who whilst her Lover was Kissing of her, chanced to 〈◊〉  
DEar Madam, your presumptuous A—,  
Envying the Beauty of your Face,  
Attempts (like that) in Humane Speech,  
To bid your Lover kiss your Breech.  
But when in vain It tried to prate  
In words (like yours) Articulate.  
It spent Its Breath in Pish and Hum,  
And would not say so much as Come,  
The Native Language of a Janus B-m.   

To a Sorry Apothecary, who pretended to Criticise on my Friend's Excellent Sermon.  
THou Dull Son of a S— thouse,  
dost thou think that a fit House?  
Or thou fit to Commence  
A Profession of Sense?  
No, thou low Animal,  
That from Excrements crawl,  
'Twas not Nature's Intent  
Thou shouldst quit that Fat Scent,  
To lend a Tongue, or an Ear,  
In a Rational Sphere.  
Then thou Worm of the Privy,  
Get thee home, and in't live ye:  
Thence thy Pipe may allure  
A Clapped Beau for a Cure,  
Or some Wench's Compassion,  
To squat a Broad Ace on  
The Hole of the Seat,  
And the drift of thy Life is complete.   

On Mr. P— n the Quaker 's Marrying a Young Wife.  
WED and so Old! Well done Will. P— n, Esquire,  
Thou  have Children if thou dost desire:  
Desire thou dost, or else thou wouldst not Marry,  
Things standing thus, how can thy Hopes miscarry?   

On the Heavy Tax on Paper.  
THE Tax on Bumfodder, may chance  
To cause a want of It in France;  
For sure that Monarch can't but think,  
We'll beat him till we make him stink:  
Yet tho' he flies he'll finely fit us,  
When his Back's turned upon's besht us.  
For after all, unhappy we,  
Who'll Celebrate our Victory?  
The Poet dar'ned advance a Thought,  
Tho' Actious throng, and should be wrote,  
He won't be Damned for the State's Fault.  
The Historian will his Memory trust,  
With what he has not Tools to adjust,  
But the frail Bag I fear will burst.  
And the poor Hunter of the Planet,  
Can't give it Houseroom when he has won it;  
Predicts no more of Popish Downfall,  
Himself does first unto the Ground fall,  
By strange Decrees made this side Heaven,  
A Blow his Stars would ne'er ha' given.  
The Parson, tho' he's Charitable,  
About the Matter makes a Squabble,  
And as the Weavers did, will raise the Rabble.  
Then Woe be to the Western Sages,  
If those Black Journeymen ha'ned Wages:  
For should they lose Dear Pro and Con,  
And Preach Extempore alone,  
Then those that are Inspired least,  
Will only Talk what Wrath suggests,  
And so instead of due Applause,  
Make long Harangues against the Laws,  
Tell them their Statues Tongue-tye Fame,  
And Banging Lewis makes them Lame.  
Down goes Wise Socrates, and Plato,  
And Aristotle too, and Cato,  
Grey as they are, without Compassion,  
Or Mercy of a New Translation,  
Tho' Legacyed to Bless the Nation.  
Ay, and (I dread to think on't) Moses  
All his Good Old Acquaintance loses,  
Doomed to his Hebrew Garb this Moment,  
Nor more wears English Ruff or Comment:  
Lost in the Ruins of the Press  
Are these, and many more than these;  
From Writing Priest to Printing Deacon,  
And what I Die almost to speak on,  
The Bookseller must help he Break on.   

Epitaph on a Famous Liar.  
HEre Lies (in Earth as False as He) 'tis said,  
A Man whom Lying Fame reported Dead:  
He has belied his Fate, or foiled its Skill,  
For see, he's at his Trade of Lying still.   

To Celia.  

NAY, don't insist upon't, for I protest  
What e'er I wrote of Love was all in Jest.  
I saw it was the Fashion of the Times,  
To varnish o'er with Love indifferent Lines,  
And to mere casual Strokes adopt Designs.  
I caught that Custom in a Scribbling sit,  
And with designless Pen did Cupid hit.  
The Boy as from fast sleep disturb'dly rise,  
And looked upon me with half open Eyes;  
At first he frowning left me with a Scoff,  
But strange to such Address, turned back to Laugh.  
And I no less at what I ne'er had seen  
Before, thought fit to draw his Childish Mien,  
A tender Plumpness, with kind Red, his Face,  
Which he affectedly the more to grace,  
Leaned on his Shoulder, and with the Right Hand  
Pulled o'er his white curled Hair, and with it fanned  
His glowing Visage, t'other hung down low  
In lazy stretch, than rested on his Bow;  
Which over-bent, threw off the Tyrant String,  
At which the Boy dismayed, took to his Wing.   

This florid Picture witness even thee,  
If It came not unarmed and just as he,  
For I no Amorous Passion to It lent,  
The bare impression of his Form I sent  
On Paper, not my Soul, which is to Love unbent.    

The Bravado.  
I Laugh at Beauty, and I Scorn its Power,  
'Tis I alone possess the Noble Hour,  
That can with Frowns dishearten all the Charms  
Of languid Eyes, or circling Females Arms.  
Nor comely Oval, nor Vermilion Dye,  
Majestic Mien, nor all Love's Symmetry,  
Shall force a bowing Head, or yielding Knee,  
No, no, I loathe such gross Idolatry.  
What is famed Cupid but an Amorous Boy?  
I'll break his Bow, and fling his Darts away.  
Feigned Deity, or hadst thou heard or saw,  
The great Exploits that near the Froze Danaw  
My Arm performed against the Turks Bashaw,  
Thou wouldst not unadvisedly thus Assault,  
Lest loss of being recompensed the Fault.  
Cease Fool—  
Extremity's my Friend, I Scorn to Smell  
Or Taste of what Loves Proselytes wont to tell,  
Gums, Jellies, Odours, Spice,  
My Food is Horseflesh Candied up in Ice.  
Nor keep I Company with them,  
That cannot breathe out of Canary Steam,  
No, no, I gnaw off the condenced Stream.  
This ent Effeminating Liquor,  
But sharp'ns' Sense, produces Action quicker,  
Inspires the Soul with Noble Martial Rage,  
And Constitutes a Hero in the Age.   

Wedlock.  
WEll, now I'm in the Mind, go quickly bring  
A Parson, Girl, and the tough Wedding Ring:  
Hire on your Way some Bridemen Porters, then  
Call the Blunt Clerk to say the long Amen.  
Hasten, I prithee, e'er it be forgot,  
Or better Reason drive away the Thought.  
So now I hope my Friends I've pleased you all,  
And am become a Man Canonical:  
With Second Self, according to the Mode,  
A Multiplier of a Single Good,  
A Builder up of Cities Desolate,  
A mighty Obstacle of Killing Fate,  
Preface of Ages, Patron of the Cradle,  
Loves Jockey mounted on his pacing Saddle.  
A Glorious Style I Vow, who would not choose  
His Liberty and Solitude to lose,  
And bury all Free Thoughts in th' whited Sepulchre, a Spouse.   

The Conversion.  
IT was a Time and Season when the Sun,  
With mighty Toil half his long Race had run:  
When looking on the Fields with vehement Face,  
He checks the vain Attire of youthful Grass;  
And to Consummate good, the Blossoms leads,  
Filling with solid worth their empty Heads.  
When I (wanting alas, like influence too)  
Wisely I thought from his hot Looks withdrew.  
A Neighbouring Grove afforded the retreat,  
Where Night its self did shelter from the heat  
But 'fraid of Light, turned Pale, and trembling stood,  
Spreading a doubtful whisper through the Wood  
There from beneath the Root of an Old Oak,  
A boiling Spring of coolest Water broke,  
Whose ever rising Liquor jeered my Draught,  
When parched with heat to drink it up I thought.  
Blessed with those two, what could I wish for more?  
The drought of Nature, and of Business o'er:  
Virtuous alike the Rivelet, and the Shade,  
Alike the Curse of Thirst, and eager Thought decayed.  
Here then on rising Ground to Rest I lay,  
Glad to have 'scaped the Fever of the Day.  
Nor long e'er gentle Sleep the Curtain drew,  
And shut out from my sight the Solemn View.  
But whether some kind Powers by Office keep  
The secret Lodge of Life while Mortals sleep,  
Who lest that numbing Mist too far should win,  
Keep in perpetual Motion Life within,  
And for Diversion, work the Vital Steam  
To Figures and Ideas pleasing them,  
And with the pure contracted Intellect  
Sometimes converse, and to great things direct  
Mental Enquiry, which themselves resolve:  
So they perhaps whilst we in Dreams dissolve.  
Or 'twere the posture of my careless Rest  
Heedlessly strowed, (expressing freedom best)  
Which by continuance might uneasy grow,  
And to the Apprehension quickening Pulses throw.  
Or causes these, or others, who knows what  
Transporting Whispers of Undoing Fate,  
Something it was my inward Sense awoke,  
A glorious Form appeared, and heavenly Things were spoke.  
Monarches were mentioned with a pitying Smile,  
And clamorous Fortune speechless stood the while.  
Was said, methought.— But Thought 'twill ever be  
The big Infusions utterance cannot free.  
Common Conceptions usual Births require,  
And Native Thoughts may out through Words expire:  
But higher Dictates actuate the Whole,  
Incorporate with the Mind, and regulate the Soul.  
At last the Goddess, too extremely bright,  
Kindled up Life, and flew out through my sight.  
Ravished I risen, and found myself quite lost,  
My former Scheme of Life razed out and crossed;  
London that stretched itself abroad my Thought,  
Was all Demolished, covered with a Blot;  
And that It never more again might rise,  
Straight grew up in Its place, Brooks, Fields, and Trees;  
And Shepherds piping from their lonely Cottages.   

To a Friend, Recommending a Contemplative Life.  

STifle Nature's Inclination,  
Bury Lust, extinguish Passion,  
Live a Life of Contemplation.   

Free from Cares, and void of Fears,  
Scorn to shrink whate'er appears  
Within the space of Threescore Years.   

The World's but cross to those that love it,  
Ministering Grief, but can't remove it,  
Yet harms not such as live above it.   

Should all Created Things conspire  
To grant the Senses their desire,  
The Soul would loathe what they admire.   

The Soul's a Thing that's too Sublime  
 to be limited by Time,  
Then sure to Bury it here's a Crime.   

Ascend, ascend, then Noble Spark  
Unto thy proper Sphere,  
The spacious Heavens are thy Mark,  
And thou a Stranger here.    

The Request.  
YE Stars that in your regular Career,  
Predict the Fate of every Coming Year,  
Deign to bespeak for once my Lot,—  
Tell me if you intent to Bless, or not,  
My onward Life; my Life but Bless,  
I ask no Costly Happiness,  
A meanly Cottage, a thin furnished Room,  
No Treasures heaped for Times to come.  
Give me but Bread and , to eat and wear,  
I'll wait the slow Production of the Year  
For Dainties, still content whate'er appear,  
The Spring the favoury Herb, the Summer yields the Pear,  
Autumn th' Apples will themselves descend  
T'their Graves, being Aged, and will their Fellow Age befriend,  
Come down to such as can't to them ascend.  
Some Winter barren count, Its Care  
I Celebrate, and Sacrifice the Bird and Hair,  
Substantial Strength they yield, delicious Fare.  
Winter's the Harvest-time for Wood,  
(To thaw the Frozen Joints, and dress the Food)  
Then drained of Vital Sap and Blood,  
Soon fires and spreads a Comfortable heat,  
Emblem of Summer, Winter's forced retreat,  
Glads the o'respreading Vines that roof the Grot,  
And in their intricated Twines forgot  
And lose themselves, nor know again  
Their Basis, nor find out their Origen;  
Impenetrably thick, no wet gets there,  
Save globous drops that Starlike do appear.  
Small Gems of unfermenting Light  
Beset the little Horizon at Night,  
Foreboding Day, and Darkness does affright,  
With all the horrid Shapes that dwell in It.  
Malice, Revenge, and other Furies bend  
On Ruin, or its bordering Punishment,  
That in Night's Misty Scene their Passions vent.  
No Midnight Torch there Conflagration makes,  
No Thief by choice of Poverty partakes,  
Or in the close Recesses of the Mind,  
Pursued Riches does expect to find.  
No squeezing Bailiffs interrupt the Day,  
Nor Creditors make hated Signs for Pay.  
To the Sublimer Powers my All I'd owe,  
And Scorn the small Attacks of Men below.   

To a Miser, who bade me Farewell upon my going into the Country.  

Far well; and so I will an'if I can;  
Farewell to thee, unhappy Man,  
To thee, that canst no Benediction give;  
To thee, that hast not yet, and ne'er  learn to live.  
Inspired with Smoke, and made of the same Mire,  
Thou runnest about the Streets,  
And art the Servant of each one thou meetest;  
A Servant that can never tyre,  
Being acted by the Vulgar Motion, Hire.  
Dull, Senseless, as a Packhorse, or a Cart,  
And moved by the same Principles thou art,  
And not so much imports thy Thoughts and Voice,  
As the grating Axles Noise.  
Thou art by That outdone,  
For It will oft lament and groan,  
And as it can cries out undone,  
Whilst thou dost with thy sluggish Burden run,  
And art the Block alone.   

Were't thou made up of Faculties to think,  
Or Couldst hear any thing but Chink,  
I'd take thee by the Hand, and bring  
Thee to the gentle Sources of a Spring,  
Where Nature whispers out such mighty Things,  
As should put Business to a stand,  
And baffle all the Notions of Command,  
And blank the Florid Countenance of Kings,  
Which should—  
— But I should better use my Breath,  
thou'rt gone beyond the Power  
Of any thing but Fate to Cure,  
Nothing can make thee reasonable but Death.  
Thy Nails I see are grown to Miser's Claws,  
And to take in the Globe, thou yawn'st with monstrous Jaws.  
Yet, Friend, take Care,  
For Earth once of thy greediness ware,  
'Tis Ten to One but it devours thee first,  
And lays thee to Its better Dust.    

An Enquiry after Wisdom, occasioned by Reading some Verses in Job.  

AH! Where is Wisdom, Sacred Wisdom, found?  
With It does Humane Hearts, or does the World abound?  
Its glittering Footsteps every where I find,  
But glittering Tracks are all it leaves behind.  
The Cautions Virtue quits our Stage in haste,  
Not Humane Sight, or Thought, can fly as fast.  
So that a rumoured Story's all we have,  
Whispered by Things, and Sighed out by the Grave,  
That such a Being is, but tell not where,  
And every individual says, Not here.  
Sure then'ts in Heaven, whence Godlike Virtues come;  
Heaven is Its Native Place, and Heaven Its Home.  
In Heaven It is; for Lo th' extended Sky,  
Heightens Conjecture up to Certainty.  
What reared that glorious Roof that wondrous Height?  
Was it th' Effect of an Unguided Might?  
Was it not Wisdom modelled every Form,  
And led from Work to Work th' Almighty Arm;  
Till perfect Worlds from perfect Knowledge grew,  
And the instructed Orbs to their known Uses flew?  
From Sovereign Wisdom Use and Order came,  
And Wisdom still supports th' Universal Frame.   

Our Wisdom than's to learn what Wisdom is,  
And to Adore the Thing, our Happiness.    

The Eighth Psalm.  

HOW Excellent, O Lord my Lord's thy Name!  
'Bove Heaven thy Glory spreads, through Earth thy Fame.  
Babes thou Ordain'st their Folly to confute,  
Whose Souls forbear thy Praise, whose Tongues are mute.  
When on th' Heavens, thy Fingers did create  
The Moon, and Stars, my Thoughts will needs dilate,  
Dejection seizes me, and chills me straight:  
For what am I, methinks, to all that Might?  
A vile and wandering Atom in thy Sight,  
That is amazed to see thou dost express,  
A Care preserving such, a Love to bless.  
From the same Parent Men and Angels spring,  
The Firstborn Angels, happiest Ministering,  
And in the next Descent the Earthly King.  
Him, with a Sovereign Look thou gavest Abroad,  
A wide Dominion, held alone of God:  
The fruitful World, and every People there,  
Travelling Earth, or Sea, or open Air,  
His Recreation, Food, and Subjects, were.   

How Excellent, O Lord my Lord's thy Name!  
'Bove Heaven thy Glory spreads, through Earth thy Fame.    

On the Concluding of the Peace.  
AT last the Hostile Voice of War has done,  
And the Mild Lyre succeeds the Outrageous Gun.  
Peace once again her wont State Assumes,  
Gathers flesh Strength, and smooths her russled Plumes.  
Over our Isle She spreads with hover Wings,  
And pacifies the Lyres o're-heated Strings:  
For too unequal was the Glorious Fight,  
The Heroe's Acts exceed the Poet's Might:  
This their Apollo saw with some disgust,  
Half envying the Triumpher at first,  
Vexed that a Mortal God should soar so high,  
And Do above the Talk of Deity.  
Once more from Ida's Top he did behold,  
More than Achilles wrought, or Homer told;  
And pondering on Performances so great,  
And the vast Sums of Fame were owing yet,  
Began to fear the exhausting of his Wit.  
He saw Scamander's Troops oppose in vain,  
Scamander's Self was Drowned in the Boyne:  
Namure he hoped would stop the Heroe's Way,  
Namure, the Equivalent for Ruined Troy;  
But Namure won, to his Fellow gods he says,  
Fame hath not Breath enough to sound his Praise,  
The World's too narrow, Time too short in Days;  
Then to the warring Field he fled his ways;  
Snatching the Eternal Lyre into his Hands,  
That Lyre, whose Harmony the World Commands,  
That Lyre, which at the first bade Discord cease,  
The Charming god with that hushed all to Peace.   

To a Painter, on his Ingenious Poem upon the Art of Painting.  

POetry and Painting is the whole  
Of Nature, this her Body, that her Soul:  
On her vast Surface the Ideas float,  
And God Draws amply there his various Thought.   

The Painters after the Original,  
Have tried to Paint anew the fading Ball:  
But theirs was Counterfeit, the stubborn Sun,  
Would not for them his wont Circuit run;  
Nor let his Golden Beams the Light display,  
Beyond the Canvas Sheets in which he lay.  
Hence their Creation grew benumbed and stiff,  
For Phoebus would not warm it into Life.   

But thou, my Friend, dost that defect supply,  
And Breathest into it Living Poetry;  
Each painted Man about his Business goes,  
And the Design of his Creation shows.   

Thus with thy Pencil, and assisting Pen,  
Thou makest Live Pictures of us Dying Men.  
With one thou Drawest our Representative,  
With t'other makest the wellwrought Figure live.  
We are the Shadows, thine the real Life;  
So Art and Nature now have done their Strife;  
And Paint shall live till Time wear out, and Men  
Rise from their Graves, and dress themselves by their old Effigies again.    

A Country Seat. To the Honoured J. W. Gent.  

FOR once my Muse thy tender Pinions try,  
And to that most Beloved Mansion fly,  
Longworth; which sure was heretofore the Abode  
And happy Palace of some Rural God;  
Whom when Jove Summoned to keep Court in Heaven,  
This than was to his Mortal Favourite given,  
To hold of him without Dependencies,  
And only be a Tenant to the Skies.   

Be He thy Patron then, and That thy Theme,  
For when thou Singest of That, thou Singest of Him.  
He will not sit with unconcern above,  
And view the Attempts of thy well-meaning Love:  
No, he will Poise thy Flight, and Tune thy Song,  
And lay just Accents on thy Artless Tongue:  
Heaven will no doubt for such a Task inspire  
And quicken Fancy with Celestial Fire.   

When Nature did her wondrous Self dilate,  
To take the impressions of designing Fate,  
She asked one Spot at first, whereon to show  
What would from her vast pregnant Compass flow;  
What all her Force exerted could produce,  
What for Divine, and what for Humane Use:  
And Lo the World in Min'ature appears!  
And Lo the Model raised for Building Years!  
Longworth 'twas thee, thou sure didst first arise  
From Chaos, and salute thy Maker's Eyes:  
On Thee his whole Idea was impressed,  
Till growing Nature stretched it o'er the Rest.   

O had the World observed thy Pattern still,  
It had not been deformed with so much ill:  
Had hapless Eve the Fairer Sylvia been,  
We had not known the Miseries of Sin;  
She had tempted Satan rather to be Good,  
And Man confirmed by Her till now had stood:  
But Heaven is Just, and tho' our Race did fall,  
It deals not Curses all alike to all;  
For those pure Minds that take not Stains of ill,  
Possess their Ancient Paradises still.   

Hail than ye Blessed, that yet haunt Longworth's Shades,  
Hail thou their Sire, and hail ye Beauteous Maids,  
That in Dear Pairs frequent those Sacred Groves,  
And Sing the Foreign Tales of disappointed Loves;  
Of the hard Sigh of neglected Swains,  
The Struggles of their Woe, the Anguish of their Pains,  
Till Echo grows concerned, and Word for Word complains.  
Old 
* The River Lugg, which runs by this Place.  Lugg is Charmed, and snatches up the Reins  
Of his lose Waves, and backs with both his Hands,  
Whilst heark'ning to your Song, he strokes their Silver Mains:  
Than on he drives, repeating as he goes,  
In loudest Murmurs, Strephon and his Woes,  
And acting his Despair, himself in 
† And presently after loses itself in the River Wye.  Wye he throws.   

The Sun, the Jealons Sun, with envious Eye,  
Is scarce persuaded to forsake the Sky;  
And yet in vain he looks, in vain he stays,  
In vain he downwards points his burning Rays;  
The happier Wood denies his too bold Sight,  
And only asks your Eyes to give it Light.  
With Fury than he rowls down the steep Skies,  
Leaving his Office to your brighter Eyes.   

The Day deserted by Its Fiery God,  
You, and the Shade its self, then comes abroad;  
For Lo a Greensord Walk itself extends,  
Backed by the Wood, and Orchards at Its ends,  
Where the shy Nymphs from their close Thickets steal,  
And Golden Lapfulls fetched for every Meal.   

But now the Pile recalls our wandering Eyes,  
The goodly Pile by gradual Steps does rise:  
The Chimneys first in orderly Array,  
Heave above Earth, and Smoke their use betray:  
And now the Roof, and the first Tire of Light,  
Discovers you, and Sight returns for Sight:  
Onwards another, and another row,  
Number at last resigns Its tale to show.   

And now fresh Objects throng the pleasing Way,  
And first an Arbour needs not ask your stay,  
Built on a rising Brow, where Alleys meet,  
And justling to a point, contend to have your Feet.  
One shows the Prospect where 
* Hereford.  Ar'conium stands,  
On the indulgent Bosom of the Plains:  
And (Lo) the Minster lifts his Head in view,  
As taught by Him, the Lesser Temples do,  
And the 
† The Houses.  Lay Crowd observe their Reverend Pastors too.  
There wanton Wye pours down his headlong Waves,  
And sometimes glibly Swims, and sometimes madly Raves;  
Sometimes his Waters friendly Kiss the Shore,  
Anon fall out, and in mere Scorn dash o'er,  
And Drown the Neighbouring Fields, and Foam and Roar.  
Far beyond this, to distant Wales the sight  
Pursues Its prospect with incessant flight,  
Nor stops till it has reached the very Verge of Night.  
Just opposite to this, another Walk  
Looks down upon a peaceful 
* Stoke.  Valley Folk,  
Whom Fate a fruitful Soil in private gave,  
And bade Them happy live, even in the Grave.  
Along with your Eyes the winding Valley runs,  
And leads Them on, and calls Them back, at once.  
Another lays huge Malvern Hills in view;  
And every Path presents a Prospect new:  
Where Active Froomy cuts Its liquid way,  
And where Its Owner bids that Current stay,  
And for Its passage wont 
† A Mill belonging to the House.  Tribute pay.  
Where Stripling Trees run down in decent Rows,  
And form the Grand Approach up to the House:  
Quite to the Road those Verdant Arches lead,  
And whisper Welcome o'er the Stranger's Head.  
There gentle Zephir Sports his limber Wings,  
And Philomela with her full Choir Sings.   

See there the Chapel where your Ancestors,  
With bended Knees put up Accepted Prayers,  
And Died in Faith of having you their Heirs.   

But now your weary Eyes can hardly reach  
To see where your own Fields their liberal Compass fetch:  
To see what Pleasures do Adorn each Place,  
And the Nice Order of their Beauty trace.  
See nearer then, a Walk direct attends,  
And as you tread upon it, see! it bends,  
And falls on purpose to a mild descent,  
And yields you Home, and further Toil prevents.  
Through Ever-open Doors unstaid you go,  
The Ever-open Doors are thought too few,  
For Ever-open Hearts you keep within them too.  
Courteous, not Formal, Handsome, yet not Proud,  
Rich for no other End but to be Good:  
To Virtues utmost pitch you bravely go;  
Are Good, and yet not Proud of being so.   

As the House high, the Cellars sink as low,  
Where as from Springs the numerous Liquors flow:  
Liquors, not strange, but Natives of the Place,  
That free in Goblets roll, ne'er prisoned up in Glass:  
It values not Oporto, nor the Rhine,  
But boasts the better Name of Longworth Wine,  
And dares oppose with That, the Ostentatious Vine.   
FINIS.