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Your inuendos, when you tell us
That Stella loves to talk with fellows;
And let me warn you to believe
A truth, for which your soul should grieve;
That, should you live to see the day
When Stella's locks must all be grey,
When age must print a furrowed trace
On every feature of her face;
Though you, and all your senseless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe,
To make you look like Beauty's Queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen;
No bloom of youth can ever blind
The cracks and wrinkles of your mind :
All men of sense will pass your door,
And crowd to Stella's at fourscore.

Jonathan Swift.






The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame.


In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true.


In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides, and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools.


There shall be sung another Golden Age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts :
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame' did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.
Westward the course of empire take its way;
The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

George Berkeley.





As, by some tyrant's stern command,
A, wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemned to roam,
An endless exile from his home ;
Pensive he treads the destined way;
And dreads to go; nor dares to stay;
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,.
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu :
So I, thus doomed from thee to part,
Gay Queen of fancy and of art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithsome were we wont to rove
By verdant hill, or shady grove,







Where fervent bees with humming voice
Around the honied oak rejoice,
And agèd elms with awful bend
In long cathedral walks extend !
Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheered by the warbling of the woods,
How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!
Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded rolled along :
But now the pleasing dream is o'er,
These scenes must charm me now no more.
Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-
Farewell! a long, a last adieu !
Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw :
There selfish faction rules the day,
And pride and avarice throng the way;
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose revelry, and riot bold,
In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or, where in silence all is drowned,
Fell murder walks his lonely round;
No room for peace, no room for you;
Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu!

Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son,
Nor all the art of Addison,
Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease,
Nor Milton's mighty self, must please :
Instead of these a formal band,
In furs and coifs, around me stand;
With sounds uncouth and accents dry,
That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;



50 55




And points with tottering hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding close retreat,
Is Justice doomed to fix her seat;
There fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe;
And there, from vulgar sight retired,
Like eastern queens, is more admired.

O let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid!
There humbly mark, with reverend awe,
The guardian of Britannia's law;
Unfold with joy her sacred page,
The united boast of many an age;
Where mixed, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years;
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true;
And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the sordid scribe ;
Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end :
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
Pervades and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all !
Thus though my noon of life be passed,
Yet let my setting sun, at last,





Find out the still, the rural cell,
Where sage Retirement loves to dwell!
There let me taste the homefelt bliss
Of innocence, and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe,

Uncursed amid the harpy tribe;
No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour and my conscience clear;
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the grave in peace descend.

Sir William Blackstone.

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A Juggler long through all the town
Had rais'd his fortune and renown ;
You'd think (so far his art transcends)
The devil at his fingers' ends.

Vice heard his fame, she read his bill ;
Convinced of his inferior skill,
She sought his booth, and from the crowd
Defied the man of art aloud.

'Is this then he so famed for sleight?
Can this slow bungler cheat your sight?
Dares he with me dispute the prize ?
I leave it to impartial eyes.'

Provoked, the Juggler cried, “Tis done ;
In science I submit to none.'
Thus said, the cups and balls he played ;
By turns this here, that there, conveyed.
The cards, obedient to his words,
Are by a fillip turned to birds.
His little boxes change the grain :
Trick after trick deludes the train.



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