TO A LADY BE FORE MARRIAGE.
H! form'd by nature, and refin'd by art,
With charms to win, and fenfe to fix the heart! By thoufands fought, Clotilda, cant thou free Thy crowd of captives, and defcend to me? Content in shades obfcure to waste thy life, A hidden beauty, and a country wife. O! liften while thy fummers are my theme, Ah! footh thy partner in his waking dream! In fome finall hamlet on the lonely plain,
Where Thames, through meadows, rolls his mazy train;
Or where high Windfor, thick with greens array'd,
Waves his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade,
Fancy has figur'd out our calm retreat;
Already round the visionary feat
Our limes begin to fhoot, our flowers to spring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to fing.
Where doft thou lie, thou thinly-peopled green?
Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unfeen?
Where fons, contented with their native ground,
Ne'er travel'd further than ten furlongs round;
And the tann'd peafant, and his ruddy bride,
Were born together, and together died.
Where early larks beft tell the morning light,
And only Philomel difturbs the night;
'Midft gardens here my humble pile shall rife,
With fweets furrounded of ten thoufand dies;
All favage where th' embroider'd gardens end,
The haunt of echoes fhall my woods afcend;
And oh! if heaven th' ambitious thought approve,
A rill fhall warble cross the gloomy grove,
A little rill, o'er pebbly beds convey'd,
Gush down the steep, and glitter though the glade.
What chearing fcents thofe bordering banks exhale!
How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale!
That thrush how fhrill! his note fo clear, fo high,
He drowns each feather'd minstrel of the skies.
Here let me trace, beneath the purpled morn,
The deep-mouth'd beagle, and the sprightly horn;
Or lure the trout with well-diffembled flies,
Or fetch the fluttering partridge from the sky.
Nor fhall thy hand difdain to crop the vine,
The downy peach, or flavour'd nectarine;
Or rob the bee hive of its golden hoard,
And bear th' unbought luxuriance to thy board.
Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours,
While from thy needle rife the filken flowers,
And thou, by turns, to ease my feeble sight,
Refume the volume, and deceive the night.
Oh! when I mark thy twinkling eyes oppreft,
Soft whispering, let me warn my love to rest;
Then watch thee, charm'd, while fleep locks every
And to fweet heaven commend thy innocence.
Thus reign'd our fathers o'er the rural fold,
Wife, hale, and honeft in the days of old;
Till courts arofe, where fubftance pays for fhow,
And fpecious joys are bought with real woe.
See Flavia's pendants, large, well-fpread, and right,
The ear that wears them hears a fool each night;
Mark how th' embroider d colonel fneaks away,
To shun the withering dame that made him gay;
That knave, to gain a title, lost his fame;
That rais'd his credit by a daughter's fhame;
This coxcomb's ribband coft him half his land,
And oaks, unnumber'd, bought that fool a wand.
Fond man, as all his forrows were too few,
Acquires ftrange wants that nature never knew,
By midnight lamps he emulates the day,
And fleeps, perverfe, the chearful funs away;
From goblets high-emboft, his wine must glide,
Round his clos'd fight the gorgeous curtain flide ;
Fruits ere their time to grace his pomp muft rife,
And three untafted courses glut his eyes.
For this are nature's gentle calls withstood,
The voice of confcience, and the bonds of blood;
This wisdom thy reward for every pain,
And this gay glory all thy mighty gain.
Fair phantoms woo'd and scorn'd from age to age,
Since bards began to laugh, or priests to rage.
And yet, juft curse on man's aspiring kind,
Prone to ambition, to example blind,
Our children's children fhall our steps pursue,
And the fame errors be for ever new.
Mean while in hope a guiltless country fwain,
My reed with warblings chears th' imagin'd plain.
Hail humble fhades where truth and filence dwell!
Thou noify town, and faithlefs court, farewell!
Farewell ambition, once my darling flame!
The thirst of lucre, and the charm of fame!
In life's by-road, that winds through paths unknown, My days, though number'd, shall be all my own. Here fhall they end, (O! might they twice begin), And all be white the fates intend to fpin.
A POEM IN PRAISE OF THE HORN-BOOK.
WRITTEN UNDER A FIT OF THE GOUT.
66 Magni magna patrant, nos non nifi ludicra—
-Podagra hæc otia fecit."
[AIL! ancient book, moft venerable code!
Learning's first cradle, and its last abode!
The huge unnumber'd volumes which we see,
By lazy plagiaries are ftol'n from thee.
Yet future times, to thy fufficient ftore,
Shall ne'er presume to add one letter more.
Thee will I fing, in comely wainscot bound,
And golden verge enclosing thee around;
The faithful horn before, from age to age,
Preferving thy invaluable page;
Behind, thy patron faint in armour fhines,
With sword and lance, to guard thy facred lines:
Beneath his courfer's feet the dragon lies
Transfix'd; his blood thy fcarlet cover dies;
Th' inftructive handle 's at the bottom fix'd,
Left wrangling critics should pervert the text.
Or if to ginger-bread thou shalt defcend,
And liquorish learning to thy babes exter.d;.
Or fugar'd plane, o'erfpread with beaten gold,
Does the fweet treafure of thy letters hold;
Thou ftill fhalt be my fong---Apollo's choir
I fcorn t'invoke; Cadmus my verse inspire :
'Twas Cadmus who the first materials brought
Of all the learning which has fince been taught,
Soon made compleat! for mortals ne'er fhall know
More than contain'd of old the Chrift-crofs row;
What mafters dictate, or what doctors preach,
Wife matrons hence, e'en to our children teach :
But as the name of every plant and flower
(So common that each peasant knows its power)
Physicians in myfterious cant exprefs,
Tamufe the patient, and inhance their fees
So from the letters of our native tongue,
Put in Greek fcrawls, a mystery too is fprung,
Schools are erected, puzzling grammars made,
And artful men ftrike out a gainful trade;
Strange characters adorn the learned gate,
And heedlefs youth catch at the fhining bait;
The pregnant boys the noisy charms declare,
And Tau's, and Delta's, make their mothers ftare;
Th' uncommon founds amaze the vulgar ear,
And what 's uncommon never cofts too dear.
Yet in all tongues the Horn-book is the fame,
Taught by the Grecian master, or the English dame.
But how fhall I thy endless virtues tell,
In which thou doft all other books excell?
No greafy thumbs thy fpotlefs leaf can foil,
Nor crooked dogs-ears thy finooth.corners spoil;
*The Greek letters T, A.
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