1 then appear'd to public view

A creature wondrous bright; But shortly perishable too,

nconstant, nice, and light.

On feathers not together fast

I wildly flew about,

And from my father's country pass'd To find my mother out.

Where her gallant, of her beguil'd,

With me enamour'd grew, And 1, that was my mother's child, Brought forth my mother too.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. VINER. Is Viner dead? and shall each Muse become Silent as Death, and as his music dumb? Shall he depart without a poet's praise, Who oft to harmony has tun'd their lays? Shall he, who knew the elegance of sound, Find no one voice to sing him to the ground? Music and Poetry are sister-arts, Show a like genius, and consenting hearts: My soul with his is secretly ally'd, And I am forc'd to speak, since Viner dy'd. Oh, that my muse, as once his notes, could That I might all his praises fully tell; [swell! That I might say with how much skill he play'd, How nimbly four extended strings survey'd; How bow and fingers, with a noble strife, Did raise the vocal fiddle into life;

How various sounds, in various order rang'd,

By unobserv'd degrees minutely chang'd,
Through a vast space could in divisions run,
Be all distinct, yet all agree in one:
And how the fleeter notes could swiftly pass,
And skip alternately from place to place;
The strings could with a sudden impulse bound,
Speak every touch, and tremble into sound.

The liquid harmony, a tuneful tide,
Now seem'd to rage, anon would gently glide;
By turns would ebb and flow, would rise and fall,
Be loudly daring, or be softly small:

While all was blended in one common name,
Wave push'd on wave, and all compos'd a stream.
The different tones melodiously combin'd,
Temper'd with art, in sweet confusion join'd;
The soft, the strong, the clear, the shrill, the deep,
Would sometimes soar aloft, and sometimes creep;
While every soul upon his motions hung,
As though it were in tuneful concert strung.
His touch did strike the fibres of the heart,
And a like trembling secretly impart;
Where various passions did by turns succeed,
He made it cheerful, and he made it bleed;
Could wind it up into a glowing fire,
Then shift the scene, and teach it to expire.
Oft have I seen him, on a public stage,
Alone the gaping multitude engage

The eyes and ears of each spectator draw, [law;
Command their thoughts, and give their passions
While other music, in oblivion drown'd,
Seem'd a dead pulse, or a neglected sound.
Alas! he's gone, our great Apollo's dead,

And all that's sweet and tuneful with him fled;
Hibernia, with one universal cry,
Laments the loss, and speaks his elegy.

411

Farewell, thou author of refin'd delight,
Too little known, too soon remov'd from sight;
Those fingers, which such pleasure did convey,
Must now become to stupid worms a prey:
Thy grateful fiddle will for ever stand
A silent mourner for its master's hand:
Thy art is only to be match'd above,
Where music reigns, and in that music love:
Where thou wilt in the happy chorus join,
And quickly thy melodious soul refine
To the exalted pitch of harmony divine.

EPIGRAM.

Haud facile emergunt, quorum virtutibus obstat
Res angusta domi-

THE greatest gifts that Nature does bestow,
Can't unassisted to perfection grow:

A scanty fortune clips the wings of fame,
And checks the progress of a rising name:
Each dastard virtue drags a captive's chain,
And moves but slowly, for it moves with pain:
Domestic cares sit hard upon the mind, [fin'd:
And cramp those thoughts which should be uncon-
The cries of poverty alarm the soul,
Abate its vigour, its designs control:
The stings of want inflict the wounds of death,
And motion always ceases with the breath.
The love of friends is found a languid fire,
Weak is its force, nor can its warmth be great,
That glares but faintly, and will soon expire;
A feeble light begets a feeble heat.
Wealth is the fuel that must feed the flame,
It dies in rags, and scarce deserves a name.

GLASS.

OFT have I seen a piece of art,

Of light and shade the mixture fine, Speak all the passions of the heart,

And show true life in every line.

But what is this befo, e my eves,

With every feature, very grace, That strikes with love and with surprize, And gives me all the vital face?

It is not Chloris: for, behold,

The shifting phantom comes and goes; And when 't is here, 't is pale and cold, Nor any female softness knows.

But 't is her image, for I feel

The very pains that Chloris gives; Her charms are there, I know them well, I see what in my bosom lives.

Oh, could I but the picture save!

"Tis drawn by her own matchless skill; Nature the lively colours gave,

And she need only look to kill..
Ah! fair-one, will it not suffice,

That I should once your victim lie;
Unless you multiply your eyes,
And strive to make me doubly die?

ON A LADY WITH FOUL BREATH.

ART thou alive? It cannot be,
There's so much rottenness in thee,
Corruption only is in death;

And what's more putrid than thy breath?
Think not you live because you speak,
For graves such hollow sounds can make;
And respiration can't suffice,
For vapours do from caverns rise:
From thee such noisome stenches come,
Thy mouth betrays thy breast a tomb.
Thy body is a corpse that goes,
By magic rais'd from its repose:
A pestilence that walks by day,
But falls at night to worms and clay.
But I will to my Chloris run,
Who will not let me be undone :
The sweets her virgin-breath contains
Are fitted to remove my pains;
There will I healing nectar sip,
And, to be sav'd, approach her lip,
Though, if I touch the matchless dame,
I'm sure to burn with inward flame.
Thus, when I would one danger shun,
I'm straight upon another thrown:
I seek a cure, one sore to ease,
Yet in that cure's a new disease:
But love, though fatal, still can bless.
And greater dargers hide the less;
I'll go where passion bids me fly,
And choose my death, since I must die;
As doves pursued by birds of prey,
Venture with milder man to stay.

ON THE NUMBER THREE. BEAUTY rests not in one fix'd place, But seems to reign in every face; 'Tis nothing sure but fancy then, In various forms, bewitching men; Or is its shape and colour fram'd, Proportion just, and woman nam'd? If fancy only rul'd in love, Why should it then so strongly move? Or why should all that look agree, To own its mighty power in Three? In Three it shows a different face, Each shining with peculiar grace. Kindred a native likeness gives, Which pleases, as in all it lives; And, where the features disagree, We praise the dear variety. Then beauty surely ne'er was yet, So much unlike itself, and so complete.

ESSAY ON THE DIFFERENT STYLES OF
POETRY'.

TO HENRY LORD VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE.
-Vatibus addere calcar,
Ut studio majore petant Helicona virentem.
HOR. Ep. II. 1.

I HATE the vulgar with untuneful mind;
Hearts uninspir'd, and senses unrefin'd.
Hence, ye prophane: I raise the sounding string,
And Bolingbroke descends to hear me sing.

Allegory is in itself so retired a way of writing, that it was thought proper to say something be forehand concerning this piece, which is entirely framed upon it. The design, therefore, is to show the several styles which have been made use of by those who have endeavoured to write in verse. The scheme, by which it is carried on, supposes an old Grecian poet couching his observations or instructions within an allegory; which allegory is wrought out upon the single word flight, as in the figurative way it signifies a thought above the common level: here wit is made to be Pegasus, and the poet his rider, who flies by several countries where he must not touch, by which are meant so many vicious styles, and arrives at last at the sublime. This way of writing is not only very en gaging to the fancy whenever it is well performed; but it has been thought also one of the first that the poets made use of. those stories concerning the heathen gods, which at first were invented to insinuate truth and mo rality more pleasingly, and which afterwards made poetry itself more solemn, when they happened to be received into the heathen divinity. And indeed there seems to be no likelier way by which a poetical genius may yet appear as an original, than that he should proceed with a full compass of thought and knowledge, either to design his plan, or to beautify the parts of it, in an allegorical manner. We are much beholden to antiquity for those excellent compositions by

Hence arose many

of

When Greece could truth in mystic fable

shroud,

And with delight instruct the listening crowd,
An ancient poet (time has lost his name)
Deliver'd strains on verse to future fame.
Still, as he sung, he touch'd the trembling lyre,
And felt the notes a rising warmth inspire.
Ye sweetening graces, in the music throng,
Assist my genius, and retrieve the song
From dark oblivion. See, my genius goes
To call it forth. 'Twas thus the poem rose.
"Wit is the Muses' horse, and bears on high
The daring rider to the Muses' sky:
Who, while his strength to mount aloft he tries,
By regions varying in their nature flies.

"At first, he riseth o'er a land of toil,
A barren, hard, and undeserving soil,
Where only weeds from heavy labour grow,
Which yet the nation prune, and keep for show;
Where couplets jingling on their accent.run,
Whose point of epigram is sunk to pun;
Where wings by fancy never feather'd fly 2,
Where lines by measure form'd in hatchets lie;
Where altars stand, erected porches gape,
And sense is cramp'd while words are par'd to
Where mean acrostics, labour'd in a frame [shape.
On scatter'd letters, raise a painful scheme;
And, by confinement in their work, control
The great enlargings of the boundless soul;
Where if a warrior's elevated fire
Would all the brightest strokes of verse require,
Then straight in anagram a wretched crew
Will pay their undeserving praises too;
While on the rack his poor disjointed name
Must tell its master's character to Fame.
And (if my fire and fears aright presage)
The labouring writers of a future age

which writers at present form their minds; but it is not so much required of us to adhere merely to their fables, as to observe their manner. For, if we preclude our own invention, poetry will consist only in expression, or simile, or the application of old stories; and the utmost character to which a genius can arrive will depend on imitation, or a borrowing from others, which we must agree together not to call stealing, because we take only from the ancients. There have been poets amongst ourselves, such as Spencer and Milton, who have successfully ventured further. These instances may let us see that invention is not bounded by what has been done before: they may open our imaginations, and be one method of preserving us from writing without schemes. As for what relates any further, particularly to this poem, the reader will observe, that its aim is instruction. Perhaps a representation of several mistakes and difficulties, which happen to many who write poetry, may deter some from attempting what they have not been made for and perhaps the description of several beauties belonging to it may afford hints towards forming a genius for delighting and improving mankind. If either of these happen, the poem is useful; and upon that account its faults may be more easily excused. PARNELL.

These and the like conceits of putting poems into several shapes by the different lengths of lines, are frequent in old poets of most languages. PARNELL.

Shall clear new ground, and grots and caves
To civilize the babbling Echoes there. [repair,
Then, while a lover treads a lonely walk,
His voice shall with its own reflection talk,
The closing sounds of all the vain device
Select by trouble frivolously nice,
Resound through verse, and with a false pretence
Support the dialogue, and pass for sense.
Can things like these to lasting praise pretend?
Can any Muse the worthless toil befriend?
Ye sacred virgins, in my thoughts ador'd,
Ah, be for ever in my lines deplor'd,
If tricks on words acquire an endless name,
And trifles merit in the court of Fame!"

At this the poet stood concern'd a while,
And view'd his objects with a scornful smile:
Then other images of different kind,
With different workings enter'd on his mind;
At whose approach, he felt the former gone,
And shiver'd in conceit, and thus went on:
"By a cold region next the rider goes,
Where all lies cover'd in eternal snows;
Where no bright genius drives the chariot high,
To glitter on the ground, and gild the sky.
Bleak level realm, where frigid styles abound,
Where never yet a daring thought was found,
But counted feet is poetry deun'd;
And starv'd cone its, that chill the reader's mind.
A little şeuse in many words imply,
And drag in loitering numbers slowly by.
Here dry sententious speeches, half asleep,
Prolong'd in lines, o'er many pages creep;
Nor ever show the passions well express'd,
Nor raise like passions in another's breast.
Here flat narrations fair exploits debase,
In measures void of every shining grace;
Which never arm their hero for the field,
Nor with prophetic story paint the shield,
Nor fix the crest, nor make the feathers wave,
Nor with their characters reward the brave;
Undeck'd they stand, and unadorn❜d with praise,
And fail to profit while they fail to please.
Here forc'd description is so strangely wrought,
It never stamps its image on the thought;
The lifeless trees may stand for ever bare,
And rivers stop, for ought the readers care;
They see no branches trembling in the woods,
Nor hear the murmurs of increasing floods,
Which near the roots with ruffled waters flow,
And shake the shadows of the boughs below.
Ah, sacred Verse, replete with heavenly flame,
Such cold endeavours would invade thy name!
The writer fondly would in these survive,
Which, wanting spirit, never seem'd alive:
But, if applause or fame attend his pen,
Let breathless statues pass for breathing men."

Here seem'd the singer touch'd at what he sung, And grief a while delay'd his hand and tongue : But soon he check'd his fingers, chose a strain, And flourish'd shrill, and thus arose again :

"Pass the next region which appears to show: "Tis very open, unimprov'd, and low; No noble flights of elevated thought, No nervous strength of sense maturely wrought, Possess this realm; but common turns are there, Which idly sportive move with childish air. On callow wings, and like a plague of flies, The little Fancies in a poem rise, The jaded reader every where to strike, And move his passions every where alike.