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POEMS

OF

JOSEPH ADDISON.

TO MR. DRYDEN.

HOW long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our praise?
Can neither injuries of time, or age,
Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?
Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote, [thought:
Grief chill'd his breast, and check'd his rising
Pensive and sad, his drooping Muse betrays
The Roman genius in its last decays.

Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest,
And second youth is kindled in thy breast;
Thou mak'st the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own;
Thy lines have heighten'd Virgil's majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teachest Persius to i form our isle
In smoother numbers, and a clearer style;
And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his satire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,
And still out-shines the bright original.

Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song, And tells his story in the British tongue; Thy charming verse, and fair translations, show How thy own laurel first began to grow: How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods, And frighted at himself, ran howling thro' the woods.

O may'st thou still the noble task prolong, Nor age, nor sickness, interrupt thy song: Then may we wondering read, how human limbs Have water'd kingdoms, and dissolv'd in streams; Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mold Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold: How some in feathers, or a ragged hide, Have liv'd a secondlife, and different natures try'd. Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal A noble change than he himself can tell.

Magd. College, Oxon.

June 2, 1693. The author's age 22.

A POEM TO HIS MAJESTY'.

PRESENTED TO THE LORD KEEPER.

TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN SOMERS, LORD
KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL, 1695.
IF yet your thoughts are loose from state affairs,
Nor feel the burden of a kingdom's cares;
If yet your time and actions are your own;
Receive the present of a Muse unknown:
A Muse that in adventurous numbers, sings
The rout of armies, and the fall of kings,
Britain advanc'd, and Europe's peace restor❜d,
By Somers' counsels, and by Nassau's sword.

To you, my lord, these daring thoughts belong,
Who help'd to raise the subject of my soug;
To you the hero of my verse reveals
His great designs, to you in council tells
His inmost thoughts, determining the doom
Of towns unstorm'd, and battles yet to come.
And well could you, in your immortal strains,
Describe his conduct, and reward his pains:
But, since the state has all your cares engross'd,
And poetry in higher thoughts is lost,
Attend to what a lesser Muse indites,
Pardon her faults, and countenance her flights.

On you, my lord, with anxious fear I wait, And from your judgment must expect my fate, Who, free from vulgar passions, are above Degrading envy, or misguided love;

If you, well pleas'd, shall smile upon my lays,
Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise,
For next to what you write, is what you praise.

TO THE KING.

WHEN now the business of the field is o'er,
The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease to roar,
When every dismal echo is decay'd,
And all the thunder of the battle laid;
Attend, auspicious prince; and let the Muse
In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.

'King William.

Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd, Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field; My Muse expecting on the British strand Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land: She oft has seen thee pressing on the foe, When Europe was concern'd in every blow; But durst not in heroic strains rejoice; [voice: The trumpets, drums, and cannons, drown'd her She saw the Boyne run thick with human gore, And floating corps lie beating on the shore; She saw thee climb the banks, but try'd in vain To trace her hero through the dusty plain, When thro' the thick embattled lines he broke, Now plung'd amidst the focs, now lost in clouds of smoke.

O that some Muse, renown'd for lofty verse, In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse! Draw thee belov'd in peace, and fear'd in wars, Inur'd to noon-day sweats, and midnight cares! But still the god-like man, by some hard fate, Receives the glory of his toils too late; Too late the verse the mighty act succeeds, One age the hero, one the poet breeds.

A thousand years in fuil succession ran, Ere Virgil rais'd his voice, and sung the man Who, driven by stress of fate, such dangers bore On stormy seas, and a disastrous shore, Before he settled in the promis'd earth, And gave the empire of the world its birth.

They break through all, for William leads the way
Where fires rage most, and loudest engines play.
Namur's late terrours and destruction show,
What William, warm'd with just revenge, can do:
Where once a thousand turrets rais'd on high
Their gilded spires, and glitter'd in the sky,
An undistinguish'd heap of dust is found,
And all the pile lies smoking on the ground.

His toils, for no ignoble ends design'd,
Promote the common welfare of mankind;
No wild ambition moves, but Europe's fears,
The cries of orphans, and the widow's tears:
Opprest religion gives the first alarms,
| And injur'd justice sets him in his arms;
His conquests freedom to the world afford,

And nations bless the labours of his sword.

Thus when the forming Muse would copy forth A perfect pattern of heroic worth, She sets a man triumphant in the field, O'er giants cloven down, and monsters kill'd, Reeking in blood, and sinear'd with dust and sweat, Whilst angry gods conspire to make him great.

Thy navy rides on seas before unprest, And strikes a terrour through the haughty east: Algiers and Tunis from their sultry shore With horrour hear the British engines roar; Fain from the neighbouring dangers would they run,

And wish themselves still nearer to the sun.

Troy long had found the Grecians bold and The Gallic ships are in their ports confin'd,

fierce,

Ere Homer muster'd up their troops in verse;
Long had Achilles quell'd the Trojans' lust,
And laid the labour of the gods in dust,
Before the towering Muse began her flight,
And drew the hero raging in the fight,
Engag'd in tented fields and rolling floods,
Or slaughtering mortals, or a match for gods.
And here, perhaps, by fate's unerring doom,
Some mighty bard lies hid in years to come,
That shall in William's god-like acts engage,
And with his battles warm a future age;
Hibernian fields shall here thy conquests show,
And Boyne be sung, when it has ceas'd to flow;
Here Gallic labours shall advance thy fame,
And here Seneffe shall wear another name.
Our late posterity, with secret dread,
Shall view thy battles, and with pleasure read
How, in the bloody field too near advanc'd,
The guiltless bullet on thy shoulder glane'd.
The race of Nassau was by Heaven design'd
To curb the proud oppresso ́s of mankind,
To bind the tyrants of the Earth with laws,
And fight in every injur'd nation's cause,
The world's great patriots; they for justice call;
And, as they favour, kingdoms rise or fall.
Our British youth, unus'd to rough alarms,
Careless of fame, and negligent of arms,
Had long forgot to meditate the foe,
And heard unwarm'd the martial trumpet blow;
But now inspir'd by thee, with fresh delight,
Their swords they brandish, and require the fight,
Renew their ancient conquests on the main,
And act their fathers' triumphs o'er again,
Fir'd, when they hear how Agincourt was strow'd
With Gallic corps, and Cressi swam in blood,
With cager warmth they fight, ambitious all
Who first shall storm the breach or mount the wall.
In vain the thronging enemy by force
Would clear the ramparts, and repel their course;

Deny'd the common use of sea and wind,
Nor dare again the British strength engage;
Still they remember that destructive rage
Which lately made their trembling host retire,
Stunn'd with the noise, and wraptin smoke and fire;
The waves with wide unnumber'd wrecks were
strow'd

And planks, and arms, and men, promiscuous

flow'd.

Spain's numerous fleet, that perish'd on our coast, Could scarce a longer line of battle boast; The winds could hardly drive them to their fate, And all the ocean labour'd with the weight.

Where-e'er the waves in restless errours roll, The sea lies open now to either pole: Now may we safely use the northern gales, Aud in the polar circles spread our sails: Or, deep in southern climes, secure from wars, New lands explore, and sail by other stars: Fetch uncontroll'd each labour of the Sun, And make the product of the world our own.

At length, proud prince, ambitious Lewis, cease To plague mankind, and trouble Europe's peace; Think on the structures which thy pride has ras'd, On towns unpeopled, and on fields laid waste; Think on the heaps of corps and streams of blood, On every guilty plain and purple flood, Thy arms have made; and cease an impious

war,

Nor waste the lives entrusted to thy care.
Or, if no milder thought can calm thy mind,
Behold the great avenger of mankind,
See mighty Nassau through the battle ride,
And see thy subjects gasping by his side:
Fain would the pious prince refuse th' alarm,
Fain would he check the fury of his arm;
But, when thy cruelties his thoughts engage,
The hero kindles with becoming rage,
Then countries stol'n, and captives unrestor❜d,
Give strength to every blow, and edge his sword.

Behold with what resistless force he falls

On towns besieg'd, and thunders at thy walls! Ask Villeroy, (for Villeroy beheld

The town surrender'd, and the treaty seal'd)
With what amazing strength the forts were won,
Whilst the whole power of France stood looking on.
But stop not here: behold where Berkeley
stands,

And executes his injur'd king's commands;
Around thy coast his bursting bombs he pours
On flaming citadels and failing towers;

With hissing streams of fire the air they streak,
And hurl destruction round them where they break;
The skies with long ascending flames are bright,
And all the sea reflects a quivering light.

Thus Etna, when in fierce eruptions broke, Fills Heaven with ashes, and the Earth with smoke: Here crags of broken rocks are twirl'd on high, Here molten stones and scatter'd cinders fly; Its fury reaches the remotest coast, And strows the Asiatic shore with dust.

Now does the sailor from the neighbouring main Look after Gallic towns and forts in vain; No more his wonted marks he can descry, But sees a long unmeasur'd ruin lie; Whilst, pointing to the naked coast, he shows His wondering mates where towns and steeples rose, Where crowded citizens he lately view'd, [stood. And singles out the place where once St. Maloes Here Russel's actions should my Muse require; And, would my strength but second my desire, I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse, And draw his cannons thundering in my verse; High on the deck should the great leader stand, Wrath in his look, and lightning in his hand; Like Homer's Hector when he flung his fire Amidst a thousand ships, and made all Greece retire.

But who can run the British triumphs o'er, And count the flames disperst on every shore? Who can describe the scatter'd victory, And draw the reader on from sea to sea? Else who could Ormond's god-like acts refuse, Ormond the theme of every Oxford Muse? Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim, Attend him in the noble chase of fame, Thro' all the noise and hurry of the fight, Observe each blow, and keep him still in sight. Oh, did our British peers thus court renown, And grace the coats their great fore-fathers won! Our arms would then triumphantly advance, Nor Henry be the last that conquer'd France. What might not England hope, if such abroad Purchas'd their country's honour with their blood: When such, detain'd at home, support our state In William's stead, and bear a kingdom's weight, The schemes of Gallic policy o'erthrow, And blast the counsels of the common foe; Direct our armies, and distribute right, And render our Maria's loss more light. But stop my Muse, th' ungrateful sound forbear, Maria's name still wounds each British ear: Each British heart Maria still does wound, And tears burst out unbidden at the sound; Maria still our rising mirth destroys, Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys.

But see, at length, the British ships appear! Our Nassau comes! and as his fleet draws near, The rising masts advance, the sails grow white, And all his pompous navy floats in sight.

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Come, mighty prince, desir'd of Britain, come!
May Heaven's propitious gales attend thee home!
Come, and let longing crowds behold that look,
Which such confusion and amazement struck
Through Gallic hosts: but, oh! let us descry
Mirth in thy brow, and pleasure in thine eye;
Let nothing dreadful in thy face be found,
But for a while forget the trumpet's sound:
Well-pleas'd, thy people's loyalty approve,
Accept their duty, and enjoy their love.
For as, when lately mov'd with fierce delight,
You plung'd amidst the tumult of the fight,
Whole heaps of death encompass'd you around,
And steeds o'er-turn'd lay foaming on the ground;
So crown'd with laurels now, where-e'er you go,
Around you blooming joys and peaceful blessings
flow.

A TRANSLATION

OF ALL VIRGIL'S FOURTH GEORGIC, EXCEPT THE
STORY OF ARISTÆUS.

ETHEREAL Sweets shall next my Muse engage,
And this, Mæcenas, claims your patronage.
Of little creatures wondrous acts I treat,
The ranks and mighty leaders of their state,
Their laws, employments, and their wars relate.
A trifling theme provokes my humble lays:
Trifling the theme, not so the poet's praise,
If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine
Join in the piece, and make the work divine.
First, for your bees a proper station find,
That's fenc'd about and shelter'd from the wind;
For winds divert them in their flight, and drive
The swarms, when loaden homeward, from their
hive.
[stores,
Nor sheep, nor goats, must pasture near their
To trample under foot the springing flowers;
Nor frisking heifers bound about the place,
To spurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rising
Nor must the lizard's painted brood appear, [grass;
Nor wood-pecks, nor the swallow harbour near.
They waste the swarms, and as they fly along
Convey the tender morsels to their young.

Let purling streams, and fountains edg'd with

moss,

And shallow rills, run trickling through the grass;
Let branching olives o'er the fountain grow,
Or palms shoot up, and shade the streams below;
That when the youth, led by their princes, shun
The crowded hive, and sport it in the sun,
Refreshing springs may tenipt them from the heat,
And shady coverts yield a cool retreat.

Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs,
Lay twigs across, and bridge it o'er with stones;
That if rough storms, or sudden blasts of wind,
Should dip, or scatter those that lag behind,
Here they may settle on the friendly stone,
And dry their reeking pinions at the sun.
Plant all the flowery banks with lavender,
With store of savory scent the fragrant air,
Let running betony the field o'erspread,
And fountains soak the violet's dewy bed.

Though barks or plaited willows make your hive, A narrow inlet to their cells contrive; For colds congeal and freeze the liquors up, [drop: And, melted down with heat, the waxen buildings The bees, of both extremes alike afraid, Their wax around the whistling crannies spread,

4

And suck out clammy dews from herbs and flowers,
To smear the chinks, and plaster up the pores:
For this they hoard up glue, whose clingingdrops,
Like pitch, or birdlime, hang in stringy ropes.
They oft, 'tis said, in dark retirements dwell,
And work in subterraneous caves their cell;
At other times th' industrious insects live
In hollow rocks, or make a tree their hive.

Point all their chinky lodgings round with mud, And leaves must thinly on your work be strow'd; But let no baleful yew-tree flourish near,

Nor rotten marshes send out steams of mire;
Nor burning crabs grow red, and crackle in the fire:
Nor neighbouring caves return the dying sound,
Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound.
Things thus prepar'd-

When th' under-world is seiz'd with cold and night,
And summer here descends in streams of light,
The bees through woods and forests take their
They rifle every flower, and lightly skim [flight.
The crystal brook, and sip the running stream:
And thus they feed their young with strange delight,
And knead the yielding wax, and work the slimy
sweet.

But when on high you see the bees repair,
Borne on the wind, through distant tracts of air,
Andview the winged cloud all blackening from afar;
While shady coverts and fresh steams they choose,
Milfoil and common honey-suckles bruise,
And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant juice.
On brazen vessels beat a tinkling sound,
And shake the cymbals of the goddess round;
Then all will hastily retreat, and fill
The warm resounding hollow of their cell.

If once two rival kings their right debate,
And factions and cabals embroil the state,
The people's actions will their thoughts declare;
All their hearts tremble, and beat thick with war;
Hoarse broken sounds, like trumpet's harsh alarms,
Run thro' the hive, and call them to their arms;
All in a hurry spread their shivering wings,
And fit their claws and point their angry stings:
In crowds before the king's pavilion meet,
And boldly challenge out the foe to fight;
At last, when all the Heavens are warm and fair,
They rush together out, and join; the air
Swarms thick, and echoes with the humming war
All in a firm round cluster mix, and strow
With heaps of little corps the earth below;
As thick as hail-stones from the floor rebound,
Or shaken acorns rattle on the ground.
No sense of danger can their kings control,
Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul:
Each obstinate in arms pursues his blow,
Til shameful flight secures the routed foe,
This hot dispute, and all this mighty fray
A little dust flung upward will allay.

But when both kings are settled in their hive, Mark him who looks the worst, and lest he live Idle at home in ease and luxury, The lazy monarch must be doom'd to die; So let the royal insect rule alone, And reign without a rival in his throne.

The kings are different: one of better note, All speckt with gold, and many a shining spot, Looks gay, and glistens in a gilded coat; But love of ease, and sloth in one prevails, That scarce his hanging paunch behind him trails: The people's looks are different as their kings; Some sparkle bright, and glitter in their wings;

|

Others look loathsome and diseas'd with sloth,
Like a faint traveller whose dusty mouth
Grows dry with heat, and spits a maukish froth.
The first are best-

From their o'erflowing combs, you'll often press
Pure luscious sweets, that, mingling in the glass,
Correct the harshness of the racy juice,
And a rich flavour thro' the wine diffuse.
But when they sport abroad, and rove from home,
And leave the cooling hive, and quit th' unfinish'd
Their airy ramblings are with ease confin'd, [comb,
Clip their kings' wings, and if they stay behind
No bold usurper dares invade their right,
Nor sound a march, nor give the sign for flight.
Let flowery banks entice them to their cells,
And gardens all perfum'd with native smells;
Where carv'd Priapus has his fix'd abode,
The robber's terrour, and the scare crow god.
Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren hill
Transplant, and nurse them in the neighbouring
soil.

Set fruit-trees round, nor e'er indulge thy sloth,
But water them, and urge their shady growth.

And here, perhaps, were not I giving o'er,
And striking sail, and making to the shore,
I'd show what art the gardener's toils require,
Why rosy pæstum blushes twice a year:
What streams the verdant succory supply,
And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers dry;
What with a cheerful green does parsly grace,
And writhes the bellying cucumber along the
twisted grass;

Nor would I pass the soft acanthus o'er,
Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the shore;
Nor daffodils, that late from earth's slow womb
Unrumple their swoln buds, and show their yel-
low bloom.

For once I saw in the Tarentine vale,
Where slow Galesus drencht the washy soil,
An old Corycian yeoman, who had got
A few neglected acres to his lot,
Where neither corn nor pasture grac'd the field,
Nor would the vine her purple harvest yield;
But savory herbs among the thorns were found,
Vervain and poppy flowers his garden crown'd,
And drooping lilies whiten'd all the ground.
Blest with these riches he could empires slight,
And when he rested from his toils at night,
The earth unpurchas'd dainties would afford,
And his own garden furnish out his board:
The spring did first his opening roses blow,
First ripening autumn bent his fruitful bough.
When piercing colds had burst the brittle stone,
And freezing rivers stiffen'd as they run,
He then would prune the tenderest of his trees,
Chide the late spring, and lingering western breeze:
His bees fist swarm'd, and made his vessels foam
With the rich squeezing of the juicy comb.
Here lindons and the sappy pine increas'd;
Here, when gay flowers his smiling orchard drest,
As many blossoms as the spring could show,
So many dangling apples mellow'd on the bough.
In rows his elms and knotty pear-trees bloom,
And thorns ennob.ed now to bear a plum,
And spreading plane-trees, where supinely laid
He now enjoys the cool, and quaffs beneath the
But thes for want of room I must omit, [shade.
And leave for future poets to recite.

Now I'll proceed their natures to declare, Which Jove himself did on the bees confer;

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