ΤΟ

APOLLO MAKING LOVE.

FROM MONS. FONTENELLE.

'I AM,' cried Apollo, when Daphne he woo'd, And panting for breath the coy virgin pursued, When his wisdom, in manner most ample, express'd The long list of the graces his godship possess'd:

'I'm the god of sweet song, and inspirer of lays;'Nor for lays nor sweet song the fair fugitive stays: 'I'm the god of the harp-stop, my fairest!'—in

vain;

Nor the harp nor the harper could fetch her again.

'Every plant,every flower, and their virtues, I know; God of Light I'm above, and of Physic below:At the dreadful word Physic the nymph fled more fast;

At the fatal word Physic she doubled her haste.

Thou fond god of Wisdom! then altar thy phrase, Bid her view thy young bloom and thy ravishing [charms,

rays;

Tell her less of thy knowledge and more of thy And, my life for't, the damsel will fly to thy arms.

EPISTLES.

TO THE SUPPOSED

AUTHOR OF THE SPECTATOR.

IN courts licentious and a shameless stage
How long the war shall Wit with Virtue wage?
Enchanted by this prostituted fair,

Our youth run headlong in the fatal snare;
In height of rapture clasp unheeded pains,
And suck pollution through their tingling veins.
Thy spotless thoughts unshock'd the priest may
And the pure vestal in her bosom wear.
To conscious blushes and diminish'd pride
Thy glass betrays what treacherous love would
hide;

[hear,

Nor harsh thy precepts, but infused by stealth,
Pleased while they cure, and cheat us into health.
Thy works in Chloe's toilet gain a part,

And, with his tailor, share the fopling's heart;
Lash'd in thy satire the penurious cit
Laughs at himself, and finds no harm in wit.
From felon gamesters the raw squire is free,
And Britain owes her rescued oaks to thee.
His Miss the frolic Viscount dreads to toast,
Or his third cure the shallow Templar boast;
And the rash fool who scorn'd the beaten road
Dares quake at thunder, and confess his god.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE SPECTATOR.

211

The brainless stripling who, expell'd the Town, Damn'd the stiff college and pedantic gown, Awed by thy name is dumb, and thrice a-week Spells uncouth Latin, and pretends to Greek. A sauntering tribe! such born to wide estates With Yea and No in senates hold debates; At length, despised, each to his fields retires, First with the dogs, and king amidst the squires; From pert to stupid sinks supinely down, In youth a coxcomb, and in age a clown. [flight Such readers scorn'd, thou wing'st thy daring Above the stars, and treadst the fields of light: Fame, Heaven, and Hell, are thy exalted theme, And visions such as Jove himself might dream; Man sunk to slavery, though to glory born, Heaven's pride when upright, and depraved his

scorn.

Such hints alone could British Virgil lend, And thou alone deserve from such a friend: A debt so borrow'd is illustrious shame, And fame, when shared with him, is double fame. So flush'd with sweets by Beauty's queen bestow'd, With more than mortal charms Æneas glow'd; Such generous strifes Eugene and Marlborough try, And as in glory, so in friendship vie.

Permit these lines by thee to live-nor blame A Muse that pants and languishes for fame, That fears to sink when humbler themes she sings, Lost in the mass of mean forgotten things. Received by thee, I prophecy my rhymesThe praise of virgins in succeeding times: Mix'd with thy works their life no bounds shall see, But stand protected, as inspired, by thee.

So some weak shoot, which else would poorly rise, Jove's tree adopts, and lifts him to the skies; Through the new pupil fostering juices flow, Thrust forth the gems and give the flowers to blow Aloft; immortal reigns the plant unknown, With borrow'd life and vigour not his own.

TO MR. ADDISON,

ON HIS OPERA OF ROSAMOND.

Ne forte pudori

Sit tibi Musa lyræ solers, et cantor Apollo. Hor.

THE Opera first Italian masters taught,
Enrich'd with songs, but innocent of thought:
Britannia's learned theatre disdains
Melodious trifles and enervate strains,
And blushes on her injured stage to see
Nonsense well tuned, and sweet stupidity.

No charms are wanting to thy artful song,
Soft as Corelli and as Virgil strong:
From words so sweet new grace the notes receive,
And Music borrows helps she used to give.
Thy style hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing numbers far excel the new,
Their cadence in such easy sound convey'd,
The height of thought may seem superfluous aid;
Yet in such charms the noble thoughts abound,
That needless seem the sweets of easy sound.

[dome.

Landscapes how gay the bowery grotto yields,
Which Thought creates and lavish Fancy builds!
What art can trace the visionary scenes,
The flowery groves and everlasting greens,
The babbling sounds that mimic Echo plays,
The fairy shade and its eternal maze?
Nature and Art in all their charms combined,
And all Elysium to one view confined!
No further could imagination roam,
Till Vanburgh framed and Marlborough raised the
Ten thousand pangs my anxious bosom tear,
When drown'd in tears I see the' imploring fair;
When bards less soft the moving words supply,
A seeming justice dooms the nymph to die:
But here she begs, nor can she beg in vain,
(In dirges thus, expiring swains complain ;)
Each verse so swells expressive of her woes,
And every tear in lines so mournful flows,
We, spite of fame, her fate reversed believe,
O'erlook her crimes, and think she ought to live.
Let joy salute fair Rosamonda's shade,
And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid,
While now, perhaps, with Dido's ghost she roves,
And hears and tells the story of their loves.
Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate,
Since love which made them wretched, makes them
Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan, [great;
Which gain'd a Virgil and an Addison.

Accept, great Monarch of the British lays!
The tribute song an humble subject pays;
So tries the artless lark her early flight,
And soars to hail the god of verse and light.
Unrivall❜d as unmatch'd be still thy fame,
And thy own laurels shade thy envied name !