Now crown'd with myrtle, on the Elysian coast,
Amid those lovers, joys his gentle ghost;
Pleased, while with smiles his happy lines you view,
And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.

The brightest eyes of France inspired his Muse;
The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse;
And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride

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Still to charm those who charm the world beside.

EPISTLE TO MISS TERESA BLOUNT.*

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholesome country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caused her discontent; 9
She sigh'd, not that they stay'd, but that she went.

She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks;
She went from opera, park, assembly, play,
To morning-walks, and prayers three hours a day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary tea;

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,

Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,

Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire ; 20
Up to her godly garret after seven,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heaven.

Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is whist, whose treat a toast in sack;

* On her leaving London after the coronation of George I. in 1715.

Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries,-No words!'

Or with his hound comes hallooing from the stable; Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are

coarse,

And loves you best of all things-but his horse.
In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the fancied scene;
See coronations rise on every green:

Before you pass the imaginary sights

31

Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,

While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls. 40
So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
(Not plagued with head-aches, or the want of rhyme,)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy paints your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight:
Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now. 50

TO MR. C. [CLELAND].

St. James's Place, London, Oct. 22.

FEW words are best: I wish you well:
Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here;
Some morning walks along the Mall,

And evening friends, will end the year.

If, in this interval, between

The falling leaf and coming frost,
You please to see, on Twit'nam-green,
Your friend, your poet, and your host;

For three whole days you here may rest
From office business, news, and strife;
And, what most folks would think a jest,
Want nothing else, except your wife.

10

TO MR. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED WORM-POWDER.

How much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceived by shows and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All human-kind are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile reptile, weak and vain!
Awhile he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.

That woman is a worm, we find

E'er since our grandame's evil :

She first conversed with her own kind,

That ancient worm, the devil.

10

The learn'd themselves we book-worms name: The blockhead is a slow-worm;

The nymph, whose tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a glow-worm.

The fops are painted butterflies,

That flutter for a day;

First from a worm they take their rise,
And in a worm decay.

20

The flatterer an earwig grows:

Thus worms suit all conditions;
Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaux,
And death-watches physicians.

That statesmen have the worms, is seen
By all their winding play :
Their conscience is a worm within,

That gnaws them night and day.

Ah, Moore thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,

30

If thou couldst make the courtier void
The worm that never dies!

O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free!
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat e'en thee.

Our fate thou only canst adjourn

Some few short years, no more!

E'en Button's wits to worms shall turn,

Who maggots were before.

40

MISCELLANIES.

THE BASSET-TABLE.*

AN ECLOGUE.

CARDELIA.

THE Basset-table spread, the Tallier come;
Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room?
Rise, pensive nymph; the Tallier waits for you.

SMILINDA.

Ah, madam, since my Sharper is untrue, I joyless make my once adored Alpeu.

I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair,

And whisper with that soft, deluding air,

And those feign'd sighs, which cheat the listening fair.

CARDELIA.

Is this the cause of your romantic strains?
A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains.
As you by love, so I by fortune cross'd;
One, one bad deal, three septlevas have lost.

10

* It is not certain whether Pope was the author of this poem. He and Lady Mary Wortley Montague wrote six "Town Eclogues," and two of them were by him, but which two is uncertain.

H H