THE RAPTURE.

I YIELD, I yield, and can no longer stay
My eager thoughts, that force themselves away.
Sure none inspir'd (whose heat tranfports them till
Above their reason, and beyond their will)
Can firm against the ftrong impulfe remain;
Censure itself were not fo fharp a pain.
Let vulgar minds fubmit to vulgar sway;
What ignorance fhall think, or malice fay,
To me are trifles; if the knowing few,
Who can fee faults, but can see beauties too,
Applaud that genius which themselves partake,
And fpare the poet for the mufe's fake.

The mufe, who raifes me from humble ground,
To view the vast and various world around;
How fast I mount! in what a wondrous way
I grow transported to this large farvey!
I value earth no more, and far below
Methinks I fee the bufy pigmies go.
My foul entranc'd is in a rapture brought
Above the common tracks of vulgar thought:
With fancy wing'd, I feel the purer air,
And with contempt look down on human care.
Airy ambition, ever foaring high,
Stands firft expos'd to my cenforious eye.
Behold fome toiling up a flippery hill,
Where, though arriv'd, they must be toiling ftill:
Some, with unsteady feet, just fallen to ground,
Others at top, whose heads are turning round.
To this high sphere it happens fill that fome,
The most unfit, are forwardest to come;
Yet among thefe are princes forc'd to choose,
Or feek out fuch as would perhaps refuse.
Favour too great is fafely plac'd on none,
And foon becomes a dragon or a drone;
Either remifs and negligent of all,
Or elfe imperious and tyrannical.

The mufe infpires me now to look again,
And see a meaner fort of fordid men
Doating on little heaps of yellow duft;
For that defpifing honour, eafe, and luft.
Let other bards, expreffing how it fhines,
Defcribe with envy what the miser finds;
Only as heaps of dirt it seems to me,
Where we fuch despicable vermin fee,

Loaded with guilt, they ftill purfue their courfe,
Not ev'n restrain'd by love or friendship's force.

Not to enlarge on fuch an obvious thought,
Behold their folly, which tranfcends their fault!
Alas their cares and cautions only tend
To gain the means, and then to lose the end.
Like heroes in romances, ftill in fight
For miftreffes that yield them no delight.
This, of all vice, does most debafe the mind,
Gold is itself th' allay to human-kind.
Oh, happy times! when no fuch thing as coin
E'er tempted friends to part, or foes to join!
Cattle or corn, among those harmless men,
Was all their wealth, the gold and filver then :
Corn was too bulky to corrupt a tribe,
And bellowing herds would have betray'd the bribe,
Ev'n traffic now is intercourfe of ill,
And every wind brings a new mischief ftill;
By trade we flourish in our leaves and fruit,
But avarice and excefs devour the root.

Thus far the mufe unwillingly has been
Fix'd on the dull, lefs happy forts of fin;
But now, more pleas'd, the views the different ways
Of luxury, and all its charms furveys.
Dear luxury thou soft, but fure deceit !
Rife of the mean, and ruin of the great!
Thou fure prefage of ill-approaching fates,
The bane of empires, and the change of states!
Armies in vain refift thy mighty power;

Not the worst conduct would confound them more.
Thus Rome herfelf, while o'er the world the
flew,

And did by virtue all that world fubdue,
Was by her own victorious arms opprefs'd,
And catch'd infection from the conquer'd east;
Whence all thofe vices came, which foon devour
The best foundations of renown and power.

But oh! what need have we abroad to roam,
Who feel too much the fad effects at home,
Of wild excels? which we fo plainly find
Decays the body, and impairs the mind.
But yet grave fops must not prefume from hence
To flight the facred pleasures of the sense:
Our appetites are Nature's laws, and given
Under the broad authentic feal of heaven.
Let pedants wrangle, and let bigots fight,

Who creep through filth a thousand crooked ways, To put refraint on innocent delight,
Infenfible of infamy or praife:

But Heaven and Nature's always in the right;

They would not draw poor mortals in,
Or give defires that fhall be doom'd for fin.
Yet, that in height of harmless joy we may
Last to old age, and never lose a day,
Amidst our pleasures we ourselves should spare,
And manage all with temperance and care.
The gods forbid but we fometimes may steep
Our joys in wine, and lull our cares afleep:
It raifes nature, ripens feeds of worth,
As moistening pictures calls the colours forth;
But if the varnish we too oft apply,
Alas! like colours, we grow faint, and die.
Hold, bold, impetuous mufe: I would restrain
Her over-eager heat, but all in vain;
Abandon'd to delights, fhe longs to rove;

I check'd her here, and now fhe flies to love;
Shows me fome rural nymph, by fhepherd chas'd,
Soon overtaken, and as foon embrac'd:
The grass by her, as she by him, is press'd;
For fhame, my muse, let fancy guess the rest :
At fuch a point fancy can never stay,
But flies beyond whatever you can say.
Behold the filent fhades, the amorous grove,
The dear delights, the very act of love.
This is his loweft fphere, his country scene,
Where love is humble, and his fare but mean;
Yet fpringing up without the help of art,
Leaves a fincerer relish in the heart,
More healthfully, though not fo finely fed,
And better thrives than where more nicely bred.
But 'tis in courts where moft he makes a fhow,
And, high enthron'd, governs the world below;
For though in histories learn'd ignorance
Attributes all to cunning or to chance,
Love will in those disguises often smile,

And knows the caufe was kindness all the while.
What ftory, place, or perfon, cannot prove
The boundless influence of mighty love?
Where'er the fun can vigorous heat infpire,
Both fexes glow, and languish with desire.
The weary'd fwain, faft in the arms of fleep,
Love can awake, and often fighing keep;
And bufy gown-men, by fond love difguis'd,
Will leifure find to make themselves defpis'd.
The proudest kings fubmit to beauty's fway;
Beauty itself, a greater prince than they,
Lies fometimes languishing with all its pride
By a belov'd, though fickle lover's fide,
I mean to flight the foft enchanting charm,
But, oh my head and heart are both too warm.
1 doat on woman-kind with all their faults,
Love turns my fatire into fofteft thoughts;
Of all that paffion which our peace destroys
Instead of mifchiefs, I defcribe the joys.
But short will be his reign (I fear too fhort),
And prefent cares fhall be my future fport.
Then love's bright torch put out, his arrows broke,
Loose from kind chains, and from th' engaging
yoke,

To all fond thoughts I'll fing fuch counter-charms,
The fair fhall litten in their lovers arms.

Now the enthufiaftic fit is spent,

I feel my weaknefs, and too late repent.

As they who walk in dreams oft climb too high
For fenfe to follow with a waking eye;

And in fuch wild attempts are blindly bold,
Which afterwards they tremble to behold:
So I review thefe fallies of my pen,
And modeft reason is return'd again;
My confidence I curfe, my fate accuse,
Scarce hold from cenfuring the facred mufe.
No wretched poet of the railing pit,
No critic curs❜d with the wrong fide of wit,
Is more fevere from ignorance and spite,
Than I with judgment against all I write.

ON MR. HOBBES, AND HIS WRITINGS.
Such is the mode of these cenforious days,
The art is loft of knowing how to praife;
Poets are envious now, and fools alone
Admire at wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatsoever is by vain critics thought,
Praising is harder much than finding fault;
In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel,
Italians only can draw beauty well.

As ftrings, alike wound up, fo equal prove,
That one refounding makes the other move;
From fuch a cause our satires please so much,
We fympathize with each ill-natur'd touch;
And as the sharp infection fpreads about,
The reader's malice helps the writer out.
To blame, is eafy; to commend, is bold;
Yet, if the mufe infpires it, who can hold?
To merit we are bound to give applause,
Content to fuffer in so just a cause.

While in dark ignorance we lay afraid
Of fancies, ghofts, and every empty fhade;
Great Hobbes appear'd, and by plain reason's light
Put fuch fantastic forms to fhameful flight.
Fond is their fear, who think men needs must be
To vice enflav'd, if from vain terrors free;
The wife and good morality will guide,
And fuperftition all the world befide.

In other authors though the thought be good,
'Tis not fometimes fo easily understood;
That jewel oft' unpolifh'd has remain'd;
Some words fhould be left out, and fome explain'd;
So that, in search of sense, we either ftray,
Or elfe grow weary in fo rough a way.
But here fweet eloquence does always smile,
In fuch a choice, yet unaffected style,
As must both knowledge and delight impart,
The force of reafon, with the flowers of art;
Clear as a beautiful transparent skin,
Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in;
Like a delicious ftream it ever ran,
As smooth as woman, but as strong as man.
Bacon himself, whofe univerfal wit
Does admiration through the world beget,
Scarce more his age's ornament is thought,
Or greater credit to his country brought,

While fame is young, too weak to fly away,
Malice pursues her, like fome bird of prey;
But once on wing, then all the quarrels ceafe;
Envy herself is glad to be at peace,
Gives over, weary'd with fo high a flight,
Above her reach, and scarce within her fight.

But why fo much digreffion,

This fatal lofs to fhow?

Alas, there's no expreffion
Can tell a parent's woe!

ON MR. POPE, AND HIS POEMS.

WITH age decay'd, with courts and business tir'd,
Caring for nothing but what ease requir'd,
Too ferious now a wanton mufe to court,
And from the critics fafe arriv'd in port;
I little thought of launching forth again,
Amidst adventurous rovers of the pen;
And, after some small undeferv'd fuccefs,
Thus hazarding at last to make it lefs.

Encomiums fuit not this cenforious time,
Itself a fubject for fatiric rhyme;
Ignorance honour'd, wit and worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd.
But to this genius, join'd with fo much art,
Such various learning mix'd in every part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.

And yet fo wondrous, fo fublime a thing,
As the great Iliad, fcarce could make me fing;
Except I justly could at once commend
A good companion, and as firm a friend,

One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed,
Can all defert in fciences exceed.

Who knows but my example then may please
Such noble, hopeful fpirits as appear
Willing to flight their pleasures and their ease,
For fame and honour? till at laft they hear,

After much trouble borne, and danger run,

The crown affifted, and my country ferv'd;
Without good fortune I had been undone,

Without a good eftate I might have starv'd.

THE ELECTION OF A POET LAUREAT

IN M.DCC.XIX.

A FAMOUS affembly was fummon'd of late:
To crown a new laureat, came Phoebus in ftate,
With all that Montfaucon himself could defire,
His bow, laurel, harp, and abundance of fire.

At Bartlemew-fair ne'er did bullies so justle,
No country election e'er made fuch a bustle:
From garret, mint, tavern, they all post away,
Some thirfting for fack, fome ambitious of bay.

All came with full confidence,flush'd with vain hope,
From Cibber and Durfey, to Prior and Pope.
Phœbus fmil'd on these last, but yet ne'ertheless,
Said, he hop'd they had got enough by the prefs.

'Tis great delight to laugh at fome men's ways; With a huge mountain-load of heroical lumber, But a much greater to give merit praise.

STANZ A S.

WHENE'ER my foolish bent to public good,
Or fonder zeal for fome mifguided prince,
Shall make my dangerous humour understood,
For changing ministers for men of sense:

When, vainly proud to show my public care,
And ev'n afham'd to fee three nations fool'd,
I shall no longer bear a wretched share
In ruling ill, or being over-rul'd:

Then, as old lechers in a winter's night

To yawning hearers all their pranks disclose; And what decay deprives them of delight, Supply with vain endeavours to impose:

Juft fo fhall I as idly entertain

Some ftripling patriots, fond of feeming wife; Tell, how I ftill could great employments gain, Without concealing truths, or whispering lies!

Boaft of fucceeding in my country's caufe

Ev'n against fone almost too high to blame; Whom, when advanc'd beyond the reach of laws, I oft' had ridicul'd to fenfe and fhame;

Say, I refifted the most potent fraud;
But friendlefs merit openly approv'd;

And that I was above the being aw'd

Not only by my prince, but thofe he lov'd:

Which from Tonfon to Curll every prefs had groan'

under,

[lays, Came Blackmore, and cry'd, Look, all these are my But at present I beg you'd but read my Essays.

Lampooners and critics rufh'd in like a tide,
Stern Dennis and Gildon came firft fide-by-fide.
Apollo confefs'd that their lashes had stings,
But beadles and hangmen were never chofe kings.

Steele long had fo cunningly manag'd the town,
He could not be blam'd for expecting the crown;
Apollo demurr'd as to granting his wish,
But wifh'd him good luck in his project of fish.

Lame Congreve, unable fuch things to endure,
Of Apollo begg'd either a crown or a cure;
To refuse such a writer, Apollo was loth,
And almost inclin'd to have granted him both.

When Buckingham came, he scarce car'd to be seen,
Till Phoebus defir'd his old friend to walk in;
But a laureat peer had never been known,
The commoners claim'd that place as their own.

Yet if the kind god had been ne'er so inclin'd
To break an old rule, yet he well knew his mind,
Who of fuch preferment would only make sport,
And laugh'd at all fuitors for places at court.

Notwithstanding this law, yet Lansdowne was nam'd,

But Apollo with kindness his indolence blam'd,

I FEEL a frange impulfe, a ftrong defire,
(For what vain thoughts will not a mufe inspire ?)
My own low fame, by writing James's praife.
To fing on lofty subjects, and to raise

Oft' have we heard the wonders of his youth,
Obferv'd those feeds of fortitude and truth,
Which fince have spread fo wide, fo wondrous high,
The good distress'd beneath that shelter lie.