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Or dealt by chance to shield a lucky knave, In wanton and unmanly tenderness,
Adds bloom to health; o'er ev'ry virtue sheds But for one end, one much-neglected use,
A gay, humane, a sweet, and generous grace, Are riches worth your care ; (for Nature's wants And brightens all the ornaments of man. Are few, and without opulence supplied ;) But fruitless, hopeless, disappointed, rack'd This noble end is, to produce the soul ;
With jealousy, fatigu'd with hope and fear, To show the virtues in their fairest light;
Too serious, or too languishingly fond, To make humanity the minister
Unnerves the body and unmans the soul. of bounteous Providence; and teach the breast And some have died for love; and some run mad; That generous luxury the gods enjoy."
And some with desperate hands themselves have Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly sage
slain. Sometimes declaim'd. Or right and wrong he taught Some to extinguish, others to prevent, Truths as refin'd as ever Athens heard ;
A mad devotion to one dangerous fair, And (strange to tell!) he practis'd what he preach'd. Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipate Skill'd in the passions, how to check their sway, The cares of love amongst an hundred brides. He knew, as far as reason can control
Th' event is doubtful; for there are who find The lawless powers. But other cares are mine : A cure in this; there are who find it not. Form'd in the school of Pæon, I relate
"Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls What passions hurt the body, what improve : The wound, to those who are sincerely sick. Avoid them, or invite them as you may.
For while from severish and tumultuous joys Know then, whatever cheerful and serene The nerves grow languid, and the soul subsides, Supports the mind, supports the body too.
The tender fancy smarts with every sting,
Be temperate still: when Nature bids, obey ; Sent down the kind delusion, through the paths Her wild impatient sallies bear no curb: of rugged life to lead us patient on;
But when the prurient habit of delight,
To Nature : Nature all compulsion hates.
To make what should be rapture a fatigue, Or while they please, torment. The stubborn A tedious task ; nor in the wanton arms clown,
Of twining Lais melt your manhood down. The ill-tam'd russian, and pale usurer,
For from the colliquation of soft joys (If Love's omnipotence such hearts can mould,) How chang'd you rise! the ghost of what you was May safely mellow into love; and grow
Languid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan; Refind, humane, and generous, if they can. Your veins exhausted, and your nerves unstrung. Love in such bosoms never to a fault
Spoil'd of its balm and sprightly zest, the blood Or pains or pleases. But ye liner souls,
Grows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves Form'd to soft luxury, and prompt to thrill
(To each slight impulse tremblingly awake) With all the tumults, all the joys and pains, A subile fiend that mimics all the plagues, That beauty gives; with caution and reserve Rapid and restless springs from part to part. Indulge the sweet destroyer of repose,
The blooming honors of your youth are fallen; Nor court 100 much the queen of charming cares. Your vigor pines; your vital powers decay; . For, while the cherish'd poison in your breast Diseases haunt you ; and untimely age Ferments and maddens; sick with jealousy, Creeps on ; unsocial, impotent, and lewd. Absence, distrust, or even with anxious joy,
Infatuate, impious epicure! to waste The wholesome appetites and powers of life The stores of pleasure, cheerfulness, and health! Dissolve in languor. The coy stomach lothes Infatuate all who make delight their trade, The genial board : your cheerful days are gone; And coy perdition every hour pursue. The generous bloom that flush'd youcheeks is fled. Who pines with love, or in lascivious flames To sighs devoted and to tender pains,
Consumes, is with his own consent undone ; Pensive you sit, or solitary stray,
He chooses to be wretched, to be mad; And waste your youih in niusing. Musing first And warn'd, proceeds, and wilful to his fate. Toy'd into care your unsuspecting heart:
But there's a passion, whose tempestuous sway It found a liking there, a sportful fire,
Tears up each virtue planted in his breast, And that fomented into serious love;
And shakes to ruins proud philosophy. Which musing daily strengthens and improves For pale and trembling anger rushes in, Through all the heights of fondness and romance: With falt'ring speech, and eyes that wildly stare; And you 're undone, the fatal shaft has sped, Fierce as the tiger, madder than the seas, If once you doubt whether you love or no. Desperate, and arm'd with more than human strength The body wastes away; th' infected mind, How soon the calm, humane, and polish'd man Dissolv'd in female tenderness, forgets
Forgets compunction, and starts up a fiend! Each manly virtue, and grows dead to fame. Who pines in love, or wastes with silent cares, Sweet Heaven, from such intoxicating charms Envy, or ignominy, or tender grief, Defend all worthy breasts! not that I deem Slowly descends and ling'ring, to the shades: Love always dangerous, always to be shunn'd. But he whom anger stings, drops, if he dies, Lose well repaid, and not too weakly sunk | At once, and rushes apoplectic down;
Or a fierce fever hurries him to Hell.
Where reason proves too weak, or Foid of sleg For, as the body through unnumber'd strings To cope with subtle or impetuous powers, Reverberates each vibration of the soul;
I would invoke new passions to your ard: As is the passion, such is still the pain
With indignation would extinguish fear; The body feels : or chronic, or acute.
With fear, or generous pity, vanquish rage: And oft a sudden storm at once o'erpowers And love with pride; and force to force oppose. The life, or gives your reason to the winds.
There is a charm, a power, that sways the dress Such fates attend the rash alarm of fear,
Bids every passion revel or be still; And sudden grief, and rage, and sudden joy. Inspires with rage, or all your cares dissolves;
There are, meantime, to whom the boist'rous fit Can soothe distraction, and almost despair. Is health, and only fills the sails of life.
That power is music: far beyond the stretch For where the mind a torpid winter leads, for those unmeaning warblers on our stage ; Wrapt in a body corpulent and cold,
Those clumsy heroes, those fat-headed gods And each clogg'd function lazily moves on; Who move no passion justly but contempt: A generous sally spurns th' incumbent load, Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong! Unlocks the breast, and gives a cordial glow.
Do wondrous feats, but never heard of grace But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,
The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous art; Or are your nerves too irritably strung,
Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with londe Waive all dispute ; be cautious, if you joke ;
peals Keep Lent for ever, and forswear the bowl. Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels; For one rash moment sends you to the shades, And with insipid show of rapture, die Or shatters ev'ry hopeful scheme of life,
Of idiot notes impertinently long. And gives to horror all your days to come.
But he the Muse's laurel justly shares. Fate, arm'd with thunder, fire, and ev'ry plague, A poet he, and touch'd with Heaven's own fire That ruins, tortures, or distracts mankind,
Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of contd. And makes the happy wretched in an hour, Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul; O'erwhelms you not with woes so horrible
Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain, As your own wrath, nor gives more sudden blows. In love dissolves you ; now in sprightly strass
While choler works, good friend, you may be wrong. Breathes a gay rapture through your thrilling brak Distrust yourself, and sleep before you fight. Or melts the hearts with airs divinely sad; 'Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave;
Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings. If honor bids, to-morrow kill or die.
Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of de But calm advice against a raging fit
Appeas'd the fiend of melancholy Saul. Avails too little; and it braves the power
Such was, if old and heathen fame say true, Of all that ever taught in prose or song,
The man who bade the Theban domes ascend. To tame the fiend, that sleeps a gentle lamb, And tam'd the savage nations with his song: And wakes a lion. Unprovok'd and calm, And such the Thracian, whose melodious lore, You reason well; see as you ought to see,
Tund to soft woe, made all the mountains weep: And wonder at the madness of mankind :
Sooth'd even th' inexorable powers of Hell, Seiz'd with the common rage, you soon forget And half-redeemd his lost Eurydice. The speculations of your wiser hours.
Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, Beset with furies of all deadly shapes,
Expels diseases, soflens every pain, Fierce and insidious, violent and slow :
Subdues the rage of poison and of plague ; With all that urge or lure us on to fate :
And hence the wise of ancient days ador d What refuge shall we seek? what arms prepare ? One power of physic melody, and song
JOSEPH WARTON, D. D., born in 1722, was the Pope." Scarcely any work of the kind has afforded eldest son of the Rev. Thomas Warton, poetry-pro- more entertainment, from the vivacity of its refessor at Oxford, and Vicar of Basingstoke. He marks, the taste displayed in its criticisms, and the received his early education under his father, and at various anecdotes of which it became the vehicle : the age of fourteen was admitted on the foundation though some of the last were of a freer cast than at Winchester school. He was afterwards entered perfectly became his character. This reason, perof Oriel College, Oxford, where he assiduously cul- haps, caused the second volume to be kept back till tivated his literary taste, and composed some pieces twenty-six years after. In 1766 he was advanced of poetry, which were afterwards printed. Having to the post of head-master of Winchester school, on taken the degree of B. D., he became curate to his which occasion he visited Oxford, and took the defather at Basingstoke; and in 1746 removed to a grees of bachelor and doctor of divinity similar employment at Chelsea. In 1748 he was The remainder of his life was chiefly occupied by presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory schemes of publications, and by new preferments, of Winslade, soon after which he married. He ac- of the last of which he obtained a good share, though companied his patron in 1751 on a tour to the of moderate rank. In 1793 he closed his long lasouth of France; and after his return he completed bors at Winchester by a resignation of the masteran edition of Virgil, in Latin and English; of ship, upon which he retired to his rectory of Wickwhich the Eclogues and Georgics were his own ham. Still fond of literary employment, he accomposition, the Eneid was the version of Pitt. cepted a proposal of the booksellers to superintend Warton also contributed notes on the whole, and an edition of Pope's works, which was completed, added three preliminary essays, on pastoral, didac- in 1797, in nine vols. 8vo. Other engagements still tie, and epic poetry. When the Adventurer was pursued him, till his death, in his 781h year, Feb. undertaken by Dr. Hawkesworth, Warton, through ruary, 1800. The Wiccamists attested their regard the medium of Dr. Johnson, was invited to become to his memory, by erecting an elegant monument a contributor, and his compliance with this request over his tomb in Winchester cathedral. produced twenty-four papers, of which the greater. The poems of Dr. Warton consist of miscellapart were essays on critical topics.
neous and occasional pieces, displaying a cultivated In 1755 he was elected second master of Win- taste, and an exercised imagination, but without any chester school, with the accompanying advantage of claim to originality. His “Ode to Fancy,” first a boarding-house. In the following year there ap- published in Dodsley's collection, is perhaps that peared, but without his name, the first volume, which has been the most admired. 8vo., of his “Essay on the Writings and Genius of
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes, ODE TO FANCY.
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek.
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek; O PARENT of each lovely Muse,
Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs, Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs, O'er all my artless songs preside,
The naked beggar shivering lies, My footsteps to thy temple guide,
While whistling tempests round her rise, To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
And trembles lest the tottering wall In golden cups no costly wine,
Should on her sleeping infants fall. No murder'd fatling of the flock,
Now let us louder strike the lyre, But Aowers and honey from the rock.
For my heart glows with martial fire, O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, With buskind leg, and bosom bare,
My big lumultuous bosom beat; Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear; Waving in thy snowy hand
Give me another horse, I cry, An all-commanding magic wand,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly! Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow,
Whence is this rage ?—what spirit, say 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
To battle hurries me away? Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, Through air, and over earth and sea,
Transports me to the thickest war, While the vast various landscape lies
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
Where Tumult and Destruction reign; O lover of the desert, hail!
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Tramples the dying and the dead ; Or on what hoary mountain's side,
Where giant Terror stalks around, 'Mid fall of waters, you reside,
With sullen joy surveys the ground, 'Mid broken rocks. a rugged scene,
And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field, With green and grassy dales between.
Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! 'Mid forests dark of aged oak.
O guide me from this horrid scene, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green, Where never human art appear'd,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,
The fervors of the mid-day sun; Where Nature seems to sit alone,
The pangs of absence, O remove! Majestic on a craggy throne;
For thou canst place me near my love, Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,
Canst fold in visionary bliss, To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
And let me think I steal a kiss, Where woodbines cluster round the door,
While her ruby lips dispense Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
Luscious nectar's quintessence! And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
When young-eyed Spring profusely thr'ws Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
From her green lap the pink and rose, Some nightingale still builds her nest,
When the soft turtle of the dale Each evening warbling thee to rest :
To summer tells her tender tale, Then lay me by the haunted stream,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks. In converse while methinks I rove
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, With Spenser through a fairy grove;
Shakes his silver beard with cold; Till, suddenly awak'd, I hear
At every season let my ear Strange whisper'd music in my ear,
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd
O warm, enthusiastic maid, By the sweetly-soothing sound !
Without thy powerful, vital aid, Me, goddess, by the right hand lead
That breathes an energy divine, Sometimes through the yellow mead,
That gives a soul to every line, Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane And Venus keeps her festive court,
To utter an unhallow'd strain, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, Nor dare to touch the sacred string, And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Save when with smiles thou bidd'st me sing Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
O hear our prayer, 0 hither come Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads,
From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, Where Echo walks steep hills among,
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, List’ning to the shepherd's song:
Musing o'er thy darling's grave; Yet not these flowery fields of joy
O queen of numbers, once again Can long my pensive mind employ.
Animate some chosen swain, Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly,
Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire, To meet the matron Melancholy,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Goddess of the tearful eye,
Who with some new unequal'd song, That loves to fold her arms, and sigh;
May rise above the rhyming throng, Let us with silent footsteps go
O'er all our list'ning passions reign, To charnels and the house of woe,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain,
With terror shake, and pity move,
Give me, beneath a colder, changeful sky,
What millions perish'd near thy mournful flood, *
Less fierce the Saracen, and quiverd Moor, Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart;
That dash'd thy infants 'gainst the stones of yore. Like lightning, let his mighty verse
Be warnd, ye nations round; and trembling see The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;
Dire superstition quench humanity! With native beauties win applause
By all the chiefs in freedom's battles lost, Beyond cold critics' studied laws;
By wise and virtuous Alfred's awful ghost; O let each Muse's fame increase,
By old Galgacus' scythed, iron car,
That, swiftly whirling through the walks of war,
By holy Druids' courage-breathing songs;
By fierce Bonduca's shield and foaming steeds; WRITTEN AT MONTAUBAN IN FRANCE, 1750. By the bold Peers that met on Thames's meads; Tarn, how delightful wind thy willow'd waves.
By the fifth Henry's helm and lightning spear; But ah! they fructify a land of slaves!
O Liberty, my warm petition hear; In vain thy bare-foot, sun-burnt peasants hide
Be Albion still thy joy! with her remain, With luscious grapes yon hill's romantic side;
Long as the surge shall lash her oak-crown'd plain, No cups neclareous shall their toil repay, The priest's, the soldier's, and the fermier's prey : * Alluding to the persecutions of the Protestants, and Vain glows this Sun, in cloudless glory drest, | the wars of the Saracens, carried on in the southern prov. That strikes fresh vigor through the pining breast; linces of France.