With revengeful fury Aung,
Strait his bow he bent, he ftrung,
Snatch'd an arrow wing'd for flight,
And provok'd me to the fight:
I, difdaining base retreat,
Clad in radiant arms complete,
Like Achilles, boldly wield
Glittering spear, and ample shield;
Thus equipt, refolve to prove
The terrific power of love.
From his bow the arrows fped;
I, alas inglorious fled——
When the quiver at his fide
Feather'd fhafts no more fupply'd,
Love, transform'd into a dart,
Pierc'd, like light'ning, through my heart,
Of my vitals made his prey,
And diffolv'd my foul away.
Now, alas! in vain I wield
Glittering fpear, and ample shield,
Victory in vain difpute,
Love, I find is abfolute;
All defence to folly turns
When within the battle burns.
ODE XV.
By Dr. Broome.
HAPPY LIFE.
THE wealth of Gyges I despise,
Gems have no charms to tempt the wife;
Riches I leave, and fuch vain things,
To the low aim and pride of kings.
Let my bright hair with unguents flow,
With rofy garlands crown my brow:
This fun fhall roll in joy away;
To-morrow is a diftant day.
Then while the hour ferenely fhines, Tofs the gay die, and quaff thy wines; But ever in the genial hour, To Bacchus the libation pour, Left death in wrath approach, and cry, Man-tafte no more the cup of joy.
ODE XVI.
By Dr. Broome.
THE POWER OF BEAUTY.
SOME fing of Thebes, and fome employ
Their numbers on the fiege of Troy.
I mourn, alas! in plaintive ftrains,
My own captivity and chains.
No navy, rang'd in proud array,
No foot, no horfeman arm'd to flay,
My peace alarm: far other foes,
Far other hofts create my woes;
Strange dangerous hofts, that ambush'd lie
In every bright, love-darting eye!
Such as destroy, when beauty arms,
To conquer, dreadful in its charms!
THE SILVER BOW L
MULCIBER, this filver take,
And a curious goblet make,
Let thy utmost skill appear
Not in radiant armour there;
Let me there no battles fee;
What are arms or wars to me?
Form it with a noble fweep,
Very wide, and very deep.
Carve not there the Northern Team,
Nor Orion's dreadful beam;
Pleiads, Hyads, Bears difpleafe;
What have I to do with these?
Why should flow Boötes roll,
Why should horrid monsters prowl,
On the margin of my bowl?
Draw me, what I value more,
Vines with purple clusters store,
Bacchus, ever young and fair,
Cupid with the golden hair,
Gay Bathyllus too be there.
See that, beautiful and bold,
All these figures rife in gold:
In the wine-prefs let them join
Hand in hand to tread the wine.
CONTRIVE me, artisan, a bowl
Offilver ample as my foul;
And in the bright compartments bring
The sweet profufion of the fpring;
Let that fair feason, rich in flowers,
Shed rofes in ambrofial showers;
Yet fimply plain be thy defign,
A feftive banqueting of wine;
No hieroglyphics let it have,
No foreign myfteries engrave:
Let no blood-thirsty heroes wield
Rough armour in the filver field;
But draw me Jove's delightful boy,
Bacchus the god of wine and joy :
Let Venus with light ftep advance,
And with gay Hymen lead the dance.
Beneath the leaf-embelifh'd vine,
Full of young grapes that promise wine,
Let love, without his armour meet
The meek-ey'd graces laughing sweet.
And on the polish'd plain display
A group of beauteous boys at play;
But no Apollo, god of day.
THE thirsty earth fucks up the showers
Which from his urn Aquarius pours;
The trees, which wave their boughs profufe,
Imbibe the earth's prolific juice;
The fea, in his prodigious cup,
Drinks all the rain and rivers up;
The fun too thirfts, and strives to drain
The fea, the rivers, and the rain,
And nightly, when his courfe is run,
The merry moon drinks up the fun.
Then give me wine, and tell me why, My friends, fhould all things drink but I!
ODE XX.
By Dr. Broome.
TO HIS MISTRESS.
The gods o'er mortals prove their fway,
And freal them from themselves away.
Transform'd by their almighty hands,
Sad Niobe an image ftands;
And Philomel up-borne on wings,
Through air her mournful ftory fings.
Would heaven indulgent to my vow,
The happy change I wish allow;
Thy envy'd mirror I would be,
That thou might'ft always gaze on me;
And, could my naked heart appear,
Thoudt fee thy felf-for thou art there!
Or were I made thy folding veft,
That thou might'ft clasp me to thy breast!
Or, turn'd into a fount, to lave
Thy naked beauties in my wave!
Thy bolom cinture I would grow,
To warm thofe little hills of fnow:
Thy ointment, in fuch fragrant streams
To wander o'er thy beauteous limbs;
Thy chain of fhining pearl, to deck
And clofe embrace thy graceful neck:
A very fandal I would be,
To tread on-if trod on by thee.
FILL, fill, fweet girls, the foaming bowl,
And let me gratify my foul:
I faint with thirst-the heat of day
Has drank my very life away.
O lead me to yon cooling bowers, And give me fresher wreaths of flowers; For those that now my temples fhade, Search'd by my burning forehead, fade : Fut O! my heart, what can reniove, What winds, what fhades, this heat of love? Thefe are all vain, alas! I find; Love is the fever of the mind.
HERE, my Cloe, charming maid,
Here, beneath the genial fhade,
Shielded from each ruder wind,
Lovely Chloe, lie reclin'd!
Lot for thee the balmy breeze
Gently fans the waving trees!
Streams that whisper through the grove
Whilper low the voice of love,
Sweetly bubbling wanton fport,
Where perfuafion holds her court.
Ye who pass th' enamell'd grove Through the ruling fhade who rove, Sure my blifs your breaft must fire! Can you fee, and not admire?
THE VANITY OF RICHES.
Ir the treafur'd gold could give
Man a longer term to live,
I'd employ my utmost care
Still to keep, and still to spare;
And when death approach'd, would fay,
"Take thy fee, and walk away."
But fince riches cannot fave
Mortals from the gloomy grave,
Why fhould I myself deceive,
Vainly figh, and vainly grieve?
Death will furely be my lot,
Whether I am rich or not.
Give me freely while I live
Generous wines, in plenty give
Soothing joys my life to chear,
Beauty kind, and friends fincere;
Happy! could I ever find
Friends fincere, and beauty kind.
SINCE I'm born a mortal man,
And my being's but a fpani
'Tis a march that I muft make;
'Tis a journey I must take:
What is paft I know too well;
What is future who can tell?
Teazing care, then fet me free,
What have I to do with thee?
Ere I die, for die I muft,
Ere this body turns to duft,
Every moment I'll employ
In fweet revelry and joy,
Laugh and fing, and dance and play,
With Lycus young and gay.
WINE BANISHES CARES.
WHEN gay Bacchus cheers my breast, All my cares are lull'd to rest:
Griefs that weep, and toils that teaze,
What have I to do with thefe ?
No folicitudes can fave
Mortals from the gloomy grave.
Shall I thus myself deceive?
Shall I languifh? fhall I grieve?
Let us quaff the generous juice;
Bacchus gave it for our ufe.
For when wine tranfports the breast, All our cares are lull'd to rest.
THE TRANSPORTS OF WINE.
WHEN gay Bacchus fills my breast,
All my cares are lul'd to rett,
Rich I feem as Lydia's king,
Merry catch or ballad fing;
Ivy-wreaths my temples fhade,
Ivy that will never fade :
Thus I fit in mind elate,
Laughing at the farce of state.
Some delight in fighting fields, Nobler tranfports Bacchus yields: Fill the bowl-I ever said,
'Tis better to lie drunk than dead.
THE PRAISE OF BACCHUS.
BACCHUS, Jove's delightful boy,
Generous god of wine and joy,
Still exhilarates my foul
With the raptures of the bowl;
Then with feather'd feet I bound,
Dancing in a festive round;
Then I feel, in sparkling wine,
Transports delicate, divine;
Then the sprightly music warms,
Song delights and beauty charms:
Debonair, and light, and gay,
'Thus I dance the hours away.
ODE XXVIII.
From the Guardian.
HIS MISTRESS'S PICTURE.
BEST and happiest artisan,
Beft of painters, if you can,
'With your many-colour'd art
Paint the miftrefs of my heart.
Defcribe the charms you hear from me
(Her charms you could not paint and fee)
And make the abfent nymph appear
As if her lovely felf were here.
First draw her easy-flowing hair,
As foft and black as he is fair;
And, if your art can rife fo high,
Let breathing odours round her fly.
Beneath the fhade of flowing jet,
The ivory forehead fmoothly fet,
With care the fable brows extend,
And in two arches nicely bend;
That fair space which lies between
The meeting fhade may scarce be seen.
The eye must be uncommon fire,
Sparkle, languish, and defire;
The flames, unfeen, must yet be felt,
Like Pallas kill, like Venus melt.
The rofy cheeks muft feem to glow
Amidst the white of new-fall'n fnow.
Let her lips perfuafion wear,
In filence elegantly fair;
As if the blufhing rivals ftrove,
Breathing and inviting love.
Below her chin be fure to deck
With every grace her polish'd neck; While all that's pretty, foft, and fweet, In the fwelling bofom meet.
The rest in purple garments veil,
Her body, nor her shape conceal.
Enough! -the lovely work is done,
The breathing paint will speak anon.
THE SAME ODE IMITATED.
IN THE YEAR 1755,
By another Hand.
BEST of painters, show thy art,
Draw the charmer of my heart;
Draw her as the shines away
At the rout, or at the play:
Carefully each mode exprefs,
Woman's better part is dress.
Let her cap be mighty small,
Bigger just than none at all,
Pretty, like her fenfe, and little,
Like her beauty, frail and brittle.
Be her fhining locks confin'd
In a threefold braid behind;
Let an artificial flower
Set the fiffure off before;
Here and there weave ribbon pat in,
Ribbon of the finest fatin.
Circling round her ivory neck
Frizzle out the smart Vandyke;
Like the ruff that heretofore
Good Queen Bess's maidens wore;
Happy maidens, as we read,
Maids of honour, maids indeed.
Let her breast look rich and bold
With a stomacher of gold;
Let it keep her bofom warm,
Amply ftretch'd from arm to arm;
Whimsically travers'd o'er,
Here a knot, and there a flower,
Like her little heart that dances,
Full of maggots, full of fancies.
Flowing loofely down her back
Draw with art the graceful fack;
Ornament it well with jimping,
Flounces, furbelows and crimping.
Let of ruffles many a row
Guard her elbows, white as fnow;
Knots below, and knots above,
Emblems of the ties of love.
Let her hoop, extended wide,
Show what petticoats should hide,
Garters of the fofteft filk,
Stockings whiter than the milk;
Charming part of female dreis,
Did it fhow us more or lefs.
Let a pair of velvet shoes
Gently prefs her pretty toes,
Gently prefs, and foftly quecze,
Tottering like the fair Chinefe,
Mounted high, and buckled low,
Tott'ring every step they go.
Take these hints, and do thy duty,
Fashions are the tests of beauty;
Features vary and perplex,
Mode's the woman and the fex.
Now, illuftrious artisan,
Paint the well proportion'd man;
Once again the tints prepare,
Paint Bathyllus young and fair.
Draw his treffes foft and black,
Flowing graceful down his back,
Auburn be the curl'd extremes,
Glowing like the folar beams;
Let them negligently fall,
Eafy, free, and artless ali.
Let his bright cerulean brow
Grace his fore cad white as fnow.
Let his eyes. that glow with fire,
Gentleft, mildeft love inspire;
Steal from Mars his radiant mien,
Softnefs from th' Idalian queen;
This with hope the heart to blefs,
That with terror to deprefs
Next, his cheeks with rofes crown,
And the peach's dubious down;
And, if art can this beftow,
Let the blush ingenuous glow.
But defcription would be faint,
Teaching you his lips to paint :
There let fair perfuafion dwell,
Let them gently, foftly fwell,
Seem in sweetest founds to break
Willing air, and filent speak.
Now you've finish'd high the face,
Draw his ivory neck with grace;
All the charms and beauty add,
Such as fair Adonis had.
Let me, next, the bosom see,
And the hands of Mercury.
But I'll not prefume to tell,
Artift, you who paint fo well,
How the foot fhould be expreft,
How to finish all the rest.
I the price you ask will give,
For the picture feems to live:
Gel's too little, view this piece,
'Tis the pictur'd pride of Greece;
Thu dine Apollo take,
And from this Bathyllus make.
When to Sames you repair,
Ak for young Bathyllus there,
Finett fgure eye e'er saw,
From Bathylus Phœbus draw.
CUPID TAKEN PRISONER. LATE the mules Cupid found, And with wreaths of rofes bound, Bound him faft, as foon as caught, And to blooming beauty brought. Venus with large ra fom ftrove To release the god of love. Vain is ransom, vain is fee, Love refufes to be free. Happy within his rosy chain, Love with beauty will remain.
THE PLEASING FRENZY.
INDULGE me, Stoics, with the bowl, And let me gratity my foul;
Your precepts to the schools confine,
For I'll be nobly mad with wine.
Alemæon and Oreftes grew
Quite mad when they their mother's flew:
But I, no man, no mother kill'd,
No blood but that of Bacchus fpill'd,
Will prove the virtues of the vine,
And be immenfely mad with wine.
When Hercules was mad, we know
He grafp'd the Iphitean bow;
The rattling of his quiver spread
Aftonishment around and dead.
Mad Ajax with his fevenf 1 fhi-ld,
Tremenduous ftalk'd along the field..
Great Hector's flaming fword he drew,
And hofts of Greeks in fancy flew.
But I with no fuch fury glow,
No fword I have, nor bend no bow:
My helmet is a flowery crown;
In this bright bowl my cares I'll drown,
And rant in ecftacies divine,
Heroically mad with wine.
THE NUMBER OF HIS MISTRESSES.
WHEN thou can't fairly number all
The leaves on trees that fade and fall,
Or count the foaming waves that roar,
Or tell the pebbles on the fhore:
Then may'st thou reckon up the names
Of all my beauties, all my flames.
At Athens, flames that ftil. furvive,
First count me only thirty-five.
At Corinth next tell o'er the fair,
Tell me a whole battalion there.
In Greece the fairest nymphs abound,
And worfe than banner'd armies wound.
Count all that make their fweet abodes
At Lefbos, or delightful Rhodes.
Then Carian and Ionian dames,
Write me at leaft two thousand flames.
What! think'it thou this too large a fum? Egypt and Syria are to come.
And Crete where I ve hi fway maintains,
And o'er a hundred cities reigns.
Yet ftill unnumber'd, ftill remain
The nymphs of Perfia and of Spain,
And Indians, fcorch'd by Titan's ray,
Whofe charms have burut my heart away.
When I muft tread the difmal shore, And dream of love and wine no more.
ODE XXXVII.
By Dr. Broome.
THE SPRING.
SEE! winter's paft; the feafon's bring
Soft breezes with returning fpring;
At whole approach the graces wear.
Fresh honours in their flowing hair;
The raging feas forget to roar,
And finiling, gently kifs the fhore;
The fportive duck, in wanton play,
Now dives, now rifes into day;
The cranes from freezing tkics repair,
And failing float to warmer air;
Th' enlivening funs in glory rife,
And gayly dance along the fkies;
The clouds difperfe, or, if in fhowers
They fall, it is to wake the flowers.
See verdure clothes the teeming earth;
The olive struggles into birth;
The fwelling grapes adorn the vine,
And kindly promife future wine:
Bleft juice! already I in thought
Quaff an imaginary draught.
YES, I'm old, I'm old, 'tis true;
What have I with time to do?
With the young and with the gay,
I can drink as much as they.
Let the jovial band advance,
Still I'm ready for the dance:
What's my fceptre, if you ask,
Lo I fway a mighty flask.
Should fome mettled blade delight
In the bloody fcenes of fight,
Let him to this stage afcend,
Still I'm ready to contend-
Mix the grape's rich blood, my page,
We in drinking will engage.
Yes, I'm old; yet with the gay
I can be as brisk as they ;
Like Silenus 'midst his train,
I can dance along the plain.
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