This verse little-polished, though mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;
It says that his relics collected lie here,
And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
So Mat may be killed, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hanged, or be drowned.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,
To fate we must yield, and the thing is the same, 30 And if passing thou giv'st him a smile, or a tear, He cares not yet prithee be kind to his fame.
FIVE YEARS OLD, MDCCIV, THE AUTHOR THEN BEING FORTY
LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band,
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen among the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.
Not quality, nor reputation,
Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;
She may receive and own my flame,
For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends;
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love,
When she begins to comprehend it.
FROM AN ACCOUNT OF THE GREATEST
ENGLISH POETS
OLD Spenser, next, warmed with poetic rage,
In ancient tales amused a barb'rous age;
An age that yet uncultivate and rude,
Where'er the poet's fancy led pursued
Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods,
To dens of dragons, and enchanted woods.
But now the mystic tale, that pleased of yore,
Can charm an understanding age no more;
The long-spun allegories fulsome grow,
While the dull moral lies too plain below.
We view well-pleased at distance all the sights
Of arms and palfreys, battles, fields, and fights,
And damsels in distress, and courteous knights.
But when we look too near, the shades decay,
And all the pleasing landscape fades away.
Great Cowley then (a mighty genius) wrote,
O'er-run with wit, and lavish of his thought:
His turns too closely on the reader press:
He more had pleased us, had he pleased us less.
One glittering thought no sooner strikes our eyes
With silent wonder, but new wonders rise,
As in the milky way a shining white
O'er-flows the heav'ns with one continued light;
40 That not a single star can show his rays,
Whilst jointly all promote the common blaze.
Pardon, great poet, that I dare to name
Th' unnumbered beauties of thy verse with blame;
Thy fault is only wit in its excess,
45 But wit like thine in any shape will please.
What muse but thine can equal hints inspire,
And fit the deep-mouthed Pindar to thy lyre:
Pindar, whom others in a laboured strain,
And forced expression imitate in vain?
50 Well-pleased in thee he soars with new delight,
And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler flight.
THE fatal day its mighty course began,
That the grieved world had long desired in vain:
States that their new captivity bemoaned,
Armies of martyrs that in exile groaned,
Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard,
And prayers in bitterness of soul preferred,
Europe's loud cries, that Providence assailed,
And ANNA'S ardent vows, at length prevailed;
The day was come when heaven designed to show
His care and conduct of the world below.
Behold in awful march and dread array
The long-extended squadrons shape their way!
Death, in approaching terrible, imparts
An anxious horror to the bravest hearts;
Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife,
And thirst of glory quells the love of life.
No vulgar fears can British minds control;
Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul
O'erlook the foe, advantaged by his post,
Lessen his numbers and contract his host:
Though fens and floods possest the middle space,
That unprovoked they would have feared to pass;
Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands,
When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands.
But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle joined !
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound
The victor's shouts and dying groans confound,
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,
And all the thunder of the battle rise.
'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved,
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war;
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
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