And pour'd the ocean round her happy feat;

If

you, the cancer of our ifle,

In civil ftrife the land embroil,

And plume vain Gaul with Albion's felf-defeat.
IV.

'Tis but by arts of civil feud

That France, by England twice fubdu❜d, Could e'er revenge her ill-diffembl'd wounds: For big with death the navy roars,

Dread of all feas, dread of all fhores,

And her own thunders guard Britannia's hallowed bounds.

V.

Could Gaul brave Vernon's watch beguile,
And land her legions on this foil,

To them 'twere landing on th' infernal coaft;
While fearless Cumberland leads on

The troops at Tournay too well known,

More dreadful in retreat than many a conquering hoft. VI.

But could your impious arms fucceed, What hope you from a tyrant breed? What gratitude expect you from a throne? Back to the mountains whence you Your defarts will be ftill the fame, Whatever lord those idle defarts own.

came !

Written in a LADY's PRAYER-BOOK.

AS

S you to heav'n, I pray to you;
And much I want to know,

Why faith and zeal, and love so true,

Muft unrewarded go?

But if your pray'rs have no effect,

The cause I plainly see;

For how can you that grace expect

Which you deny to me?

K. T.

To Mr. JOHN GILL, of NEWPORT, ISLE OF WIGHT, with an Effay on Public Spirit.

Tout ce que nous naʼvons pas, à notre naissance & dont nous avons befoin étant grands, nous est donné par l'education. ROSSEAU. Emilie.

G

ILL, born in BRITAIN's faireft age to take

The care of youth, and discipline them well; Whose talents fit thee, and whose virtuous zeal Would all that's fair improve, or great awake;

Receive this fimple page, that fain would spread
That gen'rous fpirit, and that practice pure,
Which public freedom, public blifs fuftain:
For not the opulence of boundless trade,

Nor frequent vict'ries on the field or main,
From BRITAIN's praise, or matchless frame secure.

And heed it well. Not all the praise

Of claffic wit, or tuneful lays,

Or manly argument's perfuafive tongue,
Weigh much in awful reafon's fcale;

Will aught to happiness avil,

Unless this fpirit free, direct the heart and fong.

Should the rich rofe a poifon'd breath exhale,
What were the merit of her crimfon hue?
What beauty's where its conqu'ring charms prevail,
If certain ruin its embrace pursue ?

Cherish these truths; and while thro' life
Friendship and peace, my friend, are thine,
Thy breaft fhall know no anxious ftrife
On pomp's proud eminence to fhine.

And oft the future virtuous race,

By arms who fhield, or arts who grace

BRITANNIA's realms, shall speak thy well-earn'd praise; And proudly boaft 'twas GILL that form'd their early days.

THE

St. James's Magazine.

For DECEMBER, 1762.

A FAMILIAR LETTER of RHIMES to a

LADY.

I could rifle

YE

ES

grove

and bow'r

And strip the beds of every flow'r,

And deck them in their faireft hue,
Merely to be out-blufh'd by you.
The lily pale, by my direction,
Should fight the rofe for your complexion ;
Or I could make up fweeteft pofies,
Fit fragrance for the ladies' noses,
Which drooping, on your breast reclining,
Should all be withering, dying, pining,
Which every fongfter can display,
I've more authorities than Gay;

VOL. I.

Gg

Nay,

Nay, I could teach the globe its duty
To pay all homage to your beauty,
And, wit's creative pow'r to fhow,
The very fire fhould mix with snow;
Your eyes, that brandish burning darts
To fcorch and finge our tinder hearts,
Should be the lamps for lover's ruin,
And light them to their own undoing;
While all the fnow about your breaft
Should leave them hopeless and diftreft.

For those who rarely foar above
The art of coupling love and dove,
In their conceits and amorous fictions,
Are mighty fond of contradictions.
Above, in air; in earth, beneath;
And things that do, or do not breathe,
All have their parts, and separate place,
To paint the fair one's various grace.

Her cheek, her eye, her bofom show
The rofe, the lily, diamond, fnow.
Jet, milk, and amber, vales and mountains,
Stars, rubies, funs, and mofly fountains,
The poet gives them all a fhare

In the defcription of his fair.

She burns, the chills, the pierces hearts,

With locks, and bolts, and flames, and darts.

And could we truft th' extravagancy

Of every poet's youthful fancy,

They'd make each nymph they love fo well,

As cold as fnow, as hot as

O gentle lady, fpare your fright,

No horrid rhime fhall wound your fight.

I would not for the world be heard,

To utter fuch unfeemly word,

Which

Which the politer parfon fears

To mention to politer ears.

But, could a female form be fhown,
(The thought, perhaps, is not my own)
Where every circumstance should meet
To make the poet's nymph compleat,
Form'd to his fancy's utmoft pitch,
She'd be as ugly as a witch.

Come then, O mufe, of trim conceit,
Mufe, always fine, but never neat,
Who to the dull unfated ear
Of French or Tufcan SONNETEER,
Tak'ft up the fame unvaried tone,
Like the Scotch bagpipe's favourite drone,
Squeezing out thoughts in ditties quaint,
To poet's mistress, whore, or faint;
Whether thou dwell'ft on every grace,
Which lights the world from LAURA's face,
Or amorous praise expatiates wide

1

On beauties which the nymph must hide; .
For wit affected, loves to fhow

Her every charm from top to toe,
And wanton fancy oft pursues
Minute description from the muse,
Come and pourtray, with pencil fine,
The poet's mortal nymph divine.

Her golden locks of claffic hair,
Are nets to catch the wanton air;
Her forehead ivory, and her eyes
Each a bright fun to light the fkies,
Orb'd in whofe centre, Cupid aims
His darts, protect us! tipt with flames,
While the fly god's unerring bow

Is the half circle of her brow.