As thus they wrangled, Time came by (There's none that paint him fuch as I; For what the fabling ancients fung Makes Saturn old when Time was young); As yet his winters had not thed Their filver honours on his head; He just had got his pinions free From his old fire, Eternity. A ferpent girdled round he wore, The tail within the mouth, before; By which our almanacs are clear That learned Egypt meant the year. A ftaff he carried, where on high A glafs was fix'd to measure by, As amber boxes made a fhow For heads of canes an age ago. His veft, for day and night, was pied; A bending fickle arm'd his fide;

And Spring's new months his train adorn :
The other Seasons were unborn.

Known by the gods, as near he draws,
They make him umpire of the cause.
O'er a low trunk his arm he laid,
Where fince his hours a dial made;
Then, leaning, heard the nice debate,
And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate:
Since body from the parent Earth,
And foul from Jove receiv'd a birth,
Return they where they firft began;
But, fince their union makes the man,
Till Jove and Earth shall part these two,
To Care, who join'd them, man is due.

He faid, and fprung with fwift career
To trace a circle for the year;
Where ever fince the Seafons wheel,
And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, faid Jove; and, for confent,
Thund'ring, he shook the firmament.
Our umpire Time fhall have his way;
With Care I let the creature ftay:
Let bufinefs vex him, av'rice blind,
Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind,
Let error act, opinion fpeak,
And want afflict, and ficknefs break,
And anger burn, dejection chill,
And joy distract, and forrow kill;

Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow,
Time draws the long deftructive blow;
And wafted man, whofe quick decay
Comes hurrying on before his day,
Shall only find by this decree,

The foul flies fooner back to me.

Obferve him nearly, left he climb
To wound the bards of ancient time,
Or down the vale of Fancy go,
To tear fome modern wretch below.
On ev'ry corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he flips thee by.
See where his teeth a pallage eat:
We'll roufe him from the deep retreat.
But who the fhelter 's forc'd to give?
'Tis facred Virgil, as I live!
From leaf to leaf, from fong to fong,
He draws the tadpole form along;
He mounts the gilded edge before;
He's up, he fcuds the cover o'er;
He turns, he doubles, there he pass'd;
And here we have him, caught at last.
Infatiate brute, whose teeth abuse
The sweetest fervants of the Mufe.
(Nay, never offer to deny,

I took thee in the fact to fly).
His roses nipt in ev'ry page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;
By thee my Ovid wounded lies;
By thee my Lefbia's fparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd;
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.
For all, for ev'ry fingle deed,
Relentless Juftice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myfelf the pricft, my defk the fhrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Taffo near,
To pile a facred altar here.
Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;
You reach'd me Philips' ruftic ftrain;
Pray take your mortal Bards again.

Come, bind the victim-there he lies,
And here between his num'rous eyes
This venerable duft I lay,
From manufcripts juft fwept away.

The goblet in my hand I take
(For the libation 's yet to make)
A health to poets! all their days
May they have bread, as well as praise;
Senfe may they feck, and lefs engage
In papers fill'd with party rage.
But, if their riches fpoil their vein,
Ye Mufes, make them poor again.

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I ftrike the fcales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The facred altar floats with red,
And now he dies, and now he's dead.
How like the fon of Jove I ftand,
This Hydra ftretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monfter's entrails here,
To fee what dangers threat the year:
Ye gods! what fonnets on a wench!
What lean tranflations out of French!
'Tis plain, this lobe is fo unfound,
Sprints before the months go round.

But hold-before I close the scene, The facred altar fhould be clean. Oh had I Shadwell's fecond bays, Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays! (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never mifs'd your works till now) I'd tear the leaves to wipe the fhrine (That only way you pleafe the Nine); But fince I chance to want these two, I'll make the fongs of Durfey do.

Rent from the corps, on yonder pin I hang the fcales that brac'd it in ; I hang my ftudious morning gown, And write my own infcription down:

"This trophy from the Python won, "This robe in which the deed was done, Thefe, Parnell, glorying in the feat, "Hung on these fhelves, the Muses feat. "Here ignorance and hunger found "Large realms of wit to ravage round; "Here ignorance and hunger fell; "Two foes in one I fent to hell. "Ye poets, who my labours fee, "Come share the triumph all with me! "Ye critics! born to vex the Mufe, "To mourn the grand ally you lofe."

§ 37. An Imitation of fome French Verfes. PARNELL.

RELENTLESS Time! deftroying pow'r,

Whom stone and brafs obey, Who giv'ft to ev'ry flying hour To work fome new decay; Unheard, unheeded, and unfeen, Thy fecret faps prevail,

And ruin man, a nice machine,

By nature form'd to fail.

My change arrives; the change I meet,
Before I thought it nigh.
My fpring, my years of pleafure, fleet,
And all their beauties die.
In age I fearch, and only find

A poor unfruitful gain-
Grave wildom ftalking flow behind,
Opprefs'd with loads of pain.
My ignorance could once beguile,
And fancied joys infpire;
My errors cherish'd Hope to fmile
On newly-born defire.

But now experience fhews the bliss,
For which I fondly fought,
Not worth the long impatient with
And ardour of the thought.
My youth met fortune fair array'd;
In all her pomp the fhone,

And might perhaps have well effay'd

To make her gifts my own;

But when I faw the bleffings fhow'r
On fome unworthy mind,

I left the chace, and own'd the Pow'r
Was justly painted blind.

I pafs'd the glories which adorn
The fplendid courts of kings;
And, while the perfons mov'd my scorn,
I rofe to fcorn the things.

My manhood felt a vig'rous fire,

By love increas'd the more;
But years with coming years conspire
To break the chains I wore.

In weakness fafe, the fex I fee
With idle luftre shine;

For what are all their joys to me,

Which cannot now be mine!

But hold-I feel my gout decrcafe,
My troubles laid to reft;
And truths which would difturb my peace
Are painful truths at best.

Vainly the time I have to roll

In fad reflection flies!

Ye fondling paffions of my foul !
Ye fweet deceits! arife.

I wifely change the scene within
To things that us'd to please;
In pain, philofophy is spleen;
In health, 'tis only ease.

§ 38. Ad Amicos. R. WEST.
YES, happy youths, on Camus' fedgy fide,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide
Each realm of fcience and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raise the genius, or the heart to mend ;
Now pleas'd along the cloifter'd walk you rove
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where focial oft, and oft alone, ye choose
To catch the zephyr, and to court the Mufe.
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art
Thefe lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the pow'r, that comes or foon or late,
Or aims, or feems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks, alone I ftand,
Like fome fad exile in a defart land:
Around no friends their lenient care to join,
In mutual warmth, and mix their heart with
mine.

Or real pains, or thofe which fancy raise,
For ever blot the funfhine of my days;
To fickness ftill, and ftill to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her rofy face away.

Just Heaven! what fin, cre life begins to bloom,

Devotes my head untimely to the tomb ?
Did e'er this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous knife?

Did

Did c'er this tongue the flanderer's tale proclaim,
Or madly violate my Maker's name?
Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might know?
As yet, juft started from the lifts of time,
My growing years have fcarcely told their prime;
Utclefs, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures taited, and few duties done.
Ah who, ere autumn's mellowing funs appear,
Would pluck the promife of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude clufter from the mourning fpray?
Stern pow'r of Fate, whofe cbon fceptre rules
The Stygian defarts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rafhly fmite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;
Ah, ftay till age fhall blaft my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing fhade fhall go.
How weak is Man to Reaton's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire.
In vain our plans of happiness we raife,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise;
Wealth, lineage, honours, conquest, or a throne,
Are what the wife would fear to call their own.
Health is at beft a vain precarious thing,
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing;
'Tis like the fream befide whofe wat'ry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head;
Nurs'd by the wave the spreading branches rife,
Shade all the ground, and flourish to the fkies;
The waves the while beneath in fecret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below:
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey.
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And finks, untimely, in the whelming tide.

But why repine? Does life deferve my figh?
Few will fament my lofs whene'er I die.
For thofe, the wretches I defpife or hate,
I neither envy nor regard their fate.
For me, whene'er all-conq'ring Death shall spread
His wings around my unrepining head,
1 care not, tho' this face be feen no more,
The world will pafs as cheerful as before;
Bright as before the day-itar will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the fkies as clear;
Nor forms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor figns on earth, nor portents in the air;
Unknown and filent will depart my breath,
Nor nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet fome there are (ere fpent my vital days)
Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise.
Lov'd in my life, lamented in my end, [mend:
Their praife would crown me, as their precepts
To thein may these fond lines my name endear
Not from the Poet, but the Friend fincere.

Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the fav'rites of the sky
With more of happiness below
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, oh whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head?
What happy region doft thou picafe
To make the feat of calms and cafe?

Ambition fearches all its sphere
Of pomp and ftate, to meet thee there:
Increafing avarice would find
Thy prefence in its gold enfhrin'd:
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way
Through rocks, amidst the foaming fca,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves:
The filent heart which grief affails,
Treads foft and lonefome o'er the vales,
Sees daifies open, rivers run,
And feeks (as I have vainly done)
Amufing thought; but learns to know
That Solitude's the nurfe of woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground;
Or in a foul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the fky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All Nature in its forms below;
The reft it feeks, in feeking dies;
And doubts at laft for knowledge rife,

Lovely, lafting peace, appear;
This world itfelf, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bleft,
And man contains it in his breaft.

'Twas thus, as under fhade I ftood,
I fung my wishes to the wood,
And, loft in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whifper as they way'd:
It feem'd as all the quiet place
Confefs'd the prefence of his grace,
When thus the fpoke:-Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild paffions all be ftill;
Know God, and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow;
Then ev'ry grace fhall prove its gueft,
And I'll be there to crown the reft.

Oh! by yonder moffy feat,
In my hours of fweet retreat,
Might I thus my foul employ,
With fenfe of gratitude and joy:
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vifion, praife, and pray'r;
Pleafing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bleft with God alone;
Then while the gardens take my fight,
With all the colours of delight;
While filver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my fong;
I'll lift my voice and tune my ftring.
And thee, Great Source of Nature, fing.

The fun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light;
The ftars that gild the gloomy night;
The feas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that fpreads its fhady leaves;

The

The field whofe ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain:
All of thefe, and all I fee,
Should be fung, and fung by me:
They fpeak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.

Go fearch among your idle dreains, Your bufy or your vain extremes; And find a life of equal blifs,

Or own the next begun in this.

An Addrefs to Winter.

§ 40. COWPER. H Winter! ruler of th' inverted year, OH

Thy fcatter'd hair with fleet like afhes' fill'd,
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy checks
Fring'd with a beard made white with other fnows
Than thofe of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds;
A leafless branch thy fceptre; and thy throne
A fliding car indebted to no wheels,
But urg'd by ftorms along its flipp'ry way;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou feem'ft,
And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold't the fun
A pris'ner in the yet undawning eaft,
Short'ning his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him impatient of his stay
Down to the rofy weft. But kindly ftill
Compenfating his lofs with added hours
Of focial converfe and inftructive case,
And gathering at fhort notice in one group
The family difpers'd, and fixing thought
Not lefs difpers'd by daylight and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-fide enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.
No rattling wheels ftop fhort before these gates;
No powder'd pert proficient in the art
Of founding an alarm, affaults thefe doors
Till the street rings. No ftationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while heedlefs of the found
The filent circle fan themfelves, and quake;
But here the needle plies its bufy task,
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r
Wrought patiently into the fnowy lawn
Unfolds its bofom, buds, and leaves, and fprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully difpos'd,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair,

A wreath that cannot fade, of flow'rs that blow
With most fuccefs when all befides decay.
The poet's or hiftorian's page, by one
Made vocal for th' amusement of the reft;
The fprightly lyre, whofe treafure of sweet founds
The touch from many a trembling chord fhakes

out;

And the clear voice fymphonious, yet diftinct,
And in the charming ftrife triumphant ftill,
Beguile the night, and fet a keener edge
On female induftry; the threaded steel
Flies fwiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The volume clos'd, the customary rites
Of the laft meal commence. A Roman meal,
Such as the miftrefs of the world once found

COWPER.

IS liberty alone that gives the flow'r

'TIS

Of fleeting life its luftre and perfume,
And we are weeds without it. All conftraint,
Except what wifdom lays on evil men,
Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes

Their progrefs in the road of science; blinds.
The eve-fight of difcovery, and begets
In thofe that fuffer it a fordid mind
Beftial, a meagre intellect, unfit

To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore ftill, blame-worthy as thou art,
With all thy lots of empire, and though squeez'd
By public exigence till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the ftate,
Thee I account ftill happy, and the chief
Among the nations, feeing thou art free!
My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude,
Replete with vapours, and difpofes much
All hearts to fadnefs, and none more than mine;
Thine unadult'rate manners are lefs foft
And plaufible than focial life requires,
And thou haft need of difcipline and art
To give thee what politer France receives
From Nature's bounty-that humane addrefs
And sweetness, without which no pleasure is
In converfe, either ftarv'd by cold referve,
Or flush'd with fierce difpute, a fenfelefs brawl;
Yet, being free, I love thee. For the fake
Of that one feature, can be well content,
Difgrac'd as thou haft been, poor as thou art,
To feck no fublunary reft befide.
But, once cmflav'd, farewel! I could endure
Chains no where patiently; and chains at home,
Where I am free by birthright, not at all.
Then what were left of roughness in the grain
Of British natures, wanting its excufe

That

That it belongs to freemen, would difguft
And fhock me. I fhould then with double pain
Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And if I muft bewail the bleffing loft

Or, to the church-yard's horrors led, While fearful echoes burft around, On fome cold ftore he leans his head, Or throws his body on the ground.

I would at leaft bewail it under skies
Milder, among a people less auftere,

In fcenes which having never known me free,
Would not reproach me with the lofs I felt.

I KNOW the mind that feels indeed the fire
The mufe imparts, and can command the lyre,
Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal,
Whate'er the theme, that others never feel.
If human woes her foft attention claim,
A tender fympathy pervades the frame;
She pours a fenfibility divine
Along the nerve of ev'ry feeling line.
But if a deed not tamely to be borne
Fire indignation, and a fenfe of fcorn,

The ftrings are fwept with fuch a pow'r, fo loud,
The ftorm of mufic fhakes th'aftonifh'd crowd.
So when remote futurity is brought
Before the keen enquiry of her thought,
A terrible fagacity informs

The Poet's heart, he looks to distant storms,
He hears the thunder ere the tempeft low'rs,
And, arm'd with ftrength furpaffing human
pow'rs,

Seizes events as yet unknown to man,
And darts his foul into the dawning plan.
Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name
Of Prophet and of Poet was the fame;
Hence British poets too the priesthood shar'd,
And ev'ry hallow'd Druid was a bard.

"TIS

IS night, dead night; and o'er the plain Darknefs extends her ebon ray, While wide along the gloomy scene

Deep filence holds her folemn sway.
Throughout the earth no cheerful beam

The melancholic eye furveys,
Save where the worm's fantastic gleam
The 'nighted traveller betrays.
The favage race (fo Heaven decrces)
No longer through the foreft rove;
All nature refts, and not a brecze

Disturbs the ftilnefs of the grove.
All nature refts; in Sleep's foft arms

The village fwain forgets his care: Sleep, that the fting of Sorrow charms, And heals all fadnefs but Defpair. Defpair alone her pow'r denies;

And, when the fun withdraws his rays, To the wild beach distracted flies,

Or cheerlefs through the defart ftrays;

Some friendly pow'r direct my way,
Where pale misfortune's haggard train,
Sad luxury delight to ftray.
Wrapp'd in the folitary gloom,
Retir'd from life's fantaftic crew,
Refign'd, I'll wait my final doom,

And bid the bufy world adicu.
The world has now no joy for me,

Nor can life now one pleasure boast
Since all my eyes defir'd to fee,

My wifh, my hope, my all, is loft;
Since the, fo form'd to please and bleis,
So wife, fo innocent, so fair,
Whofe converfe fweet made forrow lefs,

And brighten'd all the gloom of careSince he is loft. Ye pow'rs divine, What have I done, or thought, or faid? O fay, what horrid act of mine

Has drawn this vengeance on my head! Why fhould Heaven favour Lycon's claim ? Why are my heart's beft wishes croft ? What fairer deeds adorn his name?

What nobler merit can he boaft ?

What higher worth in him was found
My true heart's fervice to outweigh?
A fenfelefs fop! a dull compound

Of scarcely animated clay!
He drefs'd, indeed, he danc'd with eafe,
And charm'd her by repeating o'er
Unmeaning raptures in her praife,
That twenty fools had told before :
But I, alas! who thought all art
My paffion's force would meanly prove,
Could only boaft an honeft heart,

And claim'd no merit but my love. Have I not fat-ye conscious hours

Be witnefs-while my Stella fung From morn to eve, with all my pow'rs Rapt in th' enchantment of her tongue! Ye confcious hours that faw me stand Entranc'd in wonder and furprife, In filent rapture prefs her hand,

With paflion bursting from my eyesHave I not lov'd? O earth and heaven! Where now is all my youthful boast; The dear exchange I hop'd was given, For flighted fame and fortune loft? Where now the joys that once were mine? Where all my hopes of future blifs? Muft I thofe joys, thofe hopes, refign? Is all her friendship come to this? Muft then cach woman faithlefs prove, And cach fond lover be undone ? Are vows no more? Almighty Love, The fad remembrance let me fhunt