Rome waits thy nod, unwilling to be free,
And owns thy fovereign power as Fate's decree.
He faid-and Cippus, ftarting at th' event,.
Spoke in these words his pious difcontent:
Far hence, ye Gods, this execration send,
And the great race of Romulus defend.
Better that I in exile live abhorr'd,

Than e'er the capitol fhould ftile me lord.

This fpoke, he hides with leaves his omen'd head; Then prays, the senate next convenes, and faid: If augurs can forefee, a wretch is come, Defign'd by destiny the bane of Rome.

Two horns (moft ftrange to tell) his temples crown; If e'er he pafs the walls, and gain the town,

Your laws are forfeit that ill-fated hour,

And liberty muft yield to lawless power.
Your gates he might have enter'd; but this arm
Seiz'd the ufurper, and with-held the harm.
Hafte, find the monfter out, and let him be
Condemn'd to all the fenate can decree;
Or ty'd in chains, or into exile thrown';
Or by the tyrant's death prevent your own.
The crowd fuch murmurs utter as they stand,
As fwelling furges breaking on the strand:
Or as when gathering gales fweep o'er the grove,
And their tall heads the bending cedars move.
Each with confufion gaz'd, and then began
To feel his fellow's brows, and find the man.
Cippus then shakes his garland off, and cries,
The wretch you want, I offer to your eyes.

The

The anxious throng look'd down, and, fad in thought,
All wish'd they had not found the fign they fought:
In hafte with laurel-wreaths his head they bind;
Such honour to fuch virtue was affign'd.
Then thus the fenate: Hear, O Cippus, hear;
So God-like is thy tutelary care,

That, fince in Rome thyfelf forbids thy stay,
For thy abode those acres we convey

The plough-fhare can surround, the labour of a day.
In deathlefs records thou fhalt stand inroll'd,

}

And Rome's rich posts shall shine with horns of gold.

A SO

A

SOLILOQ U Y,

COU

OUT OF ITALIAN.

WOULD he whom my diffembled rigour grieves, But know what torment to my foul it gives; He'd find how fondly I return his flame,

And want myself the pity he would claim. Immortal gods! why has your doom decreed Two wounded hearts with equal pangs should bleed? Since that great law, which your tribunal guides, Has join'd in love whom destiny divides; Repent, ye powers, the injuries you cause, Or change our natures, or reform your laws. Unhappy partner of my killing pain,

heart.

Think what I feel the moment you complain.
Each figh you utter wounds my tendereft part,
So much my lips mifrepresent my
When from your eyes the falling drops diftil,
My vital blood in every tear you spill:

And all thofe mournful agonies I hear,
Are but the echoes of my own defpair.

AN

Α Ν Ι Μ Ι Τ Α Τ Ι Ο Ν

OF A FRENCH AUTHOR.

CAN you count the filver lights

That deck the fkies, and cheer the nights;
Or the leaves that ftrow the vales,
When groves are ftript by winter-gales;
Or the drops that in the morn

Hang with tranfparent pearl the thorn;
Or bridegroom's joys, or miser's cares,
Or gamefter's oaths, or hermit's prayers;
Or envy's pangs, or love's alarms,

Or Marlborough's acts, or --n's charms?

WH

HEN Fame did o'er the fpacious plain The lays the once had learn'd repeat; All liften'd to the tuneful ftrains,

And wonder'd who could fing fo fweet. 'Twas thus. The Graces held the lyre,

Th' harmonious frame the Mufes ftrung, The Loves and Smiles compos'd the choir, And Gay tranfcrib'd what Phœbus fung.

TO

то THE

MERRY POETASTER

AT

SADLERS-HALL IN CHEAPSIDE.

UNWIELDY pedant, let thy aukward Mufe

With cenfures praife, with flatteries abufe.
To lafh, and not be felt, in thee 's an art;
Thou ne'er mad'ft any, but thy fchool-boys, fmart.
Then be advis'd, and fcribble not again;
Thou 'rt fashion'd for a flail, and not a pen.
If B――l's immortal wit thou would'st descry,
Pretend 'tis he that writ thy poetry.

Thy feeble fatire ne'er can do him wrong;
Thy poems and thy patients live not long.

THE EARL OF GODOLPHIN TO DR. GARTH,
UPON THE LOSS OF MISS DINGLE:
In return to the DOCTOR'S Confolatory Verfes to
him, upon the lofs of his ROD *.

HOU, who the

TH

of
pangs my embitter'd rage
Could'ft, with thy never-dying verfe, affuage;
Immortal verfe, fecure to live as long

As that curs'd profe that did condemn thy fong:
Thou, happy bard, whofe double-gifted pen,
Alike can cure an aking corn, or spleen;

* See above, p. 109.

Whe