Nor would't be great; but guide thy gather'd fails,
Safe by the fhore, nor tempt the rougher gales;
For fure, of all that feel the wounds of fate,
None are compleatly wretched but the great;
Superior woes, fuperior stations bring,
A peasant sleeps, while cares awake a king:
Who reigns, muft fuffer! crowns with gems
At once adorn and load the royal head :
Change but the scene, and kings in duft decay,
Swept from the earth the pageants of a day;
There no diftinctions on the dead await,
But pompous graves, and rottenness in state;
Such now are all that fhone on earth before,
Cæfar and mighty Marlborough are no more!
Unhallow'd feet o'er awful Tully tread,
And Hyde and Plato join the vulgar dead;
And all the glorious aims that can employ
The foul of mortals, must with Hanmer die :
O Compton, when this breath we once refign,
My duft shall be as eloquent as thine.
Till that laft hour which calls me hence
away To pay that great arrear which all must pay; O! may I tread the paths which faints have trod, Who knew they walk'd before th' all-feeing God! Studious from ways of wicked men to keep, Who mock at vice, while grieving angels weep. Come, tafte, my friend! the joys retirement brings, Look down on royal flaves, and pity kings.
More happy! laid where trees with trees entwin'd'
In bowery arches tremble to the wind,
With innocence and fhade like Adam blest,
While a new Eden opens in the breast!
Such were the scenes defcending angels trod
In guiltless days, when man convers'd with God.
Then shall my lyre to loftier founds be ftrung,
Infpir'd by Homer, or what thou hast sung:
My Mufe from thine fhall catch a warmer ray ;
As clouds are brighten'd by the God of day.
So trees unapt to bear, by art refin'd,
With fhoots ennobled of a generous kind,
High o'er the ground with fruits adopted rife,
And lift their fpreading honours to the fkies.
A DIALOGUE between a LADY and her LOOKING-GLASS, while fhe had the Green-Sickness.
THE gay Ophelia view'd her face
In the clear cryftal of her glass;
The lightning from her eye was fled,
Her cheek was pale, the rofes dead.
Then thus Ophelia, with a frown :-
Art thou, falfe thing, perfidious grown!
I never could have thought, I fwear,
To find so great a flanderer there!
• Dr. Broome tranflated eight books of the Odyffey.
Falfe thing thy malice I defy!
Beaux vow I'm fair-who never lye;
More brittle far than brittle thou,
Would every grace of woman grow,
If charms fo great fo foon decay,
The bright poffeffion of a day!
But this I know, and this declare,
That thou art falfe, and I am fair.
The glafs was vex'd to be bely'd,
And thus with angry tone reply'd :
No more to me of falsehood talk,
But leave your oatmeal and your chalk!
'Tis true, you 're meagre, pale, and wan,
The reafon is, you 're fick for man.-
While yet it spoke, Ophelia frown'd,
And dafh'd th' offender to the ground;
With fury from her arm it fled,
And round a glittering ruin spread ;
When lo! the parts pale looks disclose,
Pale looks in every fragment rose;
Around the room inftead of one,
An hundred pale Ophelia's fhone;
Away the frighted virgin flew,
And humbled, from herself withdrew.
Ye beaux, who tempt the fair and young,
With fnuff, and nonfenfe, dance, and fong;
Ye men of compliment and lace!
Behold this image in the glass:
The wondrous force of flattery prove,
To cheat fond virgins into love:
Though pale the cheek, yet fwear it glows
With the vermilion of the rofe:
Praise them for praife is always true,
Though with both eyes the cheat they view;
From hateful truths the virgin flies;
But the falfe fex is caught with lyes.
A Poem on the Seat of War in FLANDERS, chiefly with relation to the Sieges: With the Praife of Peace and Retirement.
"Seceffus mei non defidiæ nomen, fed tranquillitatis
HAPPY, thou Flandria, on whofe fertile plains,
In wanton pride luxurious plenty reigns;
Happy! had heaven bestow'd one bleffing more,
And plac'd thee diftant from the Gallic power!
But now in vain thy lawns attract the view,
They but invite the victor to fubdue :
War, horrid war, the fylvan fcene invades,
And angry trumpets pierce the woodland fhades; Here fhatter'd towers, proud works of many an age, Lie dreadful monuments of human rage;
There palaces and hallow'd domes difplay
Majestic ruins, awful in decay 1
Thy very duft, though undistinguifh'd trod,
Compos'd, perhaps, fome hero, great and good,
Who nobly for his country loft his blood!
Ev'n with the grave, the haughty spoilers war,
And death's dark manfions wide difclofe to air:
O'er kings and faints infulting ftalk, nor dread
To spurn the ashes of the glorious dead.
See the Britannic lions wave in air!
See mighty Marlbrough breathing death and war!
From Albion's fhores, at Anna's high commands,
The dauntless hero pours his martial bands:
As when in wrath ftern Mars the thunderer fends
To fcourge his foes; in pomp the God defcends,
He mounts his iron car: with fury burns:
The car fierce-rattling thunders as it turns.
Gloomy he grafps his adamantine fhield,
And featters armics o'er th' enfanguin'd field:
With delegated wrath thus Marlborough glows,
In vengeance rushing on his country's foes.
See! round the hoftile towers embattled ftands
His banner'd host, embodied hands by bands !
Hark! the fhrill trumpet fends a mortal found,
And prancing horfes shake the folid ground;
The furly drums beat terrible afar,
With all the dreadful music of the war;
From the drawn fwords effulgent flames arife,
Flash o'er the plains, and lighten to the skies;
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