The Works of the English Poets: Broome and Pitt

But, by this roving meteor led, I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend.
Then take advice; I preach not out of time,
When good lord Middlefex is bent on rhyme.

Their humour check'd, or inclination crofs'd,
Sometimes the friendship of the great is loft.
Unless call'd out to wench, be fure comply,
Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by:
For your reward you gain his love, and dine
On the best venison and the best French wine,
Nor to lord ****** make the obfervation,
How the twelve peers have answer'd their creation,
Nor in your wine or wrath betray your truft,
Be filent ftill, and obftinately juk :
Explore no fecrets, draw no characters,
For echo will repeat, and walls have ears:
Nor let a busy fool a fecret know,

A fecret gripes him till he lets it go :

Words are like bullets, and we wish in vain,
When once difcharg'd, to call them back again.

Defend, dear Spence, the honeft and the civil,
But to cry up a rafcal--that's the devil.

Who guards a good man's character, 'tis known,
At the fame time prote&s and guards his own.
For as with houfes 'tis with people's names,
A fhed may fet a palace all on flames;
The fire neglected on the cottage preys,
But mounts at last into a general blaze.
D d

'Tis

'Tis a fine thing, fome think, a lord to know; I wish his tradefmen could but think fo too.

gay, gay

He gives his word—then all your hopes are gone:
He gives his honour-then you're quite undone.
His and fome women's love the fame are found;
You rafhly board a firefhip, and are drown'd.
Moft folks fo partial to themfelves are grown,
They hate a temper differing from their own.
the the fad,
The grave abhor the
And formalifts pronounce the witty mad:
The fot, who drinks fix bottles in a place,
Swears at the flinchers who refuse their glass.
Would you not pafs for an ill-natur'd man,
Comply with
every humour that you can.
Pope will inftru& you how to pass away
Your time like him, and never lose a day;
From hopes or fears your quiet to defend,
To all mankind as to yourself a friend,
And, facred from the world, retir'd, unknown,
To lead a life with mortals like his own.

When to delicious Pimperne I retire,
What greater blifs, my Spence, can I defire?
Contented there my eafy hours I spend

With maps, globes, books, my bottle, and a friend.
There can I live upon my income still,

E'en though the house should pass the Quakers bill :
Yet to my share fhould fome good prebend fall,
I think myself of size to fill a stall.

For life or wealth let Heaven my lot affign,

A firm and even foul fhall still be mine.

SPECIMEN of a Tranflation of the ODYSSEY.

HE nurfe all wild with transport feem'd to fwim,

THE

Joy wing'd her feet and lighten'd ev'ry limb;
Then to the room with speed impatient borne
Flew with the tidings of her lord's return..
There bending o'er the fleeping queen, he cries,
Rife, my Penelope, my daughter, rife,
To fee Ulyffes thy long abfent spouse,
Thy foul's defire and lord of all thy vows:
Though late, he comes, and in his rage has flain,
For all their wrongs, the haughty fuitor train.
Ah, Euryclea, fhe replies, you rave;

The gods refume that reafon which they gave;
For Heaven deep wifdom to the fool fupplies,
But oft infatuates and confounds the wife.
And wifdom once was thine! but now I find
The gods have ruin'd thy distemper'd mind.
How could you hope your fiction to impose ?
Was it to flatter or deride my woes?
How could you break a fleep with talk fo vain,
That held my forrows in fo foft a chain?
A fleep fo fweet I never could enjoy
Since my dear lord left Ithaca for Troy:
Curft Troy-oh! why did I thy name difclofe?
Thy fatal name awakens all my woes :
But fly-fome other had provok'd my rage,
And you but owe your pardon to your age.

D d 2

No artful tales, no ftudied lies, I frame,
Ulyffes lives (rejoins the reverend dame)
In that dishonour'd stranger's close disguise,
Long has he pafs'd all unfufpecting eyes,
All but thy fon's-and long has he supprest
The well-concerted fecret in his breaft;
Till his brave father fhould his foes defeat,
And the close scheme of his revenge compleat.
Swift as the word the queen transported sprung,
And round the dame in ftrict embraces hung;
Then as the big round tears began to roll,
Spoke the quick doubts and hurry of her foul.
If my victorious hero fafe arrives,

my dear lord, Ulyffes, ftill furvives,

Tell me, oh tell me, how he fought alone?
How were fuch multitudes deftroy'd by one?
Nought I beheld, but heard their cries, fhe faid,
When death flew raging, and the suitors bled:
Immur'd we liften'd, as we fat around,
To each deep groan and agonizing found.
Call'd by thy fon to view the scene I fled,
And faw Ulyffes ftriding o'er the dead!
Amidst the rifing heaps the hero ftood
All grim, and terribly adorn'd with blood..

CON

CONT E N T S

O F

PITT'S POEMS.

REFACE

Epiftle to Dr. Young, at Eaftbury in Dorfet-*

fhire, on the Review at Sarum, 1722.

Page 184

189

193

195

On the approaching Delivery of her Royal Highness,
in the Year 1721. An Ode.