To Lady Mary Wortley Montague.
By MR. POPE.

IN beauty or wit, no mortal as yet
To question your empire has dar'd;
But men of discerning have thought that in
learning

To yield to a lady was hard.
Impertinent schools, with musty dull rules,
Have reading to females denied;
So papists refuse the Bible to use,

Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.
Twas woman at first (indeed she was curst)
In knowledge that tasted delight;
And sages agree, the laws should decree

To the first of possessors the right.
Then bravely, fair dame, resume the old claim,
Which to your whole sex does belong :
And let men receive from a second bright Eve
The knowledge of right and of wrong.
But if the first Eve hard doom did receive,
When only one apple had she; [you,
What punishment new shall be found out for
Who, tasting, have robb'd the whole tree?

On the Death of a Wife, a notable Scold and a Shrew. By the Husband.

We lived one-and-twenty year
As man and wife together;
I could no longer keep her here;
She's gone, I know not whither.
Could I but guess, I do protest,
I speak it not to flatter;
Of all the women in the world

I never would come at her.

Her body is bestowed well,

A handsome grave doth hide her; And sure, her soul is not in hell,

The devil would ne'er abide her. I rather think she's soar'd aloft;

For in the last great thunder Methought I heard her very voice Rending the clouds in sunder.

The Rose. By MR. PHILIPS. THE rose's age is but a day, Its bloom the pledge of its decay; Sweet in scent, in color bright, It blows at morn, and fades at night.

Imitated by DR. SWIFT.

My age is not a moment's stay, My birth the same with my decay; I savor ill; no color know; And fade the instant that I blow.

A Boston Epigram-Written in 1774.
To the Ministry.

You've sent a rod to Massachusset,
Thinking the Americans will buss it;
But much I fear for Britain's sake,
That this same rod will prove a snake.

On Matrimony. An Epigram.
TOм prais'd his friend, who chang'd his state,
For binding fast himself and Kate
In union so divine;

"Wedlock's the end of life," he cried.
"Too true, alas!" said Jack, and sigh'd:
""Twill be the end of mine."

An Epitaph on the Death of a favorite Parrot that was found in a Necessary-House.

HERE safe lie in-terr'd the remains of a bird,
Who submits to all-conquering fate;
Whose master took care to teach it to swear,
As his mistress had taught it to prate.
If complaint should be made of the place where
'he's laid,

Poor Betty is only in fault;
Poor Betty, to save the expense of a grave,
Thought proper to choose it a vault.

To preserve its dear fame, for time without
His mistress, still kinder and kinder, [name,
Declar'd with a tear, she'd never come here,
Without leaving something behind her.

Epitaph on Lady Molesworth, who was burnt to Death by a Fire which broke out in her Dwelling-House, London, the 6th of May, 1763.

A PEERLESS matron, pride of female life, In ev'ry state, as widow, maid, or wife, Who, wedded to threescore, preserv'd her fame: She liv'd a phoenix, and expir'd in flame.

Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez. COWPER.

I AM monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone;
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
O had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford:
But the sound of the church going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand,

Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair: E'en here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

COME, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return and make thy downy nest

Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor pow'r pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view,

We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From av'rice and ambition free,

And pleasure's fatal wiles?
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The sweets that I was wont to share,

The banquet of thy smiles?
The great, the gay, shall they partake
The heaven that thou alone canst make?
And wilt thou quit the stream
That murmurs through the dewy mead,
The grove and the sequester'd shed,
To be a guest with them?
For thee I planted, thee I priz'd,
For thee I gladly sacrific'd
Whate'er I lov'd before;
And shall I see thee start away,
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say,
Farewell! we meet no more?

Human Frailty. CowPER.
WEAK and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain;
But passion rudely snaps the string,
And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent,

But pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise

Through all his art we view; And while his tongue the charge denies, His conscience owns it true. Bound on a voyage of awful length, And dangers little known, A stranger to superior strength, Man vainly trusts his own. But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.

On observing some Names of little Note recorded in the Biographia Britannica. COWPER.

O FOND attempt to give a deathless lot To names ignoble, boru to be forgot! In vain recorded in historic page, They court the notice of a future age: Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land Drop one by one from fame's neglecting hand! Lethæan gulfs receive them as they fall, And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.

So when a child, as playful children use, Has burnt to tinder a stale last-year's news, The flame extinct, he views the roving fire: There goes my lady, and there goes the squire;

There goes the parson, O illustrious spark!

And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.

The Nightingale and Glow-Worm. CowPER.
A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when even-tide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark:
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangu'd him thus, right eloquent :

Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same Pow'r divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine,

That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.
The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Releas'd him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern:

That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other,
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps, and him that flies.

THE pine-apples in triple row Were basking hot and all in blow: A bee of most discerning taste Perceiv'd the fragrance as he pass'd. On eager wing the spoiler came, And search'd for crannies in the frame; Urg'd his attempt on ev'ry side, To ev'ry pane his trunk applied; But still in vain, the frame was tight, And only pervious to the light. Thus having wasted half the day, He trimm'd his flight another way. Methinks, I said, in thee I find The sin and madness of mankind; To joys forbidden man aspires, Consumes his soul with vain desires; Folly the spring of his pursuit, And disappointment all the fruit. While Cynthio ogles as she passes The nymph between two chariot-glasses, She is the pine-apple, and he The silly unsuccessful bee.

The maid who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glitt'ring ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets;
Like thine her appetite is keen,
But, ah, the cruel glass between!

Our dear delights are often such,
Expos'd to view, but not to touch;
The sight our foolish heart inflames;
We long for pine-apples in frames.
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers,
One breaks the glass and cuts his fingers;
But they whom truth and wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.

The Poet, the Oyster, and Sensitive Plant.
COWPER.

AN Oyster cast upon the shore
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded:

Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell
For ever in my native shell,
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease,
But toss'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water, and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone
Of ruder shape and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibility so fine:

I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast-rooted against ev'ry rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.

(When, cry the botanists, and stare, Did plants call'd sensitive grow there? No matter when, a poet's muse is

To make them grow where just she chooses).
You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he ;

And when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says, "Well, 'tis more than one would think."
Thus life is spent, O fie upon't!
In being touch'd, and crying,

"Don't!"

A poet, in his evening walk, O'erheard, and check'd, this idle talk. And, "Your fine sense, he said, and yours, Whatever evil it endures, Deserves not, if so soon offended, Much to be pitied or commended. Disputes, though short, are far too long, Where both alike are in the wrong; Your feelings, in their full amount, Are all upon your own account.

"You, in your grotto-work enclos'd, Complain of being thus expos'd, Yet nothing feel in that rough coat, Save when the knife is at your throat : Wherever driven by wind or tide, Exempt from ev'ry ill beside.

"And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around

Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all, not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, sympathy, and love.
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine."

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.

A Fable. COWPER.

A RAVEN, while with glassy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd,
And on her wicker-work high mounted
Her chickens prematurely counted
(A fault philosophers might blame,
If quite exempted from the same),
Enjoy'd at ease the genial day;
'Twas April, as the bumkins say,
The legislature call'd it May.
But suddenly a wind, as high
As ever swept a winter sky
Shook the young leaves about her ears,
And fill'd her with a thousand fears,
Lest the rude blast should snap the bough,
And spread her golden hopes below.
But just at eve the blowing weather,
And all her fears, were hush'd together:
And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph,
'Tis over, and the brood is safe;
(For ravens, though as birds of omen
They teach both conj'rors and old women
To tell us what is to befal,

Can't prophesy themselves at all.)

The morning came, when neighbour Hodge,
Who long had mark'd her airy lodge,
And destin'd all the treasure there
A gift to his expecting fair,
Climb'd like a squirrel to his prey,
And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

"Tis Providence alone secures, In ev'ry change, both mine and yours. Safety consists not in escape From dangers of a frightful shape: An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that's strangled by a hair. Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oft'nest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, And in the sunshine strikes the blow.

The Love of the World detected. COWPER.

THUS says the prophet of the Turk: • Good Mussulman, abstain from pork;

There is a part in ev'ry swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication."
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express'd,
They might with safety eat the rest:
But for one piece, they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarr'd,
And set their wit at work to find
What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose,
These choose the back, the belly those;
By some 'tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail:

Thus, conscience freed from ev'ry clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh-tis well; the tale applied, May make you laugh on t'other side. Renounce the world, the preacher cries: We do, a multitude replies.

While one as innocent regards
A snug and friendly game at cards;
And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in a play;

Some love a concert, or a race,
And others, shooting, and the chase.
Revil'd and lov'd, renounc'd and follow'd,
Thus bit by bit the world is swallow'd:
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as he :
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

THERE is a bird who by his coat,
And by the hoarseness of his note,

Might be suppos'd a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where bishop-like he finds a perch
And dormitory too.

About the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather;
Look up, your brains begin to swim;
"Tis in the clouds: that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,

And thence securely sees
The bustle and the raree-show
That occupies mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall;
No, not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,

Or troubles it at all.

He sees that this great round-about, The world, with all its motley rout,

Church, army, physic, law, Its customs and its businesses Are no concern at all of his,

And says-What says he? Caw. Thrice happy bird! I too have seen Much of the vanities of men,

And, sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine, And such a head between 'em.

The Country Parson's Blessings.

WOULD ye, my friends, live free from care,
Attentive lend a willing ear;
While I in humble verse relate
The blessings of my humble state.

I have a living brings in clear
About a hundred pounds a year;
The tithe well paid, without law-strife.
(I'm not encumber'd with a wife).
A single church, not grand, but neat ;
My people rather good than great;
A strong-built house, and pasture good,
Where Sorrel crops his livelihood;
A garden cloth'd with greens and fruits,
And intermix'd with flow'ry roots;
A walk with well-mow'd greensward laid,
Where I may smoke in sun or shade;
A terrace rais'd, whence I survey
The market folk that pass that way;
A shaded bench where I read
may
Old Baker's Chronicle, or Speed:
The neighb'ring clergy kind and free,
Who give and take civility;

Of humor good, of mirth and sense,
Who o'er a glass some wit dispense;
(For where's the crime to meet and prate
Of country news and tricks of state?)
Some social gems of goodly worth,
Who scorn to boast of wealth or birth;
Who ne'er assume the courtier's frown,
Yet keep above the homely clown;
Who love their country, king, and church,
And in no dues the parson lurch.
With ease I keep a inaid and man,
This Harry call'd, the other Nun:
A table sleek, with pudding grac'd,
Or plain or plum, as suits my taste;
Attended by a sav'ry dish

Of mutton, beef, or fowl, or fish ;
A pile of salad, fresh and green;
In summer, fruit well pick'd and clean;
Sound sparkling ale, and sometimes wine,
When patron deigns with Vic to dine.
Oft o'er the fields with gun I stride,
And faithful Banter by my side;
Then, if a mushroom is in sight,
It serves to supper me at night;
Or else a fieldfare or a snipe,
Sometimes a dish of double tripe.
Thus joyous do I pass my life,
Stranger to tumult or to strife;

Pleasures I feel in this blest state,
Unfelt, unknown, to rich and great.
When airy fancy mounts on wing,
I think myself a sort of king;
My pipe my sceptre, cup my crown,
My elbow chair my regal throne.

On hearing of a Gentleman's Pocket being picked of his Watch.

He that a watch would wear, this he must do; Pocket his watch, and watch his pocket too.

The Happy Fire-Side.

THE hearth was clean, the fire was clear,
The kettle on for tea;
Palemon, in his elbow chair,

As blest as man could be.
Clarinda, who his heart possess'd,
And was his new-made bride,
With head reclin'd upon his breast,
Sat toying by his side.

Stretch'd at his feet, in happy state,
A fav'rite dog was laid;
By whom a little sportive cat
In wanton humor play'd.
Clarinda's hand he gently press'd;
She stole an am'rous kiss,
And, blushing, modestly confess'd
The fulness of her bliss.
Palemon, with a heart elate,

Pray'd to Almighty Jove,
That it might ever be his fate,
Just so to live and love.
Be this eternity, he cried,

And let no more be given;
Continue thus my lov'd fire-side,
I ask no other heaven.

The Retrospect of Life.

RICHES chance may take or give;
Beauty lives a day, and dies;
Honor lulls us while we live;
Mirth's a cheat, and Pleasure Alies.
Is there nothing worth our care;
Time, and chance, and death, our foes?
If our joys so fleeting are,

Are we only tied to woes?
Let bright Virtue answer, No;
Her eternal pow'rs prevail,
When honors, riches, cease to flow,
And beauty, mirth, and pleasure fail.

An Invitation to the Country.
THE Swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early spring.

The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,
Secure of their repose.