The artful captain found without delay
Where great Achilles, a deserter, lay:
Him fate had warned to shun the Trojan blows:
Him Greece required, against the Trojan foes.
All their recruiting arts were needful here,
To raise this great, this timorous volunteer.
Ulysses well could talk-he stirs, he warms
The warlike youth-he listens to the charms
Of plunders, fine laced coats, and glittering arms.
Ulysses caught the young aspiring boy,
And listed him who wrought the fate of Troy.
Thus by recruiting was bold Hector slain ;
Recruiting thus fair Helen did regain.

If for one Helen such prodigious things
Were acted, that they even listed kings;
If for one Helen's artful, vicious charms,
Half the transported world was found in arms ·
What for so many Helens may we dare
Whose mind as well as faces are so fair?
If by one Helen's eyes old Greece could bind
Its Homer fired to write, e'en Homer blind;
Then Britons sure beyond compare may write,
That view so many Helens every night.

CXVII. PARNELL.

1. HUMAN LIFE, IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH. Relentless Time! destroying power,

Whom stone and brass obey,

Who giv'st to every flying hour
To work some new decay.
Unheard, unheeded, and unseen,
Thy secret saps 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 spring, my years of pleasure fleet,
And all their beauties die.

In age I seek and only find
A poor unfruitful gain,

Grave wisdom walking slow behind,
Oppress'd with loads of pain.

My ignorance could once beguile,
And fancied joys inspire;
My errors cherished hope to smile
On newly born desire.

But now experience shows the bliss
For which I fondly sought,
Not worth the long impatient wish
And ardour of the thought.
My youth met fortune well array'd;
In all her pomp she shone,
And might perhaps have well essay'd
To make her gifts my own.

But when I saw the blessings shower
On some unworthy mind,

I left the chase, and own'd the power
Was justly painted blind.

I passed the glories which adorn
The splendid courts of kings,

And while the persons mov'd my scorn,
I rose to scorn the things.

My manhood felt a vigorous fire,

By love increased the more;

But years with coming years conspire
To break the chains I wore.

In weakness safe, the sex I see
With idle lustre shine;

For what are all their joys to me,
Which cannot now be mine?

But hold-I feel my gout decrease,
My troubles laid to rest,

And truths which would disturb my peaco,

Are painful truths at best.

Vainly the time I have to roll,
In sad reflection flies;

Ye fondling passions of my soul!
Ye sweet deceits, arise.

I wisely change the scene within
To things that used to please;
In pain, philosophy is spleen,
In health, 'tis only ease.

2. DOUBT-A SIMILE.

A life so sacred, such serene repose,

Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose.
That Vice should triumph, Virtue, Vice obey,
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway.
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenour of his soul is lost;

So when a smooth expanse receives imprest
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow!
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,

Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.

CXVIII. BENJAMIN IBBOT.

FAREWELL, VAIN WORLD!

Farewell, vain world! dwelling of ills and fears, Full of fond hopes, false joys and sad repentance: For, though sometimes warm Fancy lights a fire, That mounting upwards darts its pointed head Up, through the unopposing air, to heaven,

Yet then comes Thought, and cold Consideration, Lame After-thought with endless scruples fraught, Benumbed with fears, to damn the goodly blaze. CXIX. SUSANNA CENTLIVRE.

FREE CHOICE.

Love and religion ne'er admit restraint,
And force makes many sinners, not one saint :
Till free as air the active mind does rove,
And searches proper objects for its love:

But, that once fixed, 'tis past the power of art
To chase the dear idea from the heart;
'Tis liberty of choice that sweetens life,
Makes the glad husband and the happy wife.

CXX MATTHEW GREEN.

POETICAL DREAMERS.

When I lean politicians mark
Grazing on ether in the park;
Who e'er on wing with open throats
Fly at debates, expresses, votes,
Just in the manner swallows use,
Catching their airy food of news;
Whose latrant stomachs oft molest
The deep-laid plans their dreams suggest;
Or see some poet pensive sit,

Fondly mistaking spleen for wit;
Who, though short-winded, still will aim
To sound the epic trump of fame;
Who still on Phoebus' smiles will dote,
Nor learn conviction from his coat :
I bless my stars I never knew
Whimsies, which, close pursued, undo,
And have from old experience been
Both parent and the child of spleen.
These subjects of Apollo's state,
Who from false fire derive their fate,
With airy purchases undone
Of lands, which none lend money on,
Born dull, had follow'd thriving ways,
Nor lost one hour to gather bays.
Their fancies first delirious grew,
And scenes ideal took for true.
Fine to the sight Parnassus lies,

And with false prospects cheats their eyes
The fabled gods the poets sing,
A season of perpetual spring,

Brooks, flowery fields, and groves of trees,
Affording sweets and similes,

Gay dreams inspired in myrtle bowers,
And wreaths of undecaying flowers,
Apollo's harp with airs divine,
The sacred music of the Nine,
Views of the temple raised to fame,
And for a vacant niche proud aim,
Ravish their souls, and plainly show
What Fancy's sketching power can do.
They will attempt the mountain steep,
Where on the top, like dreams in sleep,
The Muses revelations show,

That find men cracked or make them so.

CXXI. DR JOHN ARBUTHNOT,

KNOW THYSELF.

What am I? how produced? and for what end?
Whence drew I being ? to what period tend?
Am I the abandoned orphan of blind chance,
Dropt by wild atoms in disorder'd dance?
Or from an endless chain of causes wrought,
And of unthinking substance, born with thought?
By motion which began without a cause,
Supremely wise, without design or laws?
Am I but what I seem, mere flesh and blood
A branching channel, with a mazy flood?

The purple stream that through my vessels glides,
Dull and unconscious flows like common tides:
The pipes through which the circling juices stray,
Are not that thinking I, no more than they:
This frame compacted with transcendent skill,
Of moving joints obedient to my will,
Nursed from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree,
Waxes and wastes: I call it mine, not me.
New matter still the mouldering mass sustains,
The mansion changed, the tenant still remains :
And from the fleeting streams, repaired by food,
Distinct, as is the swimmer from the flood.

What am I then? sure, of a nobler birth, By parent's right, I own, as mother, earth;