Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett Part 5

1 Ye Nymphs whom starry rays invest, By flattering poets given, Who shine, by lavish lovers dress'd, In all the pomp of Heaven.

2 Engross not all the beams on high, Which gild a lover's lays, But, as your sister of the sky, Let Lyce share the praise.

3 Her silver locks display the moon, Her brows a cloudy show, Striped rainbows round her eyes are seen, And showers from either flow.

4 Her teeth the night with darkness dyes; She's starr'd with pimples o'er; Her tongue like nimble lightning plies, And can with thunder roar,

5 But some Zelinda, while I sing, Denies my Lyce shines; And all the pens of Cupid's wing Attack my gentle lines.

6 Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye, And all her bards express, My Lyce makes as good a sky, And I but flatter less.

ON THE DEATH OF MR ROBERT LEVETT,

A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.

1 Condemned to Hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away.

2 Well tried through many a varying year, See Levett to the grave descend; Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend.

3 Yet still he fills Affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coa.r.s.ely kind; Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined.

4 When fainting Nature call'd for aid, And hovering Death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy display'd The power of Art without the show.

5 In Misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh; Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely Want retired to die.

6 No summons, mock'd by chill delay; No petty gain, disdain'd by pride; The modest wants of every day, The toil of every day supplied.

7 His virtues walk'd their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the Eternal Master found The single talent well employ'd,

8 The busy day--the peaceful night, Unfelt, unclouded, glided by; His frame was firm--his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

9 Then with no fiery, throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.

EPITAPH ON CLAUDE PHILLIPS,[1]

AN ITINERANT MUSICIAN.

Phillips! whose touch harmonious could remove The pangs of guilty power and hapless love, Rest here; distress'd by poverty no more, Find here that calm thou gav'st so oft before; Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine, Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

[Footnote 1: 'Claude Phillips:' a Welsh travelling fiddler, greatly admired.]

EPITAPH

ON SIR THOMAS HANMER, BART.

Thou who survey'st these walls with curious eye, Pause at this tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie; His various worth through varied life attend, 3 And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his end.

His force of genius burn'd in early youth, With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth; His learning, join'd with each endearing art, Charm'd every ear, and gain'd on every heart.

Thus early wise, the endanger'd realm to aid, His country call'd him from the studious shade; 10 In life's first bloom his public toils began, At once commenced the senator and man.

In business dexterous, weighty in debate, Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state; In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd, In every act refulgent virtue glow'd: Suspended faction ceased from rage and strife, To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.

Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice, Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice. 20 Ill.u.s.trious age! how bright thy glories shone, While Hanmer fill'd the chair--and Anne the throne!

Then when dark arts obscured each fierce debate, When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state, The moderator firmly mild appear'd-- Beheld with love, with veneration heard.

This task perform'd--he sought no gainful post, Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost; Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye, With temperate zeal and wise anxiety; 30 Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lured aside, To pluck the flowers of pleasure, or of pride; Her gifts despised, Corruption blush'd and fled, And Fame pursued him where Conviction led.

Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest, With honour sated, and with cares oppress'd: To letter'd ease retired, and honest mirth.

To rural grandeur, and domestic worth: Delighted still to please mankind, or mend, The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend. 40

Calm Conscience then his former life survey'd, And recollected toils endear'd the shade, Till Nature call'd him to her general doom, And Virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.

ON THE DEATH OF STEPHEN GREY, F.R.S.,

THE ELECTRICIAN.

Long hast thou borne the burden of the day; Thy task is ended, venerable Grey!

No more shall Art thy dexterous hand require, To break the sleep of elemental fire; To rouse the power that actuates Nature's frame, The momentaneous shock, the electric flame; The flame which first, weak pupil to thy lore, I saw, condemn'd, alas! to see no more.

Now, h.o.a.ry sage! pursue thy happy flight; With swifter motion, haste to purer light, 10 Where Bacon waits, with Newton and with Boyle, To hail thy genius and applaud thy toil; Where intuition breathes through time and s.p.a.ce, And mocks Experiment's successive race; Sees tardy Science toil at Nature's laws, And wonders how the effect obscures the cause.

Yet not to deep research or happy guess, Is show'd the life of hope, the death of peace; Unbless'd the man whom philosophic rage Shall tempt to lose the Christian in the Sage: 20 Not Art, but Goodness, pour'd the sacred ray That cheer'd the parting hours of humble Grey.

TO MISS HICKMAN,

PLAYING ON THE SPINNET.

Bright Stella! form'd for universal reign, Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain: When in your eyes resistless lightnings play, Awed into love our conquer'd hearts obey, And yield reluctant to despotic sway: But when your music soothes the raging pain, We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign, We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.

When old Timotheus struck the vocal string, Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king: 10 Unbounded projects labouring in his mind, He pants for room, in one poor world confined.