English

Hail, sacred Solitude, ordain'd by Heav'n,
The nurse of Wisdom, and the friend of Woe!
Oh, give a bosom, which thou oft hast giv'n,
Thy high, mysterious pleasures still to know.

Still let thy silent train my call obey;
Wild Fancy, whom nor earth nor air confines;
With heavenly Truth, whom robes of light array;
And Virtue, throbbing with sublime designs!

To thee I fly from folly and from noise:
Far sweeter is thy shade than tinsel show!
Ah! ne'er may guilt disturb thy peaceful joys,

The counsels of a friend Belinda! hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatt'ries of a lover's pen,
Such truths as women seldom learn from men;
Nor think I praise you ill when thus I show
What female vanity might fear to know.
Some merit is mine to dare to be sincere,
But greater your's sincerity to bear.
Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women like princes find few real friends;
All who approach them their own ends pursue:
Lovers and ministers are seldom true:

Borio lies beneath this table,
Bacchus, view the sight and weep;
Spite of all thy art was able
Porter's lull'd him fast asleep.

Silent now the tongue of thunder,
Dormant lies the arm of brass,
Every sentence sunk our wonder,
Ev'ry action crown'd the Ass.

Morpheus! curse on thy intruding,
Blest was he ere thou appear'd;
Snuff in vain 'gainst thy deluding,
All his fiery forces rear'd.

See! he wakes — his eye-lids glimmer —
He struggles, faultering, to get free;

Thine Art and Subiect both such Worth containe
That thou art best requited in thy paine.

WRITTEN AT EATON SCHOOL , 1729.

Tell me ye Sons of Phœbus! what is this
Which all admire but few, too few, possess?
A virtue it is to ancient maids unknown,
And prudes who spy all faults except their own,
Lov'd and defended by the brave and wise,
Tho' knaves abuse it and like fools despise.
Say Wyndham! if it is possible to tell,
What is the thing in which you most excel?
Hard is the question, for in all you please;
Yet sure good nature is your noblest praise:

Now, little folded pregnant leaf,
On thee for once my joy, my grief,
My hopes, and fears await;
Now shall Misfortune cease to growl,
Or black Despair assault my soul,
And fix my hapless fate.

Oh! may some Angel (guardian aid!)
In robes celestial, sweet array'd,
Unknown, unseen descend,
And while thou opens on his eyes,
Soft whisper the poor poet's sighs,
And bid him be a friend.

Then shall the Muse outstretch her wing,
And, sir'd with joy, exulting sing
The bounty of the giver;

The laughing Delia, free from every care,
Leads the light dance, and scorns Horatio's pain:
On airy Florio smiles the partial fair,
The softest trifler of her idle train.

No tender pains the easy Florio knows;
Ne'er generous tear in Florio's eye was seen:
Yet from his tongue the polish'd accent flows;
And all the graces meet to form his mien.

Mistaken maid! ah, say, will easy air,
And courtly phrase, thine orb of bliss complete?
Suffice to soothe thee in thine hour of care?
And make retirement's sober moments sweet?

Is it Summer? Wine produce,
Give me the kind recruiting Juice:
No Day must now a Draught escape,
No Day but helps to bring the Grape .
Soon as the tender Blossoms shoot,
Drink to the future promis'd Fruit ;
And when to swell the Gems begin,
Drink to each increasing Skiu ;
Drink to ev'ry different Hue,
The red'ning Green , and glossy Blew ;
And when the rip'ned Loads appear,
Drink to the full accomplish'd Year.

When Nature now has done her Part
Fill again — — Success to Art —

Beauty, sweet despot! at whose rosy throne,
With fond obeisance, bows the willing earth;
Whose yoke the brave, whose sway the scepter'd, own;
Say, did the gods, in anger, give thee birth?

But to destroy, bright angel, wert thou sent?
The lovely plague, alluring scourge of Heav'n!
Was that soft eye, to scatter torments, meant?
Were those sweet smiles, to kindle anguish, giv'n?

Say, with severe intent, hath Nature fram'd
Of all her works the fairest as the last?
Hath she the lily's white, in vengeance, sham'd?

O thou, of Nature's mental works the pride!
Made of a finer dust, with nicer art!
In whose etherial, thrilling frame reside
The lively fancy, and the feeling heart!

Doubtful, or to lament, or hail thy doom,
The Muse, prophetic, marks thy bosom's glow:
She sees the Fates surround the mystic loom;
They weave thee transports keen, and pungent woe.

Anxious, she hovers o'er the web the while,
Reads, as it grows, thy figur'd story there:
Now, she explains the texture with a smile,