Yet spires and towers in dust shall lie,
The weak effort of human pains ;
And faith and hope themselves shall die;
While deathless charity remains.
WRITTEN IN MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS,
GIVEN TO THE DUKE OF SHREWSBURY IN FRANCE, AFTER THE PEACE, MDCCXIII.
DICTATE, O mighty judge, what thou hast seen Of cities, and of courts, of books, and men; And deign to let thy servant hold the pen.
Through ages thus I may presume to live,
And from the transcript of thy prose receive
What my own short-liv'd verse can never give.
Thus shall fair Britain with a gracious smile
Accept the work; and the instructed isle,
For more than treaties made, shall bless my toil.
Nor longer hence the Gallic style preferr'd,
Wisdom in English idiom shall be heard,
While Talbot tells the world, where Montaigne err'd.
DESIRING THE QUEEN'S PICture.
WRITTEN AT PARIS, MDCCXIV. BUT LEFT UNFINISHED, BY THE SUDDEN NEWS OF HER MAJESTY'S DEATH.
THE train of equipage and pomp of state,
The shining sideboard, and the burnish'd plate,
Let other ministers, great Anne, require,
And partial fall thy gift to their desire.
To the fair portrait of my sovereign dame,
To that alone eternal be my claim.
My bright defender, and my dread delight,
If ever I found favour in thy sight;
If all the pains that for thy Britain's sake
My past has took, or future life may take,
Be grateful to my Queen; permit my prayer,
And with this gift reward my total care.
Will thy indulgent hand, fair saint, allow
The boon? and will thy ear accept the vow?
That in despite of age, of impious flame,
And eating Time, thy picture like thy fame
Entire may last; that as their eyes survey
The semblant shade, men yet unborn may say,
Thus great, thus gracious look'd Britannia's queen;
Her brow thus smooth, her look was thus serene;
When to a low, but to a loyal hand
The mighty empress gave her high command, That he to hostile camps and kings should haste, To speak her vengeance, as their danger, past; say, she wills detested wars to cease; She checks her conquest, for her subjects' ease, And bids the world attend her terms of peace.
Thee, gracious Anne, thee present I adore,
Thee, queen of peace-If time and fate have power
Higher to raise the glories of thy reign,
In words sublimer, and a nobler strain,
May future bards the mighty theme rehearse,
Here, Stator Jove, and Phoebus king of verse,
The votive tablet I suspend **
ALMA; OR, THE PROGRESS OF THE MIND.
Πάντα γέλως, καὶ πάντα κόνις, καὶ πάντα τὸ μηθέν·
Πάντα γὰρ ἱξ ἀλόγων εστὶ τὰ γιγνόμενα.
MATTHEW* met Richard,† when or where
From story is not mighty clear;
Of many knotty points they spoke,
pro and con by turns they took.
Rats half the manuscript have eat:
Dire hunger! which we still regret.
O! may they ne'er again digest
The horrors of so sad a feast!
Yet less our grief, if what remains,
Dear Jacob,* by thy care and pains
Shall be to future times convey'd.
It thus begins:
Throughout the body squat or tall,
Is, bona fide, all in all.
And yet, slap-dash, is all again
In every sinew, nerve, and vein :
Runs here and there, like Hamlet's ghost;
While every where she rules the roast.
This system, Richard, we are told,
The men of Oxford firmly hold.
The Cambridge wits, you know, deny
With ipse dixit to comply.
They say (for in good truth they speak
With small respect of that old Greek),
That, putting all his words together,
'Tis three blue beans in one blue bladder.
Alma, they strenuously maintain,
Sits cock-horse on her throne the brain;
And from that seat of thought dispenses
Her sovereign pleasure to the senses.
Two optic nerves, they say, she ties,
Like spectacles, across the eyes;
By which the spirits bring her word,
Whene'er the balls are fix'd or stirr'd,
How quick at park and play they strike;
The duke they court; the toast they like;
And at St. James's turn their grace
From former friends now out of place.
Without these aids, to be more serious,
Her power, they hold, had been precarious :
The eyes might have conspir'd her ruin;
And she not known what they were doing.
Foolish it had been, and unkind,
That they should see, and she be blind.
Wise nature likewise, they suppose,
Has drawn two conduits down our nose:
Could Alma else with judgment tell,
When cabbage stinks, or roses smell?
Or who would ask for her opinion
Between an oyster and an onion?
For from most bodies, Dick, you know,
Some little bits ask leave to flow;
And, as through these canals they roll,
Bring up a sample of the whole;
Like footmen running before coaches,
To tell the inn, what lord approaches.
By nerves about our palate plac'd,
She likewise judges of the taste:
Else (dismal thought!) our warlike men
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