Say, love-ly peace, that grac'd eur ifle, Why you with draw the

in-dul-gent

fmile? Why you with draw

th' in-dul - gent

POETICAL ESSAYS in M A Y 1756.

The following piece was fent us laft Month in aMa-
nufcript, which appeared to have been written fame
Time. Its merit inclines us to fear that it has al-
ready been in print, but as neither we nor any of
our poetical friends, bave ever seen it, it will be
newo to fo great a number of our readers, that no
apology can be thought neceffary for giving it a
place in our collection.

The ARTIFICIAL KITE.
An Heroic-Comic-Poem. In THREE CANTOS.
CANTO I.

IAN knew well to chace the tim'rous hares

247

The lavish rofe here wantons all the year,
So fpreads its blooming leaves, fo blushes here.
Here, to repair his lofs, poor Cupid flies,
And darts in ev'ry cafk his refflefs eyes.

Beneath a guilded pile of billet deaux,
Cupid at length the marbled quarto views,
That taught her words a fable hue to wear,
And bid 'em please the eye, as well as ear.
In virgin order, the coy letters move,
Nor modeft know the closer ties of love;
Yet not the chief, that boafts a flourish'd train
(The rolling beauties of a hafty pen)
With all his gaudy ornaments cou'd please
More than the fimple elegance of thefe :

D'or the the woods purfue the flying deer; Here, by himself &, firaam' d the great,

O'er the high mound her courfer rag'd fecure,
Eager, yet confcious of the charge he bore:
While health aufpicious mantled in her face,
Glow'd on her cheek, and heighten'd ev'ry grace.
Or if the clam'rous echo's of the field,
To the gay dance, and fweeter mufick yield,
Her courtly motion fet the foul on fire,
And told us all the graces of the lyre.
If Dian at the frame difplay'd her pow'r,
And charg'd the needle with the future flow'r,
New life, like fome kind deftiny she gives,
And in a nobler loom the heroe lives:
Here Ormond's duke retir'd from martial cares,
The peaceful fcarlet of a tulip wears ;
There great Eugene in azure robes array'd,
Confefs'd his toils and dangers well repaid:
Here grew, adorn'd with ev'ry fpreading grace,
The purple honours of the gay Borlace:
On this fair ftalk the Gallick monarch fhone,
More pow'rful on her apron, than his throne.
Love with a jealous eye beheld the fair,
Her conquests number'd, and began to fear,
Watch'd ev'ry glance that wanderd from her eye,
And faw with lefs fuccefs his arrows fly :

But muft that empire I derive from heav'n,
Be given to Dian all! fo cheaply given !
• Nations no more at my dread altar bow!
And these victorious fhafts lie useless now!
"Not fo the golden trophy Venus gain'd,
'Twas with the ruins of a Troy the reign'd,
When flighted uno, raging with despair,
Led fternly out her booted Greeks to war.'

So griev'd the god, and ftung with fury fied,
Where jealous rage and pale refentment led.
Sacred to fecrecy and fweet repofe,

Rofe an alcove where rang'd in artful rows,
(By Dian wrought) the drowzy poppy grows.
The virgin here, like Sol's declining ray,
Withdrew her luftre, and retir'd from day.
Gay fancy, ever-waking, here retains
Her livelieft vifions, and her fofteft fcenes;
While flumbers round their filent ftation take,
And feal thofe eyes that keep the world awake.
Where wedding-cake, infpiring pleafing dreams,
The happy partner of her bed proclaims;
While guardian loves the merry dance begin,
And jolly Hymen leads the bridegroom in.
In cafkeis here unnumber'd trophies lay,
And loaded fhelves their mimic pomp difplay.
Here paper towns their waving turrets fhew,
And forefts from her fcillars taught to grow;
There he proud fhip extends its wond'rous frame,
And to the maid brings home eternal fame ;
Carnations here the ling'ring eye regale,
Here ever blows the lilly of the vale;

With awful front o'erlooks the little state,
And like Eneas, with majestick pace,
'T' Italian order leads his letter'd race;
While, next him, little a with youthful pride,
Trips like Iülus by his father's fide;
Here bending c's disclose half orbs of light,
Like the new honours of the queen of night:
There i, like the fifth Edward, stands display'd,
His crown for ever hanging o'er his head:
There o, diftinguish'd by his curious round,
And q, by children in the corner found.
The f, with arched neck, an: tail reclin'd,
And the twin v's in facred friendship join'd.
Each letter thus, by diff'rent beauties known,
In order led the gay fucceffion on.
Trembling, with eager joy, he fnatch'd the prize,
Dian no more grew hateful to his eyes;
And now in haft his golden wings he fpread,
And, all impatient, fought the beauteous maid.
Fix'd to the lyre, he found the tuneful fair,
The myftick numbers well deferv`'d his ear;
She fung, When ghofts approach, why lights
burn blue,

'Why candles fhew the future billet deaux;
Why from the taper rofe the virgin ftrife,
Why chastest breath recalls it into life;
Why the young Hylas bids his father run
Tobey the fummons of a watry fun;
And why, to think, fhou'd aid the house-wife's
skill,

And thro' the joint conduct the lucky steel;
What certain ills fucceed, if crickets call,

Why ftates, and falt-fellars together fall.'
End of Canto I. (To be continued.)

The old Elm in Hurworth in the County of Durham.

H

AIL, venerable Elm! the vilia's pride,
That lovely Tees enriches with its flieams,
Which foftly wind, and form a pleasing feat,
Moft grateful to the mufes! Thee I fing,
And, if my fong were equal to my wifh,
For ever thou shouldft flourish, shouldst excel
The oak facred to Jove, which erft inspir'd
With a prophetic art, (wond'rous to hear!)
Reveal'd foturity with human voice:

Thou shouldft excel the laurel too, belov'd
By Phoebus, which in elegantly fmooth,
But artful ftrains, the bard defcrib'd, and well
Leferv'd the laurel for his charming verfe.

Happy beneath thy fhade I fit, and tune
My flender reed, (accept the grateful lay)
Whilft zephyrs cool attemperate the fun
To mildness in the fummer's eye, the beft,
The fweeteft folace to the tuneful bard.

The

248

The GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, VOL. XXVI:

The luckless youth, that glows with ardent love,
Seeks thy kind fhade, and in his gen'rous heart
Defigns the amiable fhe, and much
Extolls the blushing graces of her cheeks,
Her lips, her reck, and oh! how much he burns
With each refiftlefs fparkle of her eye.
He mourns her abfence. thinks it wretchedness.
But happy, above meafure happy, calls
The youth, who in warm whispers, not disdain'd
By her he loves, breathes out the fofteft things
Beneath the shelter of the filent elm..
His native elm (to fapience still a friend)
Merones loves, and meditates beneath
The verdure of thy fhady leaves: See there
How filently he fits! and, loft in thought,
Weighs in his mind fome great defign! revolves
He now his fubtile Fluxions? or displays
By trueft figns the Sphere's projection wide?
Wide as thy fphere, Merones, be thy fame.

How well things fimilar agree! the men
Of hoary hairs do thee coeval love.
Beneath thy well-known fhade they early meet,
And late retire, each man an ornament,

And bleffing to his country. There they fit,
Like fenators, that rule the conquer'd globe.
Their ftrength decays, their wisdom gains increafe;
But yet their tongues are talkative. They first,
As ufual, p aife the lovely feafon; then
Foretell the weather's ftrange viciffitudes,
By figns unerring. Soon they change the theme,
And make a kind enquiry how their herds
Of cattle fare? if they ftill brouze in fields
Untainted, or diftempers dire infect;
Diftempers fuch as neither they, nor e'er
Their fathers knew. On this they long debate-
Whether the taint from air or earth's deriv'd?
Whether by man or beaft convey'd around;
Or whether Med'cine can its force afwage?
Unanimous they own it is a fcourge,
Sent us by providence: Unanimous,
They pray, that heav'n would ftop the malady.

They tell of that malignant plague that rag'd,
When they were boys; and how fucceeding foon
The conflagration, with relentless sweep,
The city buried in one dreadful pile.

Time is the ruft of things; the world decays.
With what difdainful pomp didst thou appear
In days of yore, when thy huge body flood
On firmeft bafe; when thy afpiring head.
Did brave the ftars; And when thy arms robust,
Extending wide, were cloath'd with foliage green,
By nature neatly wrought, thyfelf a grove.
But now, how art thou chang'd from what thou

waft?

Fall'n is thy creft, and wither'd are thy leaves.
Thy frength decays; thy glory brighter fhines:
Thou shalt be fil'd, to monarchy a friend;
And to thy native foil a patriot firm.
For thou, to Britons dear, didit bear aloft
On thy rejoicing head the pitchy flames,*
(Tho' fare to perish in the glorious deed)
When the rebellious clans were overthrown
In dreadful fight, by Cumberland the great,
The people's darling, and the monarch's boaft.
The foldier thus worn out with age and arms,
When late difcharg'd, fome quiet village fecks,

*Tar barrels fixed upon the top of this tree at the battle of Culloden.

Where he may spend his eve of life in peace :
But if per chance he hears his country's foes
Are greatly routed in fome fignal field,
His heart beats high, he fwoons, the falls, & with
The tranfports of too big a joy he dies.

On MAY MORNING.

LL hail! thou pleafing, chearful morn,
Sweet harbinger of May,

A'

Welcome, thrice welcome, thy return,
Which makes all nature gay.

At thy foft call, the genial earth
Yields up her verdant ftores,
Her flow'ry off'spring now fpring forth,
Awak'd by vernal thow'rs,

The bright parterres for thee difplay
Their utmost blooming pride,
Behold the varying tulip gay,
In all the rainbow dy'd.
There rich auriculas appear,

In powder'd luftre dreft,
The modeft polyanthus here,
In Nature's humbler veft.
In one the finish'd toaft we trace,
In one the rural maid;
Art there beftows the foreign grace,
But here with-holds her aid.

Yet, tho' the first more brilliant fhows,
The laft is not lefs fair,

She fears not every blast that blows,
'But blooms thro' all the year.

Behold on yonder fragrant bush,
Where blows the lovely rofe,
Thy warm approach has made it blufh,
And all its fweets difclofe.

Thy fmiles have fill'd, hills, dales, and groves,
With beauty and with fong,

Have imp'd with speed the wings of love,
And urg'd his fhafts along.

Thy influence bids soft numbers flow;
To thee I tune my lays,
To thee the joys thy fmiles below,
Return in artless praife.

Still as the kind revolving year,

Thy charms renews again,
To Nature's voice I'll tune my lyre,
And blefs thy happy reign,
Yorkshire, May 24, 1756.

EPIGRA M.

OPHELIA

Lift of Books published; with Remarks.