November 2, 1769. No. 253.

A RECEIPT for an ASTHMA

Old friend, accept at once from me,
The following rules without a fee;
An Asthma is your case I think,
Take care then what you eat and drink,
Taste not of meat preserv’d in salt;                                                          5
Or any liquor made of malt;
From season’d sauce avert your eyes,
From hams, and tongues, and pigeon pies,
If ven’son pasties set before you,
Each bit you eat, memento mori;                                                          10
For supper, nothing, if you please,
But above all, no toasted cheese.
It’s likely now you will observe,
What I prescribe will make you starve;
No, you may swallow at a meal,                                                            15
A neck, a loin, or leg of veal.
Young turkies I allow you four,
Partridge and pullets half a score;
Of house-lamb, boil’d, eat quarters two,
The devil’s in’t if that won’t do.                                                             20
Now as to liquor, why, indeed,
I both advise and send you mead:
Glasses of wine t’extinguish drought:
Take three with water, three without,
Let constant exercise be try’d,                                                               25
And sometimes walk, and sometimes ride:
Health oft’ner comes from Sion-hill,
Than from the apothecary’s pill.
Be not in haste, nor think to do
Your bus’ness in a day or two;                                                              30
Some, if they are not well at once,
Proclaim the doctor for a dunce;
Restless, from quack to quack they range,
When ’tis themselves they ought to change.
Nature hates violence and force.                                                            35
By method led, and gentle course.
Rules and restraint you must endure
What comes by times, ’tis time must cure.
The use of vegetables try,
And prize Pomona in a pye.                                                                   40
Whate’er you eat put something good in,
And worship Ceres in a pudding;
For breakfast, it is my advice,
Eat gruel, sago, barley, rice.
Take burdock root, and by my troth,                                                     45
I’d mingle daisies in my broth,
Thus you with ease may draw your breath,
Deluding, what you dread not, death;
Thus may you laugh, look clear, and thrive,
Enrich’d by those whom you survive:                                                     50
Young Baccus’ rites you must avoid,
And Venus must go unenjoy’d.                                 A. M.

November 2, 1769. No. 253.

Messrs. PRINTERS, please insert the following Latin Ode in your
Gazette, which may perhaps produce a Translation, and be acceptable
to your Readers.

Ecce iterum Anacreon.

Mihi est propositum in taberna mori;
Vinum fit appositum morientis ori;
Ut dicant, cum venerint, angelorum chori,
Deus fit propitius huic Potatori.

Poculis accenditur animi lucerna,                                                              5
Cor imbutum nectare volat ad superna;
Mihi sapit dulcius vinum in taberna,
Quam quod aqua miscuit præsulis pincerna.

Suum cuique proprium dat natura munus,
Ego nunquam potui scribere jejunus;                                                      10
Me jejunum vincere posset puer unus,
Sitim & jejunium odi tanquam funus.

Tales versus facio quale vinum bibo,
Non possum scribere, nisi sumpto cibo;
Nihil valet penitus quod jejunus scribo,                                                  15
Nasonem post calices carmine præibo.

Mihi nunquam spiritus prophetiæ-datur,
Nisi cum suerit venter bene satur:
Cum in arce cerebri Bacchus dominatur,
In me Phœbus irruit ac miranda fatur.                                                     20

November 9, 1769. No. 254.

Translation of the Latin Ode inserted in our Last. 

I’m resolv’d when I die in a Tavern I’ll lay,
With my Mouth, to the Bottle to moisten my Clay,
That the Angels may say when I enter on Bliss,
Be propitious, ye Gods, to a Toper like this!

By drinking good Liquor the Spirits will rise,                                            5
And a Soul fir’d with Nectar can soar to the Skies;
Far sweeter the Bottle I buy at the Vine,
Than to starve with a Lord on his Water-mix’d Wine.

To each his Peculiar Dame Nature assigns,
Not a Stroke can I write, while the Stomach repines,                             10
A mere Boy at the best, when with Fasting I shrivel,
For Hunger and Thirst I detest like the Devil.

Just such as my Liquor my Verses you’ll find,
And I never can rhyme with my Guts full of Wind;
But wet my old Whistle, and stuff me completely,                                   15
Sure Ovid himself never sang half so sweetly.

When with eating and drinking I’m tight as a Drum,
I talk like a Prophet of Wonders to come;
For when Bacchus is seated aloft in the Brain,
Then Phœbus inspires me, and great is the Strain!                                   20
                                                                      PHILONICUS.

November 9, 1769. No. 254.

On Happiness

Should happiness be then the thing pursu’d?
(And what but happiness is truly good?)
First peace be sought, bid flattering joys to cease;
The basis of true happiness is peace.
And this thy scheme, let reason bear the sway,                                         5
And passion and affection shall obey;
With anxious thought encourage no desires,
No wishes raise, nor fan their fiercer fires:
What Heaven has given thee be therewith content,
With no success elate, no loss lament;                                                    10
That business Heaven has to thy part assign’d
Pursue in quiet, with a cheerful mind,
Convinc’d the rank you hold, without dispute,
Shall best thy temper and thy talents suit.
Let others for ambitious schemes prepare,                                             15
Their follies join not, be not their’s thy care;
Their aim is grandeur, but as thine is peace,
Grasp not the thorny troubles of increase.
   But, oh! awake to Virtue’s early call.
Can’st thou do good? Communicate to all,                                             20
To all thy succour lend, thy aid impart,
When grief invades, the thought shall ease thy heart,
Each joy shall brighten, and shall make thy day
Of gladness smile in one unclouded ray,
In time of sickness shall thy pain beguile,                                                25
And give the languid cheek the cheerful smile,
Support the soul when Death demands his prey,
And smooth her passage to the realms of day.

November 9, 1769. No. 254.

Reflections on Fortune

Stern fortune’s frowns, I own, ’tis hard to bear,
Whilst the heart sinks beneath the weight of care,
Yet even from thence advantage we may gain,
When calm reflection mitigates the pain,
When reason reassumes her native seat,                                                   5
And tells us some are wretched, who are great;
It quenches our ambition’s restless fire,
Corrects the thought, and humbles the desire,
Shews us the trifling worth of what we view,
With eager fondness, and with toil pursue,                                              10
That riches, pomp, nay even boundless power,
May all be lost in one ill fated hour,
Turns our pursuit from such delusive charms,
And with a nobler flame the bosom warms:
For what, alas! avail those transient toys,                                                15
In which misguided mortals place their joys?
Can they protract one hour our fleeting breath?
Or save us from the icy grasp of death?
Yet ’tis a truth we seldom seem to know,
’Til we are taught it by experience’d woe.                                              20
Misfortune as it humbles makes us wise,
Our judgment fathoms, and our virtue tries:
Happy are they who, to their fate resign’d,
Can still possess tranquillity of mind,
Can pomp and grandeur view with look serene,                                     25
Nor wish to act within the gaudy scene;
Their souls above such trifles nobly soar,
On them stern fortune loses half its power.
So the tough oak fast rooted in the ground,
While tempests rend the weaker trees around,                                        30
With head erect the furious shock sustains,
Outlives the storm, and still unmov’d remains.

November 16, 1769. No. 255.

Night. An Ode

The glowing landscape fades; Day shuts his eye;
   Grey twilight rests on yon high western hill;
While pensive, in the secret shade I lie,
   And watch the music of the falling rill.
The ev’ning star now skirts the western main,                                           5
   Cold drops of dew are sprinkled o’er the lawn;
The rustic drives his oxen from the plain,
   And in the fold secures his flock till dawn.
Soft dies along the plain, each ruder breeze.
   In black’ning clouds the low’ring whirlwinds sleep,                             10
While gentle gales scarce fan the wavy trees,
   Or curl the surface of the peaceful deep.
The feather’d choir now cease their vocal lay,
   No more are heard the dewy groves among;
All but the solemn bird, who, from her spray,                                          15
   Chaunts to the ear of Night her plaintive song.
Primæval darkness, now, with poppies crown’d,
   O’er the dun air her sable mantle throws,
Diffusing universal stillness round,
   And locks a drowsy world in calm repose.                                          20
But not so lull’d the child of Sorrow sleeps,
   Nought charms the tearful eye of Grief to rest;
Pale, sickly, Care his constant vigils keeps,
   No gentle slumbers sooth his woe-fraught breast.
At this still hour, the joyless Damon mourns                                            25
   O’er Cælia’s bier, and weeps her early doom;
Unwilling Echo all his plaints returns,
   Which pierce with many a sigh the chearless gloom.
Now from the dreary vault pale spectres glide,
   As stories say, to fright the wand’ring swain,                                        30
Or dreadful stalking to the murderer’s side,
   Hang o’er his couch, and fill his heart with pain.
Whilst I, still mindful of that awful pow’r
   Who guards the just, confiding in his aid,
Fearless, alone, or trace the secret bow’r,                                              35
   Or rove bewilder’d through the moonlight shade.
For now far-beaming from the glowing east,
   The silver Regent of the silent Night,
Slowly ascends, in mildest radiance dress’d,
   And pours o’er woods and streams her magic light.                             40
Hail awful Silence! Contemplation hail!
   Bright emanation of celestial fire!
All hail thy presence! still mayst thou prevail,
   And all my soul with thoughts divine inspire.
To thee, while Night’s dimshades involve the sky                                    45
   This solemn verse, a simple gift I bring,
’Tis thine to guid the Muse’s flight on high,
   Assist her strains, and aid her soaring wing.
                                                                                   T. H.

November 16, 1769. No. 255.

Traduction Françoise de l’ODE LATINE, inserée dans la Gazette N^o 253.

Le dessein en est pris, je meurs au Cabaret,
Et quoiqu’à l’agonie qu’on tienne le vin prét;
Pour que des Bienheureux tous les célestes chœurs,
Intercédent, en entrant, pour le Roi des Buveurs.

Le vin de mon esprit rallume le flambeau,                                                  5
Je me crois dans le Ciel auprès de mon tonneau,
Le vin au Cabaret a pour moi la douceur,
Que n’a point le mélange de l’eau d’un Gouverneur.

La nature à chacun donne talens divers,
A jeun, je n’ecris rien sinon tout de travers,                                            10
Un enfant me vaincroit par ses moindres debats,
Je crains la faim, la soif, bien plus que le trépas.

Tel le vin que je bois, et tels sont mes ecrits,
Et ne puis faire un vers qu’àprès mes repas pris,
Ou si non, je travaille en dépit d’Apollon,                                               15
Mais après avoir bû, je surpasse Nason.

Je ne ressens jamais de prophetique ardeur,
Que sentant de Baccus la Divine chaleur,
Mais quand ce jus Divin domine en mon Cerveau;
Le Dieu même du Pinde ne dit rien de si beau.                                        20

November 16, 1769. No. 255.

Untwisting the twine that untwisteth between,
He twirls with his twister, the two in a twine;                                           10
Then, twice having twisted the twines of the twine,
He twitcheth the twine he had twined, in twain,
The twain that in twining before in the twine,
As twins were intwisted, he now doth untwine;
’Twixt the twain intertwisting a twine more between,                              15
He, twirling his twister, makes a twist of the twine.
                                                                                           H.M.

November 23, 1769. No. 256.

The following poem was written in 1744 then appeared, and if you can find Room for it in your Poet’s Corner it may be a grateful Entertainment to many of your Readers.

Descend, Urania, and inspire my Verse,
I raise my Song to sing your kindred Stars:
I aim to rove where glittering Comets stray,
Trace the bright Wand’rers thro’ th’ ætherial Way,
And all around th’ Almighty’s Power proclaim,                                        5
Where Worlds can roll or Suns incessant flame.

See heav’nly Muse, view with attentive Eyes,
The ruddy Wonder of the Evening Skies!
From Star to Star, the burning Ruin rolls,
Beams thro’ the Æther and alarms the Poles:                                          10
Around the Earth the wond’ring Nations gaze,
On the dire Terrors of the lengthned Blaze,
While, trailing on; they dream its sparkling Hair
Shakes Famine, Earthquake, Pestilence and War:
Illusions vain!—Remote from human Things,                                         15
Where other Planets roll in other Rings
It travels vast; and all around proclaims
A World in Chaos or an Earth in Flames.

So thro’ the Æther swept the ancient Earth,
E’re Time and Form and Beauty first had Birth,                                     20
Unshap’d and void, thro’ Space immense it roam’d,
Till spoke the God—and Eden instant bloom’d.

What Ruin! What Confusion might be hurl’d,
By such a Ball upon our guilty World?
Witness, ye Waves, which in the Deluge spread,                                    25
Whelm’d o’er the Earth, and stretch’d the Nations dead.
Down Heav’n’s high Steep, wide-spread the steaming Train,
Rush’d on the Fields, and pour’d the Floods of Rain;
The dark Abyss, attracted into Day,
Gush’d o’er the Mountains Tops, and roar’d away.                               30
The tost Ark, tott’ring thro’ its Fabrick, shook,
Involv’d in Clouds and Darkness, Foam and Smoke,
By Tempests plung’d along from Steep to Steep,
Bounds to the skies or dashes down the Deep.
Ye Angels! guard her thro’ the gloomy Scene,                                       35
Till the gay Rainbow arch the Heav’ns serene.

But O my Muse, swift must the Time come on,
When fresh inspir’d and fervid from the Sun,
The flagrant Stranger shapes a diff’rent Path,
And from its annual Orbit drags the Earth.                                             40
Ye fancy, Mortals! distant as ye are,
All calm and placid round the failing Star,
In gentle Rays serenely gleams the Head,
An easy Lustre thro’ the Tail is spread:
Ah! ye perceive not what loud Tumults reigns                                        45
Thro’ the hot Regions of its wild Domains;
What hideous Thunder the wide Æther shocks
Of tumbling Mountains and of crashing Rocks:
Fierce Seas of Flame beat round the burning Shores,
And ev’ry Tempest rages and ev’ry Furnace roars.                                50
To this devoted Earth it marches on,
And midnight blazes with the Glare of Noon;
Big and more big, it arches all the Air,
A Vault of fluid Brass the Skies appear:
From their Foundations where they ancient stood,                                  55
Down rush the Mountains in a flaming Flood;
The Min’rals pour their melted Bowels out,
The Rocks run down, the flying Riv’rs spout;
The Earth dissolves thro’ its disjointed Frame,
Its Clouds all lighten and its Ætnas flame;                                               60
The Sea exhales, and in long Volumes hurl’d,
Follows the wand’ring Globe from World to World;
Now at the Sun it glows, now steers its Flight,
Thro’ the cold Desarts of eternal Night,
Warns ev’ry Creaure, thro’ its trackless Road,                                      65
The Fate of Sinners and the Wrath of GOD.

November 23, 1769. No. 256.

On a Friend’s Wishing to have FOUR WIVES.

In a vein of good humour, says Hal to his wife,
Thou balm to my soul, and thou joy to my life,
Five years now are past, or perhaps something more,
By my happy reck’ning ’tis nearer a score,
Since the priest, ’fore the altar, united our hands                                       5
And rivetted both in the conjugal bands;
Yet the state, and its rites, I so truly adore,
That I think still one wife is too little a store
And the church and my conscience forbid, me a w--re,
Though I hold strictly sacred both faith and good works,                        10
Yet, in one thing I own, I must envy the Turks;
I think it d—’d hard, I’m not telling of fibs,
That an infidel Turk should have four or five ribs;
Whilst I, a good Christian, and lover of fun,
By the laws of my country, am stinted to one:                                         15
Nay,—frown not, my lov’ly, nor think that I’ll range,
Not to cull the whole world, my dear Poll, would I change:
Already I’m happy, but still would be more,
And, instead of one charmer, my dear I’d have four:
As I measure all joys in this transient life,                                                20
By the fund of affection I find in one wife;
How envy’d a mortal your Harry would be,
If Hymen would grant him to wed t’other three?
My Joys would be such as no words can express,
And my bliss near as much, as I wish to possess.                                  25