October 5, 1769. No. 249.

To CÆLIA

CÆLIA in vain I often strove,
     My passion to conceal;
Yet did my sighs betray my love,
     Yet did my Eyes reveal.
But ah! My fair had you been kind,                                                          5
     As soft as mine your heart;
There’s not a Tree, nor breezy wind,
     But should my flame impart!
Say whence proceed the doubts the fears,
     That swell the lover’s breast:                                                             10
The downcast look—the streaming tears,
     And hours that bring no rest?
’Tis love all pow’rful love that reigns,
     The bosom fills with care;
Unhappy they who wear the chains,                                                       15
     And court a cruel fair!
But blest the youth, whom some kind maid,
     His ardent flame approves;
When Venus takes the off’rings paid,
     And Hymen crowns their loves.                                                        20

October 12, 1769. No. 250.

CORSICA. An ODE. 

Rise Muse, and in immortal Lays
Those glorious Sons of Freedom praise,
   Their godlike Toils rehearse:
’Tis Corsica that dares be free;
’Tis Paoli and Liberty                                                                              5
   Demand the noblest Verse.
That Virtue that their foes desire,
That Pow’r shall lift them to the Skies
   With never dying Fame;
Amidst the Stars their Acts enroll,                                                          10
Shall sound their Praise from Pole to Pole,
   And give a deathless Name.
France shall in vain with them contest,
While they, with sacred Freedom blest,
   Shall be with Conquest crown’d:                                                        15
’Tis Liberty rewards their Toil,
She makes their barren Rocks to smile,
   And makes them far renown’d:
Still may she o’er their Isle preside!
Still may she all their Actions guide,                                                       20
   And still infuse her Fire!
Ah! Virtue, why that Frown severe?
Why pensive falls the silent Tear?
   Do thou the Muse inspire?
Ah! be the dreadful Tale untold!                                                            25
Could Corsica, for impious Gold,
   Her godlike Leader fell?
Ah! Where shall Liberty then fly?
She shall ascend her native Sky,
   And with th’ Immortals dwell.                                                             30
While Paoli, (his Country lost)
Deploring seeks a foreign Coast,
   And leaves the treach’rous Shore.
Wisdom, for him, shall quit her Cell,
His Worth a Muse of Fire shall tell,                                                        35
When Time shall be no more.

October 12, 1769. No. 250.

On D E A T H. 

Can the deep statesman, skill’d in great design,
   Protract but for a day precarious breath?
Or the tun’d follower of the sacred Nine
Sooth with his melody insatiate Death?
   No—though the palace bar her golden gate,                                         5
Or monarchs plan ten thousand guards around,
Unerring, and unseen, the shaft of fate
Strikes the devoted victim to the ground.
   What then avails ambition’s wide stretch’d wing,
The schoolman’s page, or pride of beauty’s bloom!                               10
The crape clad hermit, and the rich rob’d King,
Levell’d, lie mix’d promiscuous in the tomb.
   The Macedonian monarch, wise and good,
Bade, when the morning’s rosy reign began,
Courtiers should call, as round his couch they stood,                              15
"Philip, remember thou’rt no more than man."
   Search where ambition rag’d, with rigour steel’d,
Where slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran,
And say, while memory weeps the blood stain’d field,
Where lies the chief, and where the common man!                                 20
   Vain are the pyramids and motto’d stones.
And monumental trophies rais’d on high,
For time confounds them with the crumbling bones,
That mix’d in hasty graves unnotic’d lie.
   Rests not beneath the turf the peasant’s head                                      25
Soft as the Lord’s beneath the labour’d tomb.
Or sleeps one colder in his close clay bed
Than t’other in the wide vault’s dreary womb?
   Hither let Luxury lead her loose rob’d train,
Here flutter Pride on purple painted wings,                                             30
And from the moral prospect learn how vain
The wish that sighs for sublunary things.

October 19, 1769. No. 251.

To ANGELINE. A moral Sentiment.

The flowing Tide that thunders o’er the Shore,
   Finding its Period, back recoils again;
Its Hour return’d, renews its wonted Roar,
   And sweeps impetuous o’er the thirsty Plain.
But fleeting Time, for ever on the Wing,                                                   5
   Pursues Futurity, nor knows Delay;
Still Age advances as the Moments spring,
   Nor kindly Ebb detains the circling Day.
Onwards the Seasons take their annual Rounds,
   And unperceiv’d contract the Life of Man;                                          10
Eternity expands her gaping Bounds,
   And every Hour concludes some mortal Span.
To Years remote Heav’n may protract our Fate,
   Instantaneous Time may seize our vital Breath,
Sooner or later we must change our State,                                             15
   And Kings and Peasants yield alike to Death.
Thrice happy they who, Angeline, like thee,
   Ne’er let the gliding Moments roll in vain;
The near Approach of Fate unmov’d they see,
   Nor doth th’immediate Summons cause a Pain.                                   20
No keen Remorse their peaceful Bosom knows,
   No mispent Hour to View Rememb’rance brings,
Nor Memory can one guilty Act disclose,
   To whet the Points of consciential Stings.
Receding Life they quit with eager Joy,                                                  25
   All Heav’n expanding opens on their Eyes,
Death only can their mortal Frame destroy,
   Whilst Angels waft their Spirits to the Skies.

October 19, 1769. No. 251.

On the D I V I N E P O W E R.

OH say, ye planetary orbs that roll
Your steady course around the frozen pole,
To guide the wanderer through the dreary night,
Tell if you can who plac’d and gave you light;
And thou who shin’st in majesty sublime,                                                  5
And dart’st thy beams on India’s distant clime,
Prolifick sconce of day, dispense thy rays,
And join glad Nature to thy Maker’s praise.
When thou at early dawn peep’st o’er the hills,
And in thy glory gild’st the dew dropt fields,                                           10
The pale cool moon, with all its starry train,
Hide their diminish’d heads, or seek the main;
Alone thou mov’st, in awful beauty dress’d,
Expand the flowers, exhilarate each breast.
Cheer’d by thy presence, the late languid swain                                      15
Renews his toils, and hastes along the plain;
Forgetful of past pains, and wintery snows,
His joyous heart with youthful raptures glows;
Ardent he views the ever pleasing scene
Of lawns and groves, array’d in vivid green.                                           20
But who can be companion of thy course?
Not the fleet arrow, or the bounding horse,
When in the rapid race he seems to fly,
Can reach thy speed, great ruler of the sky!
The tempest howls, the mountain oaks they fall,                                      25
Rent is the cottage, and the antique hall
Yields to the blast; its flintly walls give way,
While thunders roll and blazing lightnings play:
Then thou in beauty burst and clear the sky,
Laugh at the storm, and its fierce power defy.                                         30
But what avails thy form, thy lucid light,
To the poor mortal that’s depriv’d of sight?
Whether at early day thou tinge the east,
Or sett’st at eve with radiance in the west,
Thee he beholds not; sorrowing on he goes,                                           35
In everlasting night, a man of woes.
But thy transcendent brightness so must fail,
Time shall on thee, as Death o’er him, prevail,
So wills th’ Almighty God of thee, of all
That wing the air, or tread this earthly ball;                                              40
When the last trump shall sound thy matchless form
Careless shall sleep, nor heed the voice of morn.

October 26, 1769. No. 252.

AN ELEGY
On the Death of his Excellency Sir HENRY MOORE, Baronet,
Governor of NEW-YORK.

Difficile Mærorem effugere: Dies enim,
Subinde Curas procreat nobis novas.

With contemplation sad and sorrow due,
For the late exit of a gen’rous soul;
The tragic scene Melpomene assist
To paint; the tender string of pity tune:
’Till wak’d by the diffused sound of woe,                                                 5
Each human breast conceives the piercing pang
Of sad distress, for precious virtue lost,
And does with genuine compassion swell.
Muse on his death, in whom fair wisdom shone
Bright as the radiant orb of light above,                                                   10
In dignity array’d. And then let him,
From grief refrain, that can, when is perceiv’d
The true idea of a character
Unblemished, pure as the morning dew,
Spotless and fair, such was the virtuous Moore!                                     15
Then let the grateful tear of gratitude,
Steal from the weeping eye tho’ ’tis a weak,
’Tis the last monument that we can give
Of pure affection to his sweet renown;
For none did ever more deserve our love.                                              20
   How just he was in governing and true,
How careful to secure his loyalty
To one the best of kings, and to preserve
The sacred unanimity entire,
Of peace, between Britania and this Isle,                                              25
In times of public broils and discontent;
Each tongue unprejudic’d can safely tell.
   In him our sovereign lost a minister,
Both loyal and sincere. In him a friend
To Liberty and justice too was lost.                                                       30
In him the poor distressed also lost
Their kindly helper from oppressive want.
In short, to sum up all, in him we lost
The man who persever’d in wisdom’s rules,
And always fought the happiest measures                                               35
To procure the universal welfare
Of mankind; without regard to sordid
Int’rest, or the lures of base ambition.
Nor shall a name, than his more glorious,
Adorn our records to the latest age.                                                       40
   At large, his numerous praises to express,
Would swell a volume to its full extent,
And would a pen less faultering require
Than mine, to give his merit real due.
It may suffice, to know, that he had all                                                    45
The wise endowments, man could find in man.
Grant me kind heav’n this wish—oh may this isle
Once more feel the auspicious rule of one
In equity to Sir HARRY equal.
Then shall our joyful coasts again behold,                                               50
The dulced smiles of harmony and peace,
Contentment calm, uninterupted ease.                           CIVIS.

October 26, 1769. No. 252.

The twentieth ode of ANACREON imitated.

In Ovid often (as I’ve read)
Some God would take it in his head,
Without the least offence, to fix
On hapless men his waggish tricks;
Hence these are birds at Jove’s command,                                               5
And these as marble statues stand:
O Delia, if to me, from Heaven,
That envy’d power of change were given,
Adown your back, with graceful pride,
A streaming negligee I’d glide;                                                                10
A lily ’twixt your breasts I’d lie,
And with their whiteness strive to vie;
Or blushing, like the fragrant rose,
On thy more fragrant skin repose;
A splendid necklace now I’d shine,                                                        15
Now round your leg a garter twine;
Now as your shift! but stop, my muse!
Nor stretch too far thy daring views;
Blest shall I be, beyond a man,
To cool my Delia as a fan;                                                                      20
To grace her hand a sparkling stone,
Or glitter on her bright pompone,
A patch to deck her lovely face,
Or else a shoe her feet embrace.