Imatges de pàgina
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Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half wean'd his heart from God; (Child of his age) for him he liv'd in pain, And mezfer'd back his fteps to earth again. To what exceffes had his dotage run! But God, to fave the father, took the fon. Te all bet thee in fits he seem'd to go ; And was my miniftry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Aowns in tears the punishment was just, But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack, Had that falfe fervant fped in fafety back! This night bis treafur'd heaps he meant to steal, And what a fund of charity would fail! Thus Heaven inftructs thy mind: this trial o'er, Depart in peace, refign, and fin no more."

On founding pinions here the youth withdrew; The fage flood wond'ring as the feraph flew. This look'd Elisha, when to mount on high, His mafter took the chariot of the fky: The fiery pomp afcending left the view; The prophet gaz d, and wifh'd to follow too. The bending Hermit here a pray'r begun: Lord! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done. Then, gladly turning, fought his ancient place, And pafs'd a life of picty and peace.

111. The Fire-Side. COTTON.

DEAR Chloe, while the bufy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In Folly's maze advance;
Tho fingularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll ftep afide,

Nor join the giddly dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noify neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling ftranger near,

To spoil our heart-felt joys.
If folid happiness we prize,
Within our breaft this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam:
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own felves our joys muft flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

Of reft was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing the left
That fafe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The difappointed bird once more

Explor'd the facred bark.

Tho' fools fpurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By fweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradife below.

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring

Whence pleasures ever rife:
We'll form their minds, with ftudious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the skies.
While they our wifeft hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, fupport our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus our fondeft loves repay,

And recompenfe our cares.
No borrow'd joys, they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs we envy not your ftate;
We look with pity on the great,

And blefs our humbler lot.

Our portion, is not large, indeed;
But then how little do we need!

For nature's calls are few:
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relifh, with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has fent,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lofe the present hour.
To be refign'd when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

1

And pleas'd with favours given; Dear Chloe, this is wifdom's part; This is that incenfe of the heart

Whofe fragrance finells to heaven. We'll afk no long protracted treat, Since winter life is feldom fweet;

But, when our feaft is o'er, Grateful from table we'll arife, Nor grudge our fons with envious eyes The relics of our store.

Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go'; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe

With cautious fteps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead. While confcience, like a faithful friend, Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,

And cheer our dying breath; Shall, when all other comforts cease, Like a kind angel whifper peace,

And fmooth the bed of death.

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*Though Dr. Cotton is well known to have been the author of these Visions, they have generally been

Published without prefixing his name,

And

1

And would you with me to reveal
What thefe fuperior wits conccal?
Forego the fearch, my curious friend,
And husband time to better end.
All my ambition is, I own,

To profit and to please unknown;
Like ftreams fupplied from fprings below,
Which scatter bieflings as they flow.

Were you difcas'd, or prefs'd with pain,
Straight you'd apply to Warwick Lane.
The thoughtful Doctor feels your pulie
(No matter whether Mead or Hulle)
Writes-Arabic to you and me—
Then figns his hand, and takes his fee.
Now, fhould the fage omit his name,
Would not the cure remain the fame ?
Not but phyficians fign their bill,
Or when they cure, or when they kill.
'Tis often known, the mental race
Their fond ambitious fires difgrace.
Dar'd I avow a parent's claim,
Critics might neer, and friends might blame.
This dang rous fecret let me hide,
I'll tell you ev'ry thing beside :
Not that it boots the world a tittle,
Whether the author's big or little;
Or whether fair, or black, or brown;
No writer's hue concerns the town.

I pafs the filent rural hour,
No flave to wealth, no tool to pow'r;
My manfion's warm, and very neat;
You'd fay, A pretty fnug retreat!'
My rooms no coftly paintings grace,
The humbler print fupplies their place,
Behind the houfe my garden lies,
And opens to the fouthern skies:
The diftant hills gay profpects yield,
And plenty fimiles in ev'ry field.

The faithful maftiff is my guard:
The feather'd tribes adorn my yard;
Alive my joy, my treat when dead,
And their foft plumes improve my bed.
My cow rewards me all the can
(Brutes leave ingratitude to man);
She, daily thankful to her lord,
Crowns with nectareous sweets my board:
Am I difeas'd? the cure is known,
Her fweeter juices mend my own.

I love my houfe, and feldom roam;
Few vifits pleafe me more than home:
I pity that unhappy elf
Who loves all company but felf;
By idle paffions borne away
To opera, mafquerade, or play;
Fond of thofe hives where Folly reigns,
And Britain's peers receive her chains;
Where the pert virgin flights a name,
And fcorns to redden into shame.
But know, my fair, to whom belong
The poet and his artlefs fong,
When female cheeks refufe to glow,
Farewel to virtue here below!
Our fex is loft to ev'ry rule;

Our fole diftinétion, knave or fool.

'Tis to your innocence we run;
Save us, ye fair, or we 're undone;
Maintain your modefty and ftation,
So women fhall preferve the nation.
Mothers, 'tis faid, in days of old,
Efteem'd their girls more choice than gold;
Too well a daughter's worth they knew,
To make her cheap by public view:
Few, who their diamonds' value weigh,
Expofe thofe diamonds ev'ry day.
Then, if Sir Plume drew near, and fmil'd,
The parent trembled for her child :
The firft advance alarm'd her breast;
And fancy pictur'd all the reft.
But now no mother fears a foc;
No daughter fhudders at a beau.

Pleafure is all the reigning theme;
Our noon-day thought, our midnight dream,
In folly's chace our youths engage,
And fhameless crowds of tott'ring age.
The die, the dance, th'intemp'rate bowl,
With various charms engrofs the foul.
Are gold, fame, health, the terms of vice?
The frantic tribes fhall pay the price.
But tho' to ruin post they run,
They'll think it hard to be undone.

Do not arraign my want of taste,
Or fight, to ken where joys are plac'd.
They widely err who think me blind;
And I difclaim a ftoic's mind.

Like yours are my fenfations quite;
I only ftrive to feel aright.

My joys, like ftreams, glide gently by;
Tho' Imall their channel, never dry;
Keep a ftill, even, fruitful wave,
And blefs the neighb'ring meads they lave,

My fortune (for I'll mention all,
And more than you dare tell) is fmall;
Yet ev'ry friend partakes my ftore,
And want goes filing from my door.
Will forty fhillings warm the breaft
Of worth or industry distress’d—
This fum I cheerfully impart,
'Tis fourfcore pleafures to my heart;
And you may make, by means like thefe,
Five talents ten, whene'er you please.
'Tis true, my little purfe grows light;
But then I fleep fo fweet at night!
This grand fpecific will prevail
When all the doctor's opiates fail.

You ask what party I pursue;
Perhaps you mean, Whose fool are you?'
The names of party I deteft;
Badges of flavery at best:

I've too much grace to play the knave,
And too much pride to turn a flave.

I love my country from my foul,
And grieve when knaves or fools controul:
I'm pleas'd when vice and folly finart,
Or at the gibbet or the cart:
Yet always pity where I can;
Abhor the guilt, but mourn the man.

Now the religion of your poet-
Does not this little preface fhow it?

My

My Vifions if you fean with care,

'Tis ten to one you'll find it there. And if my actions fuit my fong,

You can't in confcience think me wrong.

§ 112. Vifion 1. Slander. Infcribed to Mifs****.
MY lovely girl, I write for you,

And pray believe my Vifions true;
They form your mind to ev'ry grace,
The il add new beauties to your face;
And when old age impairs your prime,
You'll triumph o'er the fpoils of time.
Childhood and youth engage my pen;
Tis labour loft to talk to men:
Youth may perhaps reform when wrong;
Age will not liften to my fong.
He who at fifty is a fool,

La far too stubborn grown for fchool.
What is that vice which still prevails,
When almoft ev'ry paffion fails;
Which with our very dawn begun,
Nor ends but with our fetting fun;
Which, like a noxious weed, can spoil
The faireft flow'rs, and choak the foil?
'Tis Slander-and, with fhame I own,
The vice of human kind alone.

Be Slander, then, my leading dream,
Tho' you're a ftranger to the theme;
Thy fofter breaft, and honeft heart,
Scorn the defamatory art;
Thy foul afferts her native fkies,
Nor afks detraction's wings to rife:
In foreign fpoils let others thine,
Intrinsic excellence is thine.
The bird in peacocks plumes who fhone
Could plead no merit of her own;
The filly theft betray'd her pride,
And fpoke her poverty befide.

Th'infidious fland'ring thief is worfe
Than the poor rogue who fteals your purse,
Sav, he purloins your glitt'ring ftore:
Who takes your gold, takes trafh-no more;
Perhaps he pilfers--to be fed-

Ah, guiltless wretch who fteals for bread!
But the dark villain who fhall aim
To blaft my fair, thy spotlefs name,
He'd fteal a precious gem away,
Steal what both Indies can't repay!
Here the ftrong pleas of want are vain,
Or the more impious pleas of gain.
No finking family to fave!

No gold to glut th' infatiate knave!
Improve the hint of Shakspeare's tongue;
'Twas thus immortal Shakspeare fung
And truft the bard's unerring rule,
For nature was that Poet's fchool.
As I was nodding in my chair,

I saw a rueful wild appear:

⚫ Othello.

No verdure met my aching fight,
But hemlock and cold aconite;
Two very pois'nous plants, 'tis true,
But not fo bad as vice to you.

The dreary profpe&t spread around!
Deep now had whiten'd all the ground:
A bleak and barren mountain nigh,
Expos'd to ev'ry friendlefs fky!
Here foul-mouth'd Slander lay reclin'd,
Her fnaky treffes hifs'd behind;

A bloated toad-ftool rais'd her head,
The plumes of ravens were her bed † ;'
She fed upon the viper's brood,
And flak'd her impious thirft with blood.
The rifing fun, and western ray,
Were witnefs to her diftant fway.
The tyrant claim'd a mightier hoft
Than the proud Perfian e'er could boast.
No conqueft grac'd Darius' fon ‡,
By his own numbers half undone:
Succefs attended Slander's pow'r;
She reap'd fresh laurels ev'ry hour.
Her troops a deeper fcarlet wore
Than ever armies knew before.

No plea diverts the fury's rage,
The fury fpares nor fex nor age.
E'en Merit, with deftructive charms,
Provokes the vengeance of her arms.

Whene'er the tyrant founds to war, Her canker'd trump is heard afar. Pride, with a heart unknown to yield, Commands in chief, and guides the field; He talks with vaft gigantic ftride, And scatters fear and ruin wide: So the impetuous torrents fweep At once whole nations to the deep. Revenge, that base Hefperian §, known A chief fupport of Slander's throne, Amidst the bloody crowd is feen, And treach'ry brooding in his mien; The monfter often chang'd his gait, But march'd refolv'd and fix'd as fate. Thus the fell kite, whom hunger ftings, Now flowly moves his out-ftretch'd wings; Now fwift as lightning beats away, And darts upon his trembling prey.

Envy commands a facred band, With fword and poifon in her hand. Around her haggard eye-balls roll; A thoufand fiends poffefs her foul. The artful unfufpected fprite With fatal aim attacks by night. Her troops advance with filent tread, And ftab the hero in his bed; Or fhoot the wing'd malignant lye, And female honours pine and die. So prowling wolves, when darkness reigns, Intent on murder, fcour the plains;

+ Garth's Difpenfatory.

Xerxes, king of Persia, and son of Darius. He invaded Greece with an army confifting of more than a million of men (fome fay more than two millions); who, together with their cattle, perished in a great meature through the inability of the countries to fupply such a vast host with provifion.

Hefperia includes Italy as well as Spain; and the inhabitants of both are remarkable for their revengeful difpofitons.

Approach

Approach the folds where lambs repose,
Whofe guilclefs breafts fufpect no foes;
The favage gluts his fierce defires,
And bleating innocence expires.

Slander fmil'd horribly to view
How wide her conquests daily grew :
Around the crowded levees wait,
Like oriental flaves of state;
Of either fex whole armies prefs'd,
But chiefly of the fair and beft.

Is it a breach of friendship's law,
To fay what female friends I faw?
Slander affumes the idol's part,
And claims the tribute of the heart;
The beft, in fome unguarded hour,

Have bow'd the knee, and own'd her pow'r.
Then let the poet not reveal
What candour wishes to conceal.

If I beheld fome faulty fair,

Much worse delinquents crowded there:
Prelates in facred lawn I faw,
Grave phyfic, and loquacious law;
Courtiers, like fummer flies, abound;
And hungry poets fwarm around.
But now my partial story ends,
And makes my females full amends.

If Albion's ifle fuch dreams fufils,
"Tis Albion's ifle which cures these ills:
Fertile of ev'ry worth and grace
Which warm the heart and flufh the face.
Fancy difclos'd a fmiling train
Of British nymphs that tripp'd the plain.
Good-nature firit, a fylvan queen,
Attir'd in robes of cheerful green;
A fair and fmiling virgin fhe!
With ev'ry charm that fhines in thee.
Prudence affum'd the chief command,
And bore a mirror in her hand;
Grey was the matron's head by age,
Her mind by long experience fage;
Of ev'ry distant ill afraid,

And anxious for the fimp'ring maid.
The Graces danc'd before the fair;
And white-rob'd Innocence was there.
The trees with golden fruits were crown'd,
And rifing flow'rs adorn'd the ground;
The fun difplay'd each brighter ray,
And fhone in all the pride of day:

When Slander ficken'd at the fight,
And skulk'd away to fhun the light.

§ 114. Vifion II. Pleasure. HEAR, ye fair mothers of our isle,

Nor fcorn your Poet's homely ftyle. What tho' my thoughts be quaint or new, I'll warrant that my doctrine's true : Or, if my fentiments be old, Remember truth is fterling gold.

You judge it of important weight, To keep your rifing offspring ftraight; For this fuch anxious moments feel, And ask the friendly aids of steel;

For this import the diftant cane,
Or flay the monarch of the main.
And fhall the foul be warp'd afide
By paffion, prejudice, and pride?
Deformity of heart I call
The worst deformity of all.
Your cares to body are confin'd;
Few fear obliquity of mind.
Why not adorn the better part?
This is a nobler theme for art.
For what is form, or what is face,
But the foul's index, or its cafe?
Now take a fimile at hand,
Compare the mental foil to land.
Shall fields be till'd with annual care,
And minds lie fallow ev'ry year?
Oh, fince the crop depends on you,
Give them the culture which is due:
Hoe ev'ry weed, and drefs the foil,
So harvest fhall repay your toil.

If human minds refemble trees
(As ev'ry moralift agrees)
Prune all the fragglers of your vine,
Then fhall the purple clusters fhine.
The gard'ner knows that fruitful life
Demands his falutary knife:

For ev'ry wild luxuriant shoot

Or robs the bloom, or ftarves the fruit.
A fatirift in Roman times,
When Rome, like Britain, groan'd with crimes,
Afferts it for a facred truth,

That pleasures are the bane of youth;
That forrows fuch purfuits attend,
Or fuch pursuits in forrows end:
That all the wild advent'rer gains,
Are perils, penitence, and pains.
Approve, ye fair, the Roman page,
And bid your fons revere the fage;
In ftudy fpend their midnight oil,
And ftring their nerves by manly toil.
Thus fhall they grow, like Temple, wife;
Thus future Lockes and Newtons rife;
Or hardy chiefs to wield the lance,
And fave us from the chains of France.
Yes, bid your fons betimes forego

Thofe treach'rous paths where pleasures grow;
Where the young mind is Folly's flave;
Where ev'ry virtue finds a grave.

Let each bright character be nam'd,
For wisdom or for valour fam'd.
Are the dear youths to fcience prone?
Tell how th' immortal Bacon fhone!
Who, leaving meaner joys to kings,
Soar'd high on contemplation's wings;
Rang'd the fair fields of nature o'er,
Where never mortal trod before:
Bacon! whose vaft, capacious plan
Bespoke him angel more than man!

Does love of martial fame inspire?
Cherish, ye fair, the gen'rous fire;
Teach them to fpurn inglorious rest,
And roufe the hero in their breast:

* Perfius.

Paint Creffy's vanquifh'd field anew,
Their fouls fhall kindle at the view;
Refolv'd to conquer or to fall,
When Liberty and Britain call.

Thus fhall they rule the crimson plain,
Or hurl their thunders thro' the main;
Gain with their blood, nor grudge the cost,
What their degen'rate fires have loft:
The laurel thus fhall grace their brow,
As Churchill's once, or Warren's now.
One fummer's evening, as I ftray'd
Along the filent moon-light glade,
With thefe reflections in my breaft,
Beneath an oak I funk to reft;
A gentle flumber intervenes,
And fancy drefs'd inftructive scenes.
Methought a fpacious road I fpied,
And ftately trees adorn'd its fide;
Frequented by a giddy crowd
Of thoughtlefs mortals, vain and loud;
Who tripp'd with jocund heel along,
And bade me join their smiling throng.
I ftraight obey 'd-perfuafion hung
Like honey on the speaker's tongue :
A cloudlefs fun improv'd the day,
And pinks and rofes ftrew'd our way.
Now as our journey we pursue,
A beauteous fabric rofe to view;
A ftately dome, and fweetly grac'd
With ev'ry ornament of taste.
This ftruéture was a female's claim,
Ard Pleasure was the monarch's name.
The Irall we enter'd uncontroul'd,
And faw the queen enthron'd on gold:
Arabian fweets perfum'd the ground,
And laughing Cupids flutter'd round;
A flowing veft adorn'd the fair,
And flow'ry chaplets wreath'd her hair.
Fraud taught the queen a thousand wiles,
A thoufand foft infidious fmiles;
Love taught her lifping tongue to fpeak,
And form'd the dimple in her check;
The lily and the damask rose
The tincture of her face compofe;
Nor did the god of wit difdain
To mingle with the fhining train.
Her votries flock from various parts,
And chiefly youth refign'd their hearts;
The old in fparing numbers prefs'd,
But aukward devotees at beft!

Now let us range at large,' we cried, 'Thro' all the garden's boasted pride.' Here jafmines fpread the filver flow'r, To deck the wall, or weave the bow'r; The woodbines mix in am'rous play, And breathe their fragrant lives away. Here rifing myrtles form a fhade; There roles bluth, and scent the glade; The orange, with a vernal face, Wears ev'ry rich autumnal grace; While the young bloffoms here unfold, There fhines the fruit like pendant gold. Citrons their balmy sweets exhale, And triumph in the distant gale.

Now fountains, murm'ring to the song,
Roll their tranflucent ftreams along;
Thro' all the aromatic groves
The faithful turtles coo their loves;
The lark afcending pours his notes,
And linnets fwell their rapt'rous throats.
Pleafure, imperial fair! how gay
Thy empire, and how wide thy fway!
Enchanting queen, how foft thy reign!
How man, fond man! implores thy chain!
Yet thine each meretricious art,
That weakens and corrupts the heart:
The childish toys, and wanton page,
Which fink and proffitute the stage!
The mafquerade, that just offence
To virtue, and reproach to fente!
The midnight dance, the mantling bowl,
And all that diffipate the foul;
All that to ruin man combine,
Yes, fpecious harlot ! all are thine.

Whence fprung th' accurfed luft of play,
Which beggars thousands in a day?
Speak, forc'refs, fpeak (for thou canst tell),
Who call'd the treach'rous card from hell?
Now man profanes his reas'ning pow'rs,
Profanes fweet friendship's facred hours;
Abandon'd to inglorious ends,

And faithlefs to himfelf and friends; A dupe to ev'ry artful knave, To ev'ry abject with a flave: But who against himfelf combines, Abets his enemy's defigns. When rapine meditates a blow, He thares the guilt who aids the foe, Is man a thief who fteals my pelfHow great his theft who robs himself! Is man, who gulls his friend, a cheatHow heinous, then, is felf-deceit ! Is murder justly deem'd a crimeHow black his guilt who murders time! Should custom plead, as custom will, Grand precedents to palliate ill; Shall modes and forms avail with me, When reafon difavows the plea? Who games is felon of his wealth, His time, his liberty, his health: Virtue forfakes his fordid mind, And Honour fcorns to stay behind. From man when these bright cherubs part, Ah, what's the poor deferted heart! A favage wild that shocks the fight; Or chaos, and impervious night! Each gen'rous principle destroy'd, And dæmons crowd the frightful void! Shall Siam's elephant fupply The baneful defolating die! Against the honeft fylvan's will, You taught his iv'ry tufk to kill. Heaven, fond its favours to dispense, Gave him that weapon for defence: That weapon, for his guard defign'd, You render'd fatal to mankind.

He plann'd no death for thoughtless youth; You gave the venom to his tooth.

Blufa,

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