The Graces gave her dignity of air,
A face that sure would make a saint run mad; Venus pronounc'd her, fairest of the fair,
Who many a blithsome heart should render sad.
Minerva lightning to her eyes convey'd,
A melting softness mingled with their fire;
Nature with witching smiles, her face array'd,
And made her voice harmonious as the lyre.
Momus gave quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Such fascinating pow'r to please the soul,
That all, who caught the focus of her smiles,
Confess'd the magic of her soft controul.
Unable to repress the falling tear,
Each felt her beauty, did his heart ensnare; Like the poor bird, whom fascinating fear,
Throws in the serpent's mouth, when soaring in the
WITH kind complacence, hear a suppliant's pray's, -
And spread, O Sleep, thy pinions o'er his breast;
Him some rich drops from heav'nly Lethe spare,
And hush him slumb'ring to the shades of rest.
Whose soul no evil conscience keeps awake,
That like a death watch, ticking in the ear,
With weak low sound, makes ev'ry nerve to shake,
Midst horrid pauses of convulsive fear.
Conscience which, whisp'ring, more the soul appals
Than Etna's sudden bursts of rocky fire;
The dreadful roar when some proud city falls,
Or that loud crash when elements conspire.
O gentle Sleep, who seal'st the ship boy's eyes,
When the white billows with tremendous roar,
Curling their monstrous tops like mountains rise,
And roll impetuous 'gainst the foaming shore.
When perch'd aloft upon the main topmast,
(His torpid body numb'd by thy sweet charm,) Wearied he sleeps midst ev'ry shiv'ring blast,
Senseless of fears, the watchful breast alarm.
Why o'er a boy thus cradled in the shroud,
Thy magic influence so kindly shed,
And not o'er those of high distinction proud,
Who on a downy pillow lay their head?
If to the rich thy slumbers thou refuse,
And poverty alone thy blessings taste,
Then grant, kind Heav'n, this rich but temp'rate muse,
To some poor cottage may his footsteps haste.
There blest with poverty, if blest with sleep,
On pillow'd straw repose the throbbing head,
Whilst sweet oblivion o'er his eyelids creep,
As death's dark mantle on the tombstone spread.
With coarsest cloathing, water from the spring,
Alternate labour, but alternate rest;
Far happier then, this wearied muse would sing,
Than if in all the pomp of splendor drest.
Was intended to have been spoken at a Play, which Lord
B***y*** had once the idea of giving at his
Theatre the day he came of age, to some
Friends, and to his Creditors.
OYER, Oyer, Oyer, our most noble lord
Bids you all welcome to his festive board;
And me has sent to greet his honor'd friends,
To whom respectful compliments he sends.
But first
ye Belles, whose charms I fondly view,
Tho' Cupid's arrows pierce me through and through,
And all the throbbing pains of love renew.
Belles such as Britain only can produce,
Whose rich productions, for their shew or use,
Exceed in beauty those of other states,
Whence Europe envies what my heart elates.
My Lord to-night performs a noble part,
And what all noblemen should learn by heart:
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