Well, but the joy to fee my works in print!
My felf too pictur'd in a Mezzo Tint!
The preface done, the dedication fram'd,
With lies enough to make a lord asham'd!
Thus I ftep forth; an auth'refs in iome fort.
My patron's name? "O choose some lord at court.
"One that has money which he does not use,
"One you may flatter much, that is, abuse.

66

For if you're nice, and cannot change your note,
Regardless of the trimm'd, or untrimm'd coat;
"Believe me, friend, you'll ne'er be worth a groat."
Well then, to cut this mighty matter fhort,

I've neither friend, nor interest at court.
Quite from St. James's to thy ftairs, Whitehall,
I hardly know a creature, great or small,
Except one maid of honour, * worth 'em all.
I have no bufinefs there. Let those attend
The courtly levee, or the courtly friend,
Who more than fate allows them, dare to spend.
Or those whose avarice, with much, craves more,
The penfion'd beggar, or the titled poor.
There are the thriving breed, the tiny great!
Slaves! wretched flaves! the journeymen of state!
Philofophers! who calmly bear disgrace,
Patriots! who fell their country for a place.

Shall I for thefe disturb my brains with rhyme ?
For thefe, like Bavius creep, or Glencus climb ?
Shall I go late to reft, and early rife,

To be the very creature I despise?

With face unmov'd, my poem in my hand, Cringe to the porter, with the footman stand ? Perhaps my lady's maid, if not too proud, Will ftoop, you'll fay, to wink me from the croud. Will entertain me, till his lordship's dreft, With what my lady eats, and how the refts: How much she gave for fuch a birth-day gown, And how the trampt to every fhop in town. Sick at the news, impatient for my lord, I'm forc'd to hear, nay fmile at every word. Tem raps at last," His lordship begs to know "Your name? your bus'ness?"-Sir, I'm not a foe. I come to charm his lordship's lift'ning ears With verses, soft as musick of the fpheres. "Verfes!-Alas! his lordship feldom reads: "Pedants indeed with learning stuff their heads; "But my good lord, as all the world can tell, "Reads not even tradefmen's bills, and fcorns to fpell. "But truft your lays with me, fome things I've read, "Was born a poet, tho' no poet bred :

*Honourable Mifs Lovelace.

"And

"And if I find they'll bear my nicer view,
"I'll recommend your poetry.
and you.'

Shock'd at his civil impudence, I start,
Pocket my poem, and in hafte depart;
Refolv'd no more to offer up my wit,
Where footmen in the feat of critics fit.

Is there a lord * whose great unspotted foul,
Not places, penfions, ribbons can control;
Unlac'd, unpowder'd, almost unobferv'd,
Eats not on filver, while his train are starv'd;
Who tho' to nobles, or to kings ally'd

Dares walk on foot, while flaves in coaches ride;
With merit humble, and with greatness free,
Has bow'd to Freeman, and has din'd with me ;
Who bred in foreign courts, and early known,
Has yet to learn the cunning of his own;
To titles born, yet heir to no eftate,
And, harder still, too honeft to be great;
If fuch an one there be, well-bred, polite?
To Him I'll dedicate, for Him I'll write.
Peace to the reft. I can be no man's flave;
I ask for nothing, tho' I nothing have.
By fortune humbled, yet not funk fo low
To fhame a friend, or fear to meet a foe.
Meannefs, in ribbons, or in rags, I hate ;
And have not learnt to flatter, even the Great.
Few friends I afk, and those who love me well;
What more remains, these artless lines fhall tell.
Of boneft parents, not of great, I came;
Not known to fortune, quite unknown to fame.
Frugal and plain, at no man's cost they eat,
Nor knew a baker's, or a butcher's debt.
O be their precepts ever in my eye!
For one has learnt to live, and one to die.
Long may her widow'd age by heav'n be lent
Among my bleffings! and I'm well content.
I ask no more, but in fome calm retreat,
To fleep in quiet, and in quiet eat.
No noify flaves attending round my room;
My viands wholesome, and my waiters dumb.
No orphans cheated, and no widow's curse.
No houfhold lord, for better or for worse.
No monstrous fums, to tempt my foul to fin,
But juft enough to keep me plain, and clean.
And if fometimes, to fmooth the rugged way,
Charlot fhould fmile, or You approve my lay,
Enough for me. I cannot put my trust

In lords; fmile lies, eat toads, or lick the duft.

* Right Hon. Nevil Lord Lovelace, who died foon after in the 28th year of his age.

Fortune her favours much too dear may hold:
An honest heart is worth its weight in gold.

Her verfes to the memory of Lord AUBREY BEAU-
CLERK, we give as a fpecimen of her talent for Elegy.

*

Shall fo much worth in filence pafs away,

And no recording mufe that worth difplay,
Shall public fpirit like the private die,

The coward with the brave promifcuous lie?
The heroe's toils fhould be the mufes care,
In peace their guardian, and their shield in war :
Alike infpir'd, they mutual fuccours lend;
The mufes His, and He the mufes friend.

To me the folemn lyre you reach in vain,
The fimple warbler of fome idle strain.
What tho' the hero's fate the lay demands,
What tho' impell'd and urg'd by your commands;
Yet, weak of flight, in vain I prune the wing,
And, diffident of voice, attempt to fing.

What dreadful flaughter on the western coaft!
How many gallant warriors Britain loft,
A British mufe would willingly conceal;
But what the mufe would hide, our tears reveal.
Penfive, we oft recal those fatal shores,
Where Carthagena lifts her warlike tow'rs.
High o'er the deep th' embattl'd fortress heaves
Its awful front, its bafis in the waves;
Without impregnable by nature's care,
And arm'd within with all the rage of war.
Deep in oblivion fink the ill-omen'd hour,
That call'd our legions to the baneful shore !
Where death, in all her horrid
pomp array'd,
O'er the pale clime her direful influ'nce shed.
Want, famine, war, and peftilential breath,
All act fubfervient to the rage of death.
Thofe whom the wave, or fiercer war would spare,
Yield to the clime, and fink in filence there :
No friend to close their eyes, no pitying guest
To drop the filent tear, or ftrike the penfive breast,
Here Douglafs fell, the gallant and the brave!
Here much-lamented Watfon found a grave.
Here, early try'd, and acting but too well,
The lov'd, enoblcd, gen'rous BEAUCLERK fell.
Juft as the fpring of life began to bloom,
When ev'ry grace grew fofter on the tomb;
In all that health and energy of youth,
Which promis'd honours of maturer growth;
When round his head the wariour laurel iprung,

And tem prance brac'd the nerve which valour ftrung;
Written in 1743, at the request of his Lady.

When

When his full heart expanded to the goal,
And promis'd victory had flufh'd his foul,
He fell! His country loft her earliest boast;
His family a faithful guardian loft;
His friend a fafe companion; and his wife,
Her laft resource, her happiness in life.

O ever honour'd, ever happy fhade!
How well haft thou thy debt to virtue paid!
Brave, active, undifmay'd in all the past;
Compos'd, intrepid, fteady to the last.

When half thy limbs, and more than half was loft
Of life, thy valour still maintain'd its post;
Gave the laft fignal for thy country's good,
And dying, feal'd it with thy pureft blood.

Say, what is life? and wherefore was it given?
What the defign, the purpose mark'd by Heav'n?
Was it in lux'ry to diffolve the fpan,

To raise the animal and fink the man?
In the foft bands of pleasure, idly gay,
To frolick the immortal gift away?
To tell the tale, or flow'ry wreath to bind,
Then fhoot away, and leave no tract behind?
Arife no duties from the focial tie?

No kindred virtues from our native sky?
No truths for reafon, and the thought intense?
Nothing refult from foul, but all from fenfe?

O thoughtless reptile, Man!-Born! yet ask why?
Truly, for fomething ferious-Born to die.
Knowing this truth, can we be wife too foon?
And this once known, fure fomething's to be done,-
To live's to fuffer; act, is to exift;

And life, at beft, a tryal, not a feast:

Our bus'nefs virtue; and when that is done,

We cannot fit too late, or rife too foon.

"Virtue! What is it?-Whence does it arife!"

Ask of the brave, the focial, and the wife;
Of those who study'd for the gen'ral good,

Of those who fought, and purchas'd it with blood;
Of those who build, or plant, or who defign,
Ev'n thofe who dig the foil, or work the mine.
If yet not clearly feen, or understood;
Afk the humane, the pious, and the good,
To no one station, ftage, or part confin'd,
No fingle act of body, or of mind;
But whate'er lovely, juft, or fit we call,
The fair refult, the congregate of all.

* After both his legs were fhot off. See the account of his death in the profe-infcription in Westminster-Abbey, written by the author, under his Lady's directions. The verse by Dr. Young.

The

The active mind afcending by degrees,
Its various ties, relations, duties fees;
Examines parts, thence rifing to the whole,
Sees the connection, chain, and spring of foul;
Th' eternal fource, from whofe pervading ray
We caught the flame, and kindled into day.
Hence the collected truths coercive rife,
Oblige as nat'ral, or as moral ties.

Son, brother, country, friend, demand our care;
The common bounty all partake, must share.
Hence virtue, in its fource, and in its end,
To God as relative, to man as friend.

O friend to truth! to virtue! to thy kind!
O early call'd to leave these ties behind!
How fall the muse her vary'd tribute pay,
Indulge the tear, and not debase the lay!
Come, fair example of heroic truth!
Defcend, and animate the British youth :

Now, when their country's wrongs demand their care,
And proud Iberia meditates the war :

Now, while the trumpet founds her shrill alarms,
And calls forth all her gen'rous fons to arms;
Pour all thy genius, all thy martial fire

O'er the brave youth, and ev'ry breast inspire.
Say, this is virtue, glory, honour, fame,

To rife from floth, and catch the martial flame.
When fair occafion calls their vigour forth,
To meet the call, and vindicate its worth:
To roufe, to kindle, animate, combine,

Revenge their country's wrongs, and think on Thine.
Go, happy fhade! to where the good, and bleft

Enjoy eternal scenes of blifs and reft:

While we below thy fudden farewel mourn,

Collect thy virtues, weeping o'er the urn;
Recall their scatter'd luftre as they past,

And fee them all united in the last.

So the bright orb, which gilds the groves and ftreams, Mildly diffufive of his golden beams;

Drawn to a point, his strong concenter'd rays
More fulgent glow, and more intenfely blaze.

And Thou! late partner of his softer hour,
Ordain'd but just to meet, and meet no more;
Say, with the virtues how each grace combin'd!
How brave, yet focial! how refolv'd, yet kind!
With manners how fincere! polite with ease!
How diffident! and yet how fure to please!
Was he of ought but infamy afraid?
Was he not modeft as the blushing maid?
Afham'd to flatter, eager to commend;
A gen'rous mafter, and a fteady friend.

Hemane