So cunning was the apparatus,

The powerful pot-hooks did so move him,
That, will he, nill he, to the great house
He went, as if the devil drove him.

Yet on his way (no sign of grace,

For folks in fear are apt to pray)

To Phoebus he preferr'd his case,

And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.

The godhead would have back'd his quarrel; But with a blush, on recollection,

Own'd that his quiver and his laurel

'Gainst four such eyes were no protection.

The court was sate, the culprit there,

Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping, The lady Janes and Joans repair,

And from the gallery stand peeping:

Such as in silence of the night

Come (sweep) along some winding entry, (Styack has often seen the sight,)

Or at the chapel-door stand sentry.

In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd,
Sour visages, enough to scare ye,

High dames of honour once, that garnish'd The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary.

The peeress comes. The audience stare,
And doff their hats with due submission:
She curtsies, as she takes her chair,
To all the people of condition.

The bard, with many an artful fib,
Had in imagination fenced him,
Disproved the arguments of Squib,

And all that Groom could urge against him.

But soon his rhetoric forsook him,
When he the solemn hall had seen;

A sudden fit of ague shook him,
He stood as mute as poor Macleane.

Yet something he was heard to mutter,
"How in the park beneath an old tree,
(Without design to hurt the butter,
Or any malice to the poultry,)

"He once or twice had penn'd a sonnet; Yet hoped, that he might save his bacon: Numbers would give their oaths upon it,

He ne'er was for a conjurer taken."

The ghostly prudes with hagged face
Already had condemn'd the sinner.
My lady rose, and with a grace-

She smiled, and bade him come to dinner.

"Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget,

Why, what can the Viscountess mean?” (Cried the square-hoods in woful fidget,) "The times are alter'd quite and clean!

“Decorum's turn'd to mere civility; Her air and all her manners show it Commend me to her affability!

Speak to a commoner and poet!"

[Here five hundred stanzas are lost.]

And so God save our noble king,

And guard us from long-winded lubbers, That to eternity would sing,

And keep my lady from her rubbers.

POSTHUMOUS POEMS AND

FRAGMENTS.

ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE.

[Left unfinished by Gray. The additions by Mason are distinguished by inverted commas.]

Now the golden morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangled wing,

With vermeil cheek and whisper soft

She wooes the tardy spring:
Till April starts, and calls around

The sleeping fragrance from the ground;

And lightly o'er the lively scene

Scatters his freshest tenderest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance,
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy:

And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light.

Rise, my soul! on wings of fire,
Rise the rapt'rous choir among:
Hark! 'tis nature strikes the lyre,
And leads the gen'ral song:
Warm let the lyric transport flow,
Warm as the ray that bids it glow;
And animates the vernal grove

With health, with harmony, and love.'

Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow,
No yesterday nor morrow know;
'Tis man alone that joy descries
With forward, and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past misfortune's brow

Soft reflection's hand'can trace; And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw A melancholy grace; While hope prolongs our happier hour, Or deepest shades, that dimly lower