Oh! mortals, short of sight, who think the past O'erblown misfortune still shall prove the last : Alas! misfortunes travel in a train, And oft in life form one perpetual chain ; Fear buries fear, and ills on ills attend, Till life and sorrow meet one common end.

She thinks that she has nought but death to fear, And death is conquer'd. Worse than death is

near:

Her rigid trials are not yet complete ;
The news arrives of her great father's fate:
She sees his hoary head, all white with age,
A victim to th' offended monarch's rage.
How great the mercy, had she breath'd her last,
Ere the dire sentence on her father past!

A fonder parent Nature never knew ;
And as his age increas'd, his fondness grew.
A parent's love ne'er better was bestow'd;
The pious daughter in her heart o'erflow'd.
And can she from all weakness still refrain?
And still the firmness of her soul maintain ?
Impossible! a sigh will force its way;
One patient tear her mortal birth betray;

BOOK IL

Hic pietatis honos? sic nos in sceptra reponis?

VIRC.

HER Guilford clasps her, beautiful in death,
And with a kiss recalls her flecting breath.
To tapers thus, which by a blast expire,
A lighted taper, touch'd, restores the fire:
She rear'd her swimming eye, and saw the light,
And Guilford too, or she had loath'd the sight:
Her father's death she bore, despis'd her own,
But now she must, she will, have leave to groan:
"Ah! Guilford," she began, and would have spoke ;
But sobs rush'd in, and every accent broke:
Reason itself, as gusts of passion blew,
Was ruffled in the tempest, and withdrew.

So the youth lost his image in the well,
When tears upon the yielding surface fell:
The scatter'd features slid into decay,
And spreading circies drove his face away.
To touch the soft affections, and control
The manly temper of the bravest soul,

sighs,

A's silent dews descend, and vapours rise.
Celestial Patience! how dost thou defeat
The foe's proud menace, and elude his hate?
While Passion takes his part, betrays our peace ;
To death and torture swells each slight disgrace;
By not opposing, thou dost ills destroy,
And wear thy conquer'd sorrows into joy.
Now she revolves within her anxious mind,
What woe still lingers in reserve behind.
Griefs rise on griefs, and she can see no bound,
While Nature lasts, and can receive a wound.
The sword is drawn: the queen to rage inclin'd,
By mercy, nor by piety, confin'd.

What mercy can the zealot's heart assuage,
Whose piety itself converts to rage?

She thought, and sigh'd. And now the blood began

To leave her beauteous check all cold and wan.
New sorrow dimm'd the lustre of her eye,
And on her cheek the fading roses die.
Alas! should Guilford too-when now she's brought
To that dire view, that precipice of thought,
While there she trembling stands, nor dares look
down,

Nor can recede, till Heaven's decrees are known;
Cure of all ills, till now her lord appears-
But not to cheer her heart and dry her tears!
Not now, as usual, like the rising day,
To chase the shadows and the damps away:
But, like a gloomy storm, at once to sweep
And plunge her to the bottom of the deep.
Black were his robes, dejected was his air,
His voice was frozen by his cold despair:
Slow, like a ghost, he mov'd with solemn pace;
A dying paleness sat upon his face.

Back she recoil'd, she smote her lovely breast,
Her eyes the anguish of her heart confess'd;
Struck to the soul, she stagger'd with the wound,
And sunk, a breathless image, to the ground.

Thus the fair lily, when the sky's o'ercast,
At first but shudders in the feeble blast;
But when the winds and weighty rains descend,
The fair and upright stem is forc'd to bend ;
Till broke at length, its snowy leaves are shed,
And strew with dying sweets their native bed.

And drops of love distilling from the fair?
It melts us down; our pains delight bestow;
And we with fondness languish o'er our woe.

This Guilford prov'd; and, with excess of pain,
And pleasure too, did to his bosom strain
The weeping fair: sunk deep in soft desire,
Indulg'd his love, and nurs'd the raging fire:
Then tore himself away; and, standing wide,
As fearing a relapse of fondness, cried,
With ill-dissembled grief; "My life, forbear!
You wound your Guilford with each cruel tear:
Did you not chide my grief?-Repress your own;
Nor want compassion for yourself alone:

Have you beheld, how, from the distant main,
The thronging waves roll on, a numerous train,
And foam, and bellow, tiil they reach the shore;
There burst their noisy pride, and are no more;
Thus the successive flows of human race,
Chas'd by the coming, the preceding chase;
They sound, and swell, their haughty heads they

rear;

Then fall, and flatten, break, and disappear.
Life is a forfeit we must shortly pay;
And where's the mighty Incre of a day?
Why should you mourn my fate? 'Tis most unkind;
Your own you bore with an unshaken nind:
And which, can you imagine, was the dart
That drank most blood, sunk deepest in my heart?
I cannot live without you; and my doom

I meet with joy, to share one common tomb.-
And are again your tears profusely spilt !
Oh! then, my kindness blackens to my guilt;
It foils itself, it it recall your pain;
Life of my life, I beg you to refrain !
The load which Fate imposes, you increase;
And help, Maria, to destroy my peace."

But, oh! against himself his labour turn'd;
The more He comforted, the more She mourn'd:
Compassion swells our grief; words soft and kind
But sooth our weakness, and dissolve the mind:
Her sorrow flow'd in streams: nor her's alone;
While that he blam'd. he yielded to his own.
Where are the smiles she wore, when she, so late,
Hail'd him great partner of the regal state;
When orient gems around her temples blaz'd,
And bending nations on the glory gaz'd?

'Tis now the queen's command, they both retreat,
To weep with dignity, and mourn in state :
She forms the decent misery with joy,
And loads with pomp the wretch she would destroy.
A spacious hall is hung with black; all light
Shut out, and noon-day darken'd into night.
From the mid-roof a lamp depends on high,
Like a dim crescent in a clouded sky:
It sheds a quivering melancholy gloom,
Which only shows the darkness of the room.
A shining axe is on the table laid;

A dreadful sight! and glitters through the shade.
In this sad scene the lovers are confin'd;
A scene of terrours, to a guilty mind!

A scene, that would have damp'd with rising cares,
And quite extinguish'd, every love but theirs.
What can they do? They fix their mournful eyes-
Then Guilford, thus abruptly; "I despise
An empire lost; I fling away the crown;
Numbers have laid that bright delusion down;
But where's the Charles, or Dioclesian where,
Could quit the blooming, wedded, weeping fair?
Oh! to dwell ever on thy lip! to stand
In full possession of thy snowy hand!
And, through th' unclouded crystal of thine eye,
The heavenly treasures of the mind to spy!
Till rapture reason happily destroys,
And my soul wanders through immortal joys!
Give me the world, and ask me, Where's my bliss?
I clasp thee to my breast, and answer, This.
And shall the grave"-He groans, and can no more;
But all her charms in silence traces o'er;
Her lip, her cheek, and eye, to wonder wrought;
And, wondering, sees, in sad presaging thought,
From that fair neck, that world of beauty fall,
And roll along the dust, a ghastly ball!

Oh! let those tremble, who are greatly bless'd!
For who, but Guilford, could be thus distress'd?
Come hither, all you happy, all you great,
From flowery meadows, and from rooms of state;
Nor think I call, your pleasures to destroy,
But to refine, and to exalt your joy:
Weep not; but, smiling, fix your ardent care
On nobler titles than the brave or fair.

Was ever such a mournful, moving, sight? See, if you can, by that dull, trembling, light: Now they embrace; and, mix'd with bitter woe, Like Isis and her Thames, one stream they flow: Now they start wide; fix'd in benumbing care, They stiffen into statues of despair: Now, tenderly severe, and fiercely kind, They rush at once; they fling their cares behind, And clasp, as if to death; new vows repeat; And, quite wrapp'd up in love, forget their fate. A short delusion! for the raging pain Returns; and their poor hearts must bleed again. Meantime, the queen new cruelty decreed; But ill content that they should only bleed, A priest is sent; who, with insidious art, Instills his poison into Suffolk's heart; And Guilford drank it: hanging on the breast, He from his childhood was with Rome possest. When now the ministers of death draw nigh, And in her dearest lord she first must die, The subtle priest, who long had watch'd to find The most unguarded passes of her mind, Bespoke her thus: "Grieve not, 'tis in your power Your lord to rescue from this fatal hour."

Her bosom pants; she draws her breath with pain; A sudden horrour thrills through every vein;

Life seems suspended, on his words intent;
And her soul trembles for the great event.

The priest proceeds: “Embrace the faith of Rome,
And ward your own, your lord's, and father's doom.”
Ye blessed spirits! now your charge sustain ;
The past was ease; now first she suffers pain.
Must she pronounce her father's death? must she
Bid Guilford bleed?-It must not, cannot, be.
It cannot be! But 't is the Christian's praise,
Above impossibilities to raise

The weakness of our nature; and deride
Of vain philosophy the boasted pride.
What though our feeble sinews scarce impart
A moment's swiftness to the feather'd dart;
Though tainted air our vigorous youth can break,
And a chill blast the hardy warrior shake,
Yet are we strong: hear the loud tempest roar
From east to west, and call us weak no`more;
The lightning's unresisted force proclaims
Our might; and thunders raise our humble names ;
"Tis our Jehovah fills the Heavens; as long
As he shall reign Almighty, we are strong:
We, by devotion, borrow from his throne;
And almost make Omnipotence our own :
We force the gates.of Heaven by fervent prayer ;
And call forth triumph out of man's despair.

Our lovely mourner, kneeling, lifts her eyes
And bleeding heart, in silence, to the skies,
Devoutly sad-Then, brightening, like the day,
When sudden winds sweep scatter'd clouds away,
Shining in majesty, till now unknown;
And breathing life and spirit scarce her own;
She, rising, speaks: "If these the terms??

Here, Guilford, cruel Guilford, (barbarous man Is this thy love?) as swift as lightning ran; O'erwhelm'd her,with tempestuous sorrow fraught, And stifled, in its birth, the mighty thought; Then bursting fresh into a flood of tears, Fierce, resolute, delirious with his fears; His fears for her alone: he beat his breast, And thus the fervour of his soul exprest: "Oh! let thy thought o'er our past converse rove, And show one moment uninflam'd with love! Oh! if thy kindness can no longer last, In pity to thyself, forget the past! Else wilt thou never, void of shame and fear, Pronounce his doom, whom thou hast held so dear: Thou who hast took me to thy arms, and swore Empires were vile, and Fate could give no more; That to continue, was its utmost power, And make the future like the present hour. Now call a ruffian; bid his cruel sword Lay wide the bosom of thy worthless lord; Transfix his heart (since you its love disclaim), And stain his honour with a traitor's name. This might perhaps be borne without remorse ; But sure a father's pangs will have their force! Shall his good age, so near its journey's end, Through cruel torment to the grave descend? His shallow blood all issue at a wound, Wash a slave's feet, and smoke upon the ground? But he to you has ever been severe;

Then take your vengeance"-Suffolk now drew

"Now deep in years, and forward in decay,
That axe can only rob me of a day;
For thee, my soul's desire! I can't refrain ;
And shall my tears, my last tears, flow in vain?
When you shall know a mother's tender name,
My heart's distress no longer will you blame."
At this, afar his bursting groans were heard;
The tears ran trickling down his silver beard:
He snatch'd her hand, which to his lips he prest,
And bid her plant a dagger in his breast;
Then, sinking, call'd her piety unjust,
And soil'd his hoary temples in the dust.

Hard-hearted men! will you no mercy know?
Has the queen brib'd you to distress her foe?
O weak deserters to misfortune's part,
By false affection thus to pierce her heart!
When she had soar'd, to let your arrows fly,
And fetch her bleeding from the middle sky!
And can her virtue, springing from the ground,
Her flight recover, and disdain the wound,
When cleaving love, and human interest, bind
The broken force of her aspiring mind;
As round the generous eagle, which in vain
Exerts her strength, the serpent wreaths his train,
Her struggling wings entangles, curling plies
His poisonous tail, and stings her as she flies!
While yet the blow's first dreadful weight she
feels,

And with its force her resolution reels;
Large doors, unfolding with a mournful sound,
To view discover, weltering on the ground.
Three headless trunks, of those whose arms main-
tain'd,

And in her wars immortal glory gain'd;
The lifted axe assur'd her ready doom,
And silent mourners sadden'd all the room.
Shall I proceed; or here break off my tale?
Nor truths, to stagger human faith, reveal.

She met this utmost malice of her fate
With Christian dignity, and pious state:
The beating storin's propitious rage she blest,
And all the martyr triumph'd in her breast:
Her lord and father, for a moment's space,
She strictly folded in her soft embrace !
Then thus she spoke, while angels heard on high,
And sudden gladness smil'd along the sky:

"Your over-fondness has not mov'd my hate; I am well pleas'd you make my death so great; I joy I cannot save you; and have given Two lives, much dearer than my own to Heaven, If so the queen decrees' :-But I have cause To hope my blood will satisfy the laws; And there is mercy still, for you, in store: With me the bitterness of death is o'er. He shot his sting in that farewell-embrace ; And all, that is to come, is joy and peace. Then let mistaken sorrow be supprest, Nor seem to envy my approaching rest." Then, turning to the ministers of Fate, She, smiling, says, "My victory's complete: And tell your queen, I thank her for the blow, And grieve my gratitude I cannot show : A poor return 1 leave in England's crown, For everlasting pleasure, and renown: Her guilt alone allays this happy hour; Her guilt the only vengeance in her power." Not Rome, untouch'd with sorrow, heard her fate; And fierce Maria pitied her too late.

Here she embraces them.

LOVE OF FAME,

THE

UNIVERSAL PASSION;

IN

SEVEN CHARACTERISTICAL SATIRES.

-Fulgente trahit constrictos gloria curru Non minus ignotos generosis. HOR.

PREFACE.

THESE Satires have been favourably received at home and abroad. I am not conscious of the least malevolence to any particular person through all the characters; though some persons may be so selfish as to engross a general application to themselves. A writer in polite letters should be content with reputation; the private amusement he finds in his compositions; the good influence they have on his severer studies; that admission they give him to his superiors; and the possible good effect they may have on the public; or else he should join to his politeness some more lucrative qualification.

But it is possible, that satire may not do much good: men may rise in their affections to their follies, as they do to their friends, when they are abused by others. It is much to be feared, that misconduct will never be chased out of the world by satire; all therefore that is to be said for it, is, that misconduct will certainly never be chased out of the world by satire, if no satires are written: nor is that term unapplicable to the graver compositions. Ethics, Heathen and Christian, and the Scriptures themselves, are, in a great measure, a satire on the weakness and iniquity of men; and some part of that satire is in verse too: nay, in the first ages, philosophy and poetry were the same thing; wisdom wore no other dress: so that, I hope, these satires will be the more easily pardoned that misfortune by the severe. If they like not the fashion, let them take them by the weight; for some weight they have, or the author has failed in his aim. Nay, historians themselves may be considered as satirists, and satirists most severe; since such are most human actions, that to relate is to expose them.

No man can converse much in the world, but, at what he meets with, he must either be insensible, or grieve, or be angry, or smile. Some passion (if we are not impassive) must be moved; for the general conduct of mankind is by no means a thing indifferent to a reasonable and virtuous man. Now to smile at it, and turn it into ridicule, I think most eligible; as it hurts ourselves least, and gives vice and folly the greatest offence: and that for this reason; because what men aim at by them, is, generally, public opinion and esteem; which truth is the subject of the following satires; and joins them together, as several branches from the same. root: an unity of design, which has not, I think, in a set of satires, been attempted before.

Laughing at the misconduct of the world, will, in a great measure, ease us of any more disagreeable passion about it. One passion is more effectually driven out by another, than by reason; what