Retiring from the crowd are to thy shades inclin'd.
O'er me, alas! thou dost too much prevail :
I feel thy force whilst I against thee rail;
I feel my verse decay, and my crampt numbers fail.
Through thy black jaundice I all objects see,
As dark and terrible as thee,

My lines decried, and my employment thought
An useless folly, or presumptuous fault;
Whilst in the Muses' paths I stray,

Whilst in their groves, and by their sacred springs
My hand delights to trace unusual things,
And deviates from the known and common way:
Nor will in fading silks compose

Faintly th' inimitable rose,

Fill up an ill-drawn bird, or paint on glass
The sovereign's blurr'd and undistinguish'd face,
The threatening angel, and the speaking ass.
Patron thou art to every gross abuse,

The sullen husband's feign'd excuse,

When the ill humour with his wife he spends, And bears recruited wit and spirits to his friends. The son of Bacchus pleads thy power,

As to the glass he still repairs,

Pretends but to remove thy cares,

Snatch from thy shades one gay and smiling hour, And drown thy kingdom in a purple shower. When the coquette, whom every fool admires,

Would in variety be fair,

And, changing hastily the scene

From light, impertinent, and vain,
Assumes a soft and melancholy air,
And of her eyes rebates the wandering fires;
The careless posture, and the head reclin'd,
The thoughtful and composed face,
Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent mind,
Allows the fop more liberty to gaze,
Who gently for the tender cause inquires;
The cause indeed is a defect in sense,

Yet is the spleen alledg'd, and still the dull

pretence.

But these are thy fantastic harms,

The tricks of thy pernicious stage,

Which do the weaker sort engage;

Worse are the dire effects of thy more powerful charms.

By thee, Religion, all we know
That should enlighten here below,
Is veil'd in darkness, and perplext

With anxious doubts, with endless scruples vext,
And some restraint implied from each perverted

text,

Whilst touch not, taste not, what is freely given,
Is but thy niggard voice, disgracing bounteous

Heaven.

1

From speech restrain'd, by thy deceits abus'd,
To deserts banish'd, or in cells reclus'd,
Mistaken votaries to thy powers divine,
Whilst they a purer sacrifice design,

Do but the spleen obey, and worship at thy shrine. In vain to chase thee every art we try,

In vain all remedies apply,

In vain the Indian leaf infuse,

Or the parch'd Eastern berry bruise;

Some pass in vain those bounds, and nobler liquors

use.

Now harmony in vain we bring,

Inspire the flute, and touch the string.

From harmony no help is had;

Music but soothes thee, if too sweetly sad,

And if too light, but turns thee gaily mad.
Tho' the physician's greatest gains,

Altho' his growing wealth he sees

Daily increas'd by ladies' fees,

Yet dost thou baffle all his studious pains.

Not skilful Lower thy source could find,

Or thro' the well-dissected body trace

The secret, the mysterious ways,

By which thou dost surprize, and prey upon the mind.

L

Tho' in the search, too deep for human thought, With unsuccessful toil he wrought,

Till thinking thee to've catch'd, himself by thee was caught,

Retain'd thy prisoner, thy acknowledg'd slave,

And sunk beneath thy chain to a lamented grave.

ESTHER VANHOMRIGH,

Born died 1721.

Swift's Vanessa.

Ode to Spring.

HAIL, blushing goddess, beauteous Spring!
Who, in thy jocund train dost bring
Loves and graces, smiling hours,
Balmy breezes, fragrant flowers;
Come, with tints of roseate hue,
Nature's faded charms renew.

Yet why should I thy presence hail?
To me no more the breathing gale

Comes fraught with sweets, no more the rose
With such transcendant beauty blows,
As when Cadenus blest the scene,
And shar'd with me those joys serene.
When, unperceived, the lambent fire
Of friendship kindled new desire;
Still listening to his tuneful tongue,
The truths which angels might have sung
Divine imprest their gentle sway,
And sweetly stole my soul away.