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Clio, stifled with the smell,
Into spleen and vapours fell,
By the Stygian streams that flew
From the dire infectious crew.
Not the stench of Lake Avernus
Could have more offended her nose;
Had she flown but o'er the top,
She had felt her pinions drop,
And by exhalations dire,
Though a goddess, must expire.
In a fright she crept away;
Bravely I resolv'd to stay.

When I saw the keeper frown,
Tipping him with half a crown,
Now, said I, we are alone,
Name your heroes one by one.

Who is that hell-featur'd brawler?
Is it Satan? No, 'tis Waller.
In what figure can a bard dress
Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress?
Honest keeper, drive him further,
In his looks are hell and murther;
See the scowling visage drop,
Just as when he murder'd T-p.
Keeper, show me where to fix
On the puppy pair of Dicks;
By their lantern jaws and leathern,

You might swear they both are brethren:
Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player,
Old acquaintance, are you there?
Dear companions hug and kiss,
Toast Old Glorious in your

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Tie them, keeper, in a tether,

Let them starve and stink together;
Both are apt to be unruly,
Lash them daily, lash them duly;
Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them,
Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them.
Keeper, yon old dotard smoke,
Sweetly snoring in his cloak;
Who is he? 'tis humdrum Wynne,
Half encompass'd by his kin:

There observe the tribe of Bingham,
For he never fails to bring 'em ;
While he sleeps the whole debate,
They submissive round him wait;
Yet would gladly see the hunks
In his grave, and search his trunks.

See, they gently twitch his coat,
Just to yawn and give his vote,
Always firm in his vocation,
For the court, against the nation.
Those are A-s, Jack and Bob,
First in every wicked job,
Son and brother to a queer
Brain-sick brute, they call a peer.
We must give them better quarter,
For their ancestor trod mortar,
And H-th, to boast his fame,
On a chimney cut his name.

There sit Clements, D-ks, and Harrison:

How they swagger from their garrison!
Such a triplet could you tell
Where to find on this side hell?
Harrison, and D-ks, and Clements,
Keeper, see they have their payments;
Every mischief's in their hearts;
If they fail, 'tis want of parts.

Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man!
Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman !
Chairman to your damn'd committee !
Yet I look on thee with pity.
Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan
Metamorphos'd to a Gorgon?
For thy horrid looks, I own,
Half convert me to a stone.
Hast thou been so long at school,

Now to turn a factious tool?
Alma Mater was thy mother,
Every young divine thy brother.
Thou, a disobedient varlet,
Treat thy mother like a harlot !
Thou ungrateful to thy teachers,
Who are all grown reverend preachers!
Morgan, would it not surprise one!
Turn thy nourishment to poison!
When you walk among your books,
They reproach you with their looks:
Bind them fast, or from their shelves
They will come and right themselves;
Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus,
All in arms prepare to back us.
Soon repent, or put to slaughter
Every Greek and Roman author.
Will you in your faction's phrase,
Send the clergy all to graze,
And, to make your project pass,
Leave them not a blade of grass?

How I want thee, humorous Hogarth!
Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art.
Were but you and I acquainted,
Every monster should be painted:
You should try your graving-tools
On this odious group of fools:
Draw the beasts as I describe them
From their features, while I gibe them;
Draw them like; for I assure you

You will need no car'catura;
Draw them so, that we may trace
All the soul in every face.

Keeper, I must now retire,
You have done what I desire :
But I feel my spirits spent
With the noise, the sight, the scent.
"Pray be patient; you shall find
Half the best are still behind:
You have hardly seen a score ;
I can show two hundred more."
Keeper, I have seen enough-
Taking then a pinch of snuff,

I concluded, looking round them,

"May their god, the devil, confound them!"

THOMSON-A. D. 1700-48.



The North-east spends his rage; he now shut up
Within his iron cave, th' effusive South
Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heav'n
Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent.
At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce staining ether, but by swift degrees
In heaps on heaps the doubled vapour sails
Along the loaded sky, and, mingling deep,
Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom;
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed,
Oppressing life, but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of ev'ry hope, of ev'ry joy,

The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze
Into a perfect calm, that not a breath

Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves
Of aspin tall. Th' uncurling floods, diffus'd
In glassy breadth seem through delusive lapse
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye
The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense,
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off,
And wait th' approaching sign to strike at once
Into the gen'ral choir. Ev'n mountains, vales,
And forests seem impatient to demand
The promis'd sweetness. Man superior walks
Amid the glad creation musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude. At last
The clouds consign their treasures to the fields,
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow
In large effusion o'er the freshen'd world.
The stealing show'r is scarce to patter heard
By such as wander through the forest walks,
Beneath th' umbrageous multitude of leaves.


Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks,
Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away,
And, whit'ning, down their mossy-tinctur'd stream
Descends the billowy foam, now is the time,
While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile,
To tempt the trout. The well-dissembled fly,
The rod, fine tap'ring with elastic spring,
Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line,
And all thy slender wat'ry stores prepare ;—
When with his lively ray the potent sun

Has pierc'd the streams, and rous'd the finny race;
Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair;
Chief, should the western breezes curling play,
And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds.
High to their fount, this day, amid the hills
And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks;
The next, pursue their rocky channel'd maze
Down to the river, in whose ample wave
Their little Naiads love to sport at large.
Just in the dubious point, where with the pool
Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils
Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank
Reverted plays in undulating flow,
There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly,
And, as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the springing game.
Straight as above the surface of the flood
They wanton rise, or urg'd by hunger leap,
Then fix with gentle twitch the barbed hook;
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some,
With various hand proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceiv'd,

A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space
He has enjoy'd the vital light of heav'n,
Soft disengage, and back into the stream
The speckled captive throw, but should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendant trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behoves you then to ply your finest art.
Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly,
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear;
At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun
Passes a cloud, he desp'rate takes the death
With sullen plunge: at once he darts along,
Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line;
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the shelt'ring weed,
The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode,
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand
That feels him still, yet to his furious course
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now,
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage,
Till floating broad upon his breathless side,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore
You gaily drag your unresisting prize.

Thus pass the temp'rate hours; but when the sun Shakes from his noondaythrone the scatt'ring clouds, Ev'n shooting listless languor through the deeps, Then seek the bank where flow'ring elders crowd,

Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang
The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,
With all the lowly children of the shade;
Or lie reclin'd beneath yon spreading ash

Hung o'er the steep; whence borne on liquid wing
The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk
High in the beetling cliff his eyry builds;
There let the classic page thy fancy lead
Through rural scenes, such as the Mantuan swain
Paints in the matchless harmony of song;
Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye;

Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And lost in lonely musing, in the dream
Confus'd of careless solitude, where mix
Ten thousand wand'ring images of things,
Sooth ev'ry gust of passion into peace,
All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,
That waken not disturb the tranquil mind.


When first the soul of love is sent abroad,
Warm through the vital air, and on the heart
Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin,
In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing,
And try again the long-forgottenst rain,
At first faint warbled; but no sooner grows
The soft infusion prevalent and wide,
Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows
In music unconfin'd. Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voic'd and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations. Ev'ry copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush
And wood-lark, o'er the kind contending throng
Superior heard, run through the sweetest length
Of notes; when list ning Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bulfinch answers from the grove;
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flow'ring furze
Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these,
Innum❜rous songsters in the fresh'ning shade
Of new-sprung leaves their modulations mix
Mellifluous: the jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
Aid the full concert, while the stock-dove breathes
A melancholy murmur through the whole.

"Tis love creates their melody, and all This waste of music is the voice of love.


Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods They haste away, all as their fancy leads, Pleasure, or food, or secret safety, prompts; That nature's great command may be obey'd: Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive

Indulg'd in vain. Some to the holly hedge Nestling repair, and to the thicket some; Some to the rude protection of the thorn Commit their feeble offspring; the cleft tree Offers its kind concealment to a few,

Their food its insects, and its moss their nests: Others apart, far in the grassy dale

Or rough'ning waste their humble texture weave:
But most in woodland solitudes delight,
In unfrequented glooms or shaggy banks,
Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,
Whose murmurs soothe them all the live-long day,
When by kind duty fixt. Among the roots
Of hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream,
They frame the first foundation of their domes,
Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,
And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought
But restless hurry through the busy air,
Beat by unnumber'd wings. The swallow sweeps
The slimy pool, to build his hanging house
Intent; and often from the careless back
Of herds and flocks a thousand tugging bills
Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserv'd,
Steal from the barn a straw; till soft and warm,
Clean and complete, their habitation grows.

As thus the patient dam assiduous sits,
Not to be tempted from her tender task,
Or by sharp hunger or by smooth delight,
Though the whole loosen'd spring around her blows;
Her sympathizing lover takes his stand
High on the opponent bank, and ceaseless sings
The tedious time away; or else supplies
Her place a moment, while she sudden flits
To pick the scanty meal. Th' appointed time
With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young
Warm'd and expanded into perfect life,
Their brittle bondage break and come to light,
A helpless family! demanding food
With constant clamour: O what passions then,
What melting sentiments of kindly care,
On the new parent seize! away they fly
Affectionate, and, undesiring, bear
The most delicious morsel to their young,
Which equally distributed, again
The search begins. Ev'n so a gentle pair,
By fortune sunk, but form'd of gen'rous mould,
And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast,
In some lone cot, amid the distant woods
Sustain'd alone by providential Heav'n,
Oft as they, weeping, eye their infant train,
Check their own appetites, and give them all.
Nor toil alone they scorn; exalting love,
By the great Father of the Spring inspir'd,
Gives instant courage to the fearful race,
And to the simple art. With stealthy wing,
Should some rude foot their woody haunts molest,
Amid the neighb'ring bush they silent drop,
And whirring thence, as if alarm'd, deceive
Th' unfeeling school-boy. Hence around the head
Of wand'ring swain the white-wing'd plover wheels
Her sounding flight, and then directly on,
In long excursion, skims the level lawn

To tempt him from her nest. The wild-duck hence
O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste
The heath-hen flutters: pious fraud! to lead
The hot-pursuing spaniel far astray.

Be not the Muse asham'd here to bemoan
Her brothers of the grove, by tyrant man
Inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage
From liberty confin'd and boundless air.
Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull,
Ragged, and all its bright'ning lustre lost;
Nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes
Which, clear and vig'rous, warbles from the beech.
But let not chief the nightingale lament
Her ruin'd care, too delicately fram'd,
To brook the harsh confinement of the cage.
Oft when returning with her loaded bill,
Th' astonish'd mother finds a vacant nest,
By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns
Robb'd, to the ground the vain provision falls;
Her pinions ruffle, and low-drooping, scarce
Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade,
Where, all abandon'd to despair, she sings
Her sorrows through the night, and on the bough
Sole sitting, still at ev'ry dying fall
Takes up again her lamentable strain
Of winding woe, till, wide around, the woods
Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.

But now the feather'd youth their former bounds, Ardent, disdain, and, weighing oft their wings, Demand the free possession of the sky. This one glad office more, and then dissolves Parental love at once, now needless grown. Unlavish wisdom never works in vain. 'Tis on some ev'ning, sunny, grateful, mild, When nought but balm is breathing thro' the woods, With yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes Visit the spacious heav'ns, and look abroad On nature's common, far as they can see,


Or wing their range and pasture. O'er the boughs
Dancing about, still at the giddy verge
Their resolution fails; their pinions still
In loose libration stretch'd, to trust the void
Trembling refuse, till down before them fly
The parent guides, and chide, exhort, command,
Or push them off. The surging air receives
Its plumy burden, and their self-taught wings
Winnow the waving element. On ground
Alighted, bolder up again they lead,
Farther and farther the length'ning flight,
Till vanish'd ev'ry fear, and ev'ry pow'r
Rous'd into life and action, light in air
Th' acquitted parents see their soaring race,
And, once rejoicing, never know them more.
High from the summit of a craggy cliff,
Hung o'er the deep, such as amazing frowns
On utmost Kilda's shore, whose lonely race
Resign the setting sun to Indian worlds,
The royal eagle draws his vig'rous young,
Strong pounc'd, and ardent with paternal fire:
Now fit to raise a kingdom of their own,

He drives them from his fort, the tow'ring seat
For ages of his empire, which in peace

Unstain'd he holds, while many a league to see
He wings his course, and preys in distant isles.

Should I my steps turn to the rural seat,
Whose lofty elms and venerable oaks
Invite the rook, who high amid the boughs,

In early spring, his airy city builds,

And ceaseless caws amusive; there, well-pleas'd,
I might the various polity survey

Of the mix'd household kind. The careful hen
Calls all her chirping family around,
Fed and defended by the fearless cock,
Whose breast with ardour flames as on he walks
Graceful, and crows defiance. In the pond
The finely-chequer'd duck before her train
Rows garrulous. The stately-sailing swan
Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale,
And arching proud his neck, with oary feet
Bears forward fierce, and guards his osier-isle,
Protective of his young. The turkey nigh,
Loud threat'ning, reddens; while the peacock
His ev'ry-coloured glory to the sun,
And swims in radiant majesty along.
O'er the whole homely scene the cooing dove
Flies thick in am'rous chase, and wanton rolls
The glancing eye, and turns the changeful neck.



The meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews.
At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east,
Blue through the dusk the smoking currents shine,
And from the bladed field the fearful hare
Limps aukward; while along the forest glade
The wild deer trip, and often turning, gaze
At early passenger. Music awakes
The native voice of undissembled joy,
And thick around the woodland hymns arise.
Rous'd by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves
His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells,
And from the crowded fold in order drives
His flock to taste the verdure of the morn.


Rushing thence in one diffusive band, They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog Compell'd, to where the mazy-running brook Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high, And that fair spreading in a pebbled shore. Urg'd to the giddy brink, much is the toil, The clamour much of men, and boys, and dogs, Ere the soft fearful people to the flood Commit their woolly sides; and oft the swain, On some, impatient, seizing, hurls them in: Embolden'd then, nor hesitating more, Fast, fast they plunge amid the flashing wave, And, panting, labour to the farthest shore. Repeated this, till deep the well-wash'd fleece Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream, Heavy, and dripping, to the breezy brow Slow move the harmless race, where, as they spread Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, Iuly disturb'd, and wond'ring what this wild

Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints The country fill, and, toss'd from rock to rock Incessant bleatings run around the hills. At last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks Are in the wattled pen innum'rous press'd, Head above head; and rang'd in lusty rows The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears. The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores, With all her gay-dress'd maids attending round. One, chief, in gracious dignity enthron'd, Shines o'er the rest the past'ral queen, and rays Her smiles, sweet beaming, on her shepherd-king; While the glad circle round them yield their souls To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. Meantime their joyous task goes on apace; Some mingling stir the melted tar, and some Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side To stamp his master's cipher ready stand; Others th' unwilling wether drag along; And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy Holds by the twisted horns th' indignant ram. Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft By needy man, that all-depending lord, How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies! What softness in its melancholy face, What dumb-complaining innocence appears! Fear not, ye gentle tribes! 'tis not the knife Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you wav'd; No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears, Who having now, to pay his annual care, Borrow'd your fleece, to you a cumbrous load, Will send you bounding to your hills again.


Now while I taste the sweetness of the shade, Where nature lies around deep lull'd in noon, Now come, bold fancy! spread a daring flight, And view the wonders of the torrid zone; Climes unrelenting! with whose rage compar'd, Yon blaze is feeble, and yon skies are cool. See how at once the bright effulgent sun, Rising direct, swift chases from the sky The short liv'd twilight, and with ardent blaze Looks gaily fierce through all the dazzling air: He mounts his throne; but kind before him sends, Issuing from out the portals of the morn, The gen'ral breeze, to mitigate his fire, And breathe refreshment on a fainting world. Great are the scenes, with dreadful beauty crown'd And barb'rous wealth, that see each circling year Returning suns and double seasons pass; Rocks rich in gems, and mountains big with mines, That on the high equator ridgy rise; Majestic woods, of ev'ry vig'rous green, Stage above stage, high waving o'er the hills; Or to the far horizon wide diffus’d, A boundless, deep, immensity of shade. Here lofty trees, to ancient song unknown, The noble sons of potent heat, and floods Prone-rushing from the clouds, rear high to Heav'n Their thorny stems, and broad around them throw Meridian gloom: here, in eternal prime,

Unnumber'd fruits, of keen delicious taste
And vital spirit, drink amid the cliffs,
And burning sands that bank the shrubby vales,
Redoubled day, yet in their rugged coats
A friendly juice to cool its rage contain.

Bear me, Pomona! to thy citron groves,
To where the lemon and the piercing lime,
With the deep orange glowing through the green,
Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclin'd
Beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes,
Fann'd by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit.
Deep in the night the massy locust sheds,
Quench my hot limbs, or lead me thro' the maze,
Embow'ring endless, of the Indian fig;
Or thrown at gayer ease on some fair brow,
Let me behold, by breezy murmurs cool'd,
Broad o'er my head the verdant cedar wave,
And high palmetos lift their graceful shade;
Or stretch'd amid these orchards of the sun,
Give me to drain the cocoa's milky bowl,
And from the palm to draw its fresh'ning wine;
More bounteous far than all the frantic juice
Which Bacchus pours. Nor on its slender twigs,
Low-bending, be the full pomegranate scorn'd;
Nor, creeping through the woods, the gelid race
Of berries. Oft in humble station dwells
Unboastful worth, above fastidious pomp.
Witness, thou best anâna! thou, the pride
Of vegetable life, beyond whate'er
The poets imag'd in the golden age:
Quick let me strip thee of thy tufty coat,
Spread thy ambrosial stores, and feast with Jove!
From these the prospect varies. Plains immense
Lie stretch'd below, interminable meads,
And vast savannahs, where the wand'ring eye,
Unfix'd, is in a verdant ocean lost.
Another Flora there, of bolder hues,

And richer sweets, beyond our gardens' pride,
Plays o'er the fields, and show'rs with sudden hand
Exuberant spring: for oft these vallies shift
Their green embroider'd robe to fiery brown,
And swift to green again, as scorching suns,
Or streaming dews and torrent rains, prevail.
Along these lonely regions, where retir'd
From little scenes of art great nature dwells
In awful solitude, and nought is seen

But the wild herds that own no master's stall,
Prodigious rivers roll their fatt'ning seas,
On whose luxuriant herbage, half conceal'd,
Like a fall'n cedar, far diffus'd his train,
Cas'd in green scales the crocodile extends.
The flood disparts; behold! in plaited mail
Behemoth rears his head. Glanc'd from his side
The darted steel in idle shivers flies;
He fearless walks the plain, or seeks the hills,
Where as he crops his varied fare, the herds,
In wid'ning circle round, forget their food,
And at the harmless stranger wond'ring gaze.

Peaceful beneath primeval trees, that cast
Their ample shade o'er Niger's yellow stream,
And where the Ganges rolls his sacred wave,
Or mid the central depth of black'ning woods,

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