To thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends,
The health, she wants, thy gentle Chloe sends.
Though much you suffer, think I suffer more,
Worse than an exile on my native shore.
Companions in your master's flight, you roam,
Unenvied by your haughty foes at home;
For ever near the royal outlaw's side,
You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide,

On glorious schemes and thoughts of empire dwell, Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
And with imaginary titles swell.

To vend the discontented statesman's thought,
Say, for thou know'st I own his sacred line, Though red with stripes, and recent from the thong
The passive doctrine, and the right divine, Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
Say, what new succors does the chief prepare ? The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade,
The strength of armies ? or the force of prayer? Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Does he from Heaven or Earth his hopes derive? Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
From saints departed, or from priests alive? (stand, And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.
Nor saints nor priests can Brunswick's troops with- Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause,
And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand ; His sword for James no brother sovereign draws.
Heaven to our vows may future kingdoms owe, The pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
But skill and courage win the crowns below. To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms,

Ere to thy cause, and thee, my heart inclin'd, And though he hears his darling son's complaint, Or love to party had seduc'd my mind,

Can hardly spare one tutelary saint, In female joys I took a dull delight,

But lists them all to guard his own abodes, Slept all the morn, and punted half the night: And into ready money coins his gods. But now, with fears and public cares possest, The dauntless Swede, pursued by vengeful foes, The church, the church, for ever breaks my rest. Scarce keeps his own hereditary snows; The postboy on my pillow I explore,

Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain And sist the news of every foreign shore,

With feasts regale our garter'd youth again. Studious to find new friends, and new allies; Safe, Bar-le-Duc, within thy silent grove What armies march from Sweden in disguise ; The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove. How Spain prepares her banners to unfold, The knight, who aims unerring from afar, And Rome deals out her blessings, and her gold: Th' adventurous knight, now quits the sylvan war: Then o'er the map my finger, taught to stray, Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd, Cross many a region marks the winding way ; Or grunt secure beneath the chestnut shade. From sea to sea, froin realm to realm I rove, Inconstant Orleans (still we mourn the day And grow a mere geographer by love :

That trusted Orleans with imperial sway) But still Avignon, and the pleasing coast Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends, That holds thee banish'd, claims my care the most : Far from the call of his desponding friends. Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes, Such are the terms, to gain Britannia's grace! And span the distance that between us lies. And such the terrors of the Brunswick race!

Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair, Was it for this the Sun's whole lustre fail'd, Whilst on his side he reckons half the fair : And sudden midnight o'er the Moon prevail'd! In Britain's lovely isle a shining throng

For this did Heaven display to mortal eyes War in his cause, a thousand beauties strong. Aërial knights and combats in the skies ! Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their powers ; Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red! Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours. And Thames driv'n backward show'd his secret bed We reason with such fluency and fire,

False auguries! th' insulting victor's scorn! The beaux we base, and the learned tire, Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn! Against her prelates plead the church's cause, O portents construed on our side in vain! And from our judges vindicate the laws.

Let never Tory trust eclipse again! Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms lost; Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye skies ! A crown, though late, thy sacred brows may boast; And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise ! Heaven seems through us thy empire to decree; To Rome then must the royal wanderer go, Those who win hearts, have given their hearts to thee. And fall a suppliant at the papal toe?

Hast thou not heard that when, profusely gay, His life in sloth inglorious must he wear, Our well-drest rivals grac'd their sovereign's day, One half in luxury, and one in prayer ? We stubborn damsels met the public view His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease, In lothesome wormwood, and repenting rue? The proffer'd purple and the hat may please. What Whig but trembled, when our spotless band Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race In virgin roses whiten'd half the land !

To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace, Who can forget what fears the foe possest, In solemn conclave sit, devoid of thought, When oaken-boughs mark'd every loyal breast ! And poll for points of faith his trusty vote! Less scar'd than Medway's stream the Norman stood, Be summon'd to his stall in time of need, When cross the plain he spied a marching wood, And with his casting suffrage fix a creed ! Till, near at hand, a gleam of swords betray'd Shall he in robes on stated days appear, The youth of Kent beneath its wandering shade ? And English heretics curse once a year!

Those who the succors of the fair despise, Garnet and Faux shall he with prayers invoke, May find that we have nails as well as eyes. And beg that Smithfield piles once more may smoke! T'hy female bards, O prince by fortune crost, Forbid it, Heaven! my soul, to fury wrought, At least more courage than thy men can boast : Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought. Our sex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet, From James and Rome I feel my heart decline, And purchas'd fame in many a well-fought street. And fear, O Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine ; From Drury-Lane, the region of renown, Yet still his share thy rival will contest, The land of love, the Paphos of the town, And still the double claim divides my breast. Fair patriots sallying oft have put to flight The fate of James with pitying eyes I view, With all their poles the guardians of the night, And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due: And bore, with screams of triumph, to their side To James my passion and my weakness guide, The leader's staff in all its painted pride. But reason sways me to the victor's side.

JAMES HAMMOND.

JAMES HAMMOND, a popular elegiac poet, was the Elegies” were published soon after his death by second son of Anthony Hammond, Esq. of Somer- Lord Chesterfield, and have been several times sham place, in Huntingdonshire. He was born in reprinted. It will seem extraordinary that the no1710, and was educated in Westminster school, ble editor has only once mentioned the name of where at an early age he obtained the friendship of Tibullus, and has asserted that Hammond, sincere several persons of distinction, among whom were in his love, as in friendship, spoke only the Lords Cobham, Chesterfield, and Lyttleton. He genuine sentiments of his heart, when there are so was appointed equerry to Frederic, Prince of Wales, many obvious imitations of the Roman poet, even and upon his interest was brought into parliament so far as the adoption of his names of Neera, Cynin 1741, for Truro in Cornwall. This was nearly thia, and Delia. It must, however, be acknow.he last stage of his life, for he died in June 1742, ledged, that he copies with the hand of a master, at the seat of Lord Cobham, at Stowe. An unfor- and that his imitations are generally managed with tunate passion for a young lady, Miss Dashwood, a grace that almost conceals their character. Still who was cold to his addresses, is thought to have as they are, in fact, poems of this class, however disordered his mind, and perhaps contributed to his skilfully transposed, we shall content ourselves with premature death.

transcribing one which introduces the name of his Hammond was a man of an amiable character, principal patron with peculiarly happy effect. and was much regretted by his friends. His “Love

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast !

Or lull'd to slumber by the beating rain,
ELEGY.

Secure and happy, sink at last 10 rest!
He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, Or, if the Sun in flaming Leo ride,

content with each other, they are retired into the By shady rivers indolently stray, country.

And with my Delia, walking side by side,

Hear how they murmur, as they glide away!
Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
And view their fields, with waving plenty crown'd, To stop, and gaze on Delia as I go!
Whom neighboring foes in constant terror hold, To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound. And teach my lovely scholar all I know!
While calmly poor I trifle life away,

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,

In silent happiness I rest unknown;
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,

Content with what I am, not what I seem,
But, cheaply blest, I'll scorn each vain desire. I live for Delia and myself alone.
With timely care I'll sow my little field,

Ah, foolish man, who thus of her possest,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
Nor blusb to spread the hay, the hook to wield, And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind!
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,

With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,

Nor trust to happiness that's not our own; Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, The smile of fortune might suspicion raise, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

But here I know that I am lov'd alone.

Stanhope, in wisdom as in wit divine,

Delia alone can please, and never tire, May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause, Exceed the paint of thought in true delight; With steady rein his eager wit confine,

With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, While maniy sense the deep attention draws. And equal rapture glows through every night : Let Stanhope speak his listening country's wrongs, Beauty and worth in her alike contend, My humble voice shall please one partial maid ; To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; For her alone I pen my tender song,

In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, Securely sitting in his friendly shade.

I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd. Stanhope shall come, and grace his rural friend, On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er, Delia shall wonder at her noble guest,

And dying press her with my clay-cold handWith blushing awe the riper fruit commend, Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, And for her husband's patron cull the best. Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand Hers be the care of all my little train,

Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare, While I with tender indolence am blest, Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill, The favorite subject of her gentle reign,

Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair, By love alone distinguish'd from the rest. Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still : For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow,

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed, In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock;

Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart; For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow, Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead, And sleep extended on the naked rock.

These weeping friends will do thy mournful part: Ah, what avails to press the stately bed, Let them, extended on the decent bier, And far from her midst tasteless grandeur weep, Convey the corse in melancholy state, By marble fountains lay the pensive head, Through all the village spread the tender tear, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep? While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.