Poem – Chorus Of Athenians

Strophe I.
Ye shades, where sacred truth is sought;

Groves, where immortal Sages taught;

Where heav’nly visions of Plato fir’d,

And Epicurus lay inspir’d!

In vain your guiltless laurels stood

Unspotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,

And steel now glitters in the Muses’ shades.
Antistrophe I. 

Oh heav’n-born sisters! source of art!

Who charm the sense, or mend the heart;

Who lead fair Virtue’s train along,

Moral Truth, and mystic Song!

To what new clime, what distant sky,

Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?

Say, will you bless the bleak Atlantic shore?

Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?
Strophe II.

When Athens sinks by fates unjust,

When wild Barbarians spurn her dust;

Perhaps ev’n Britain’s utmost shore,

Shall cease to blush with strager’s gore.

See Arts her savage sons control,

And Athens rising near the pole!

‘Till some new Tyrant lifts his purple hand,

And civil madness tears them from this land.
Antistrophe II.

Ye Gods! what justice rules the ball?

Freedom and Arts together fall; 

Fools grant whate’er Ambition craves,

And men, once ignorant, are slaves.

Oh curs’d effects of civil hate,

In ev’ry age, in ev’ry state!

Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,

Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds. 

Poem – Verses Left My Mr.Pope

With no poetic ardour fir’d
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;

That here he lov’d, or here expir’d,

Begets no numbers grave or gay.
Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie

Stretch’d out in honour’s nobler bed,

Beneath a nobler roof – the sky.
Such flames as high in patriots burn,

Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;

And such as wicked kings may mourn,

When freedom is more dear than life. 

Poem – Macer: A Character 

When simple Macer, now of high renown,
First fought a Poet’s Fortune in the Town,

‘Twas all th’ Ambition his high soul could feel,

To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele.

Some Ends of verse his Betters might afford, 

And gave the harmless fellow a good word.

Set up with these he ventur’d on the Town,

And with a borrow’d Play, out-did poor Crown.

There he stopp’d short, nor since has write a tittle,

But has the wit to make the most of little;

Like stunted hide-bound Trees, that just have got

Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot.

Now he begs Verse, and what he gets commends,

Not of the Wits his foes, but Fools his friends.
So some coarse Country Wench, almost decay’d,

Trudges to town, and first turns Chambermaid;

Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay;

She flatters her good Lady twice a day;

Thought wond’rous honest, tho’ of mean degree,

And strangely lik’d for her Simplicity:

In a translated Suit, then tries the Town, 

With borrow’d Pins, and Patches not her own:

But just endur’d the winter she began,

And in four months a batter’d Harridan. 

Now nothing left, but wither’d, pale, and shrunk,

To bawd for others, and go shares with Punk.