Poem – Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield shade,
In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

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Poem – Sound & Sense 

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, 
As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 

‘Tis not enough no harshness gives offense, 

The sound must seem an echo to the sense: 

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 

And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; 

But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 

The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar; 

When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw, 

The line too labors, and the words move slow; 

Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, 

Flies o’er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. 

Hear how Timotheus’ varied lays surprise, 

And bid alternate passions fall and rise! 

Poem  – Ode on Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.
Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.
Blest! who can unconcern’dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease

Together mix’d; sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me dye;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lye. 

Poem – Chorus of Youths and Virgins

Semichorus.

Oh Tyrant Love! hast thou possest

The prudent, learn’d, and virtuous breast?

Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,

And Arts but soften us to feel thy flame.

Love, soft intruder, enters here,

But ent’ring learns to be sincere.

Marcus with blushes owns he loves, 

And Brutus tenderly reproves.

Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,

Which Nature has imprest?

Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire

The mild and gen’rous breast?
Chorus.

Love’s purer flames the Gods approve;

The Gods and Brutus bent to love:

Brutus for absent Portia sighs,

And sterner Cassius melts at Junia’s eyes.

What is loose love? a transient gust,

Spent in a sudden storm of lust,

A vapour fed from wild desire,

A wand’ring, self-consuming fire,

But Hymen’s kinder flames unite;

And burn for ever one;

Chaste as cold Cynthia’s virgin light,

Productive as the Sun.
Semichorus.

Oh source of ev’ry social tie,

United wish, and mutual joy!

What various joys on one attend,

As son, as father, brother husband, friend?

Whether his hoary sire he spies,

While thousand grateful thoughts arise;

Or meets his spouse’s fonder eye;

Or views his smiling progeny;

What tender passions take their turns,

What home-felt raptures move?

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,

With rev’rence, hope, and love.
Chorus. 

Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises,

Hence false tears, deceits, disguises,

Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises;

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine

Purest love’s unwasting treasure,

Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,

Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;

Sacred Hymen! these are thine. 

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.