Gloomy Pluto ! king of terrors,

Arm’d in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors

Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,

Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,

Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy smooth Mæander

Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander,

With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. Thus when Philomela, drooping,

Softly seeks her silent mate; See the bird of Juno stooping;

Melody resigns to fate.

ON

A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.

I Know the thing that's most uncommon;

(Envy, be silent and attend!) I know a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a friend : Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour,

Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good humour,

And sensible soft melancholy,

• Has she not faults then, (Envy says) sir ?

Yes, she has one, I must aver ;
When all the world conspires to praise her,

The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

ON HIS

GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,

COMPOSED OF MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND

MINERALS.

Thou who shalt stop where Thames' translucent

wave

Shines a broad mirror through the shady cave;
Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil,
And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill;
Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow,
And latent metals innocently glow;
Approach. Great Nature studiously behold!
And
eye

the mine without a wish for gold. Approach; but awful! lo! the' Ægerian grot, Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought, Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through March

mont's soul. Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and the poor.

ON RECEIVING FROM THE RIGHT HON.

THE LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY

A STANDISH AND TWO PENS'.

Yes, I beheld the’ Athenian queen

Descend in all her sober charms; • And take, (she said, and smiled serene)

Take at this band celestial arms: Secure the radiant weapons wield;

This golden lance shall guard desert, And if a vice dares keep the field,

This steel shall stab it to the heart.' Awed, on my bended knees I fell,

Received the weapons of the sky, And dipp'd them in the sable well,

The fount of fame or infamy.
• What well? what weapon? (Flavia cries)

A standish, steel, and golden pen!
It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;

I gave it you to write again.
But, friend! take heed whom

you

attack; You'll bring a house (I mean of peers) Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,

L** and all about your ears.
You'd write as smooth again on glass,

And run on ivory so glib,
As not to stick at fool or ass,
Nor stop at flattery or fib.

These lines were occasioned by the poet's being threatened with a prosecution in the House of Lords, for writing the Epilogue to Dr. Donne's Satires.

* Athenian queen! and sober charms !

I tell ye, fool! there's nothing in't: 'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms ;

In Dryden's Virgil see the print. Come, if you'll be a quiet soul,

That dares tell neither truth nor lies, I'll list you in the harmless roll

Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'

ΤΟ

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE'.

In beauty or wit,

No mortal as yet
To question your empire has dared;

But men of discerning

Have thought that, in learning, To yield to a lady was hard.

Impertinent schools,

With musty dull rules, Have reading to females denied :

So papists refuse

The Bible to use,
Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

'Twas a woman at first,

(Indeed she was cursed) In knowledge that tasted delight,

And sages agree

The laws should decree
To the first of possessors the right.

Then bravely, fair dame,

Resume the old claim,
Which to your whole sex does belong;

And let men receive,

From a second bright Eve,
The knowledge of right, and of wrong.

But if the first Eve

Hard doom did receive, When only one apple had she,

What a punishment now

Shall be found out for you,
Who, tasting, have robb’d the whole tree?

TO THE AUTHOR

OF A PANEGYRIC ON MRS. GRACE BUTLER,

WHO DIED, AGED 86.

[The Spirit of Mrs. Butler is supposed to speak.] STRIPP'd to the naked soul, escaped from clay, From doubts unfetter'd, and dissolved in day; Unarm'd by vanity; unreach'd by strife; And all my hopes and fears thrown off by life; Why am I charm’d by friendship's fond essays, And, though unbodied, conscious of thy praise? Has pride a portion in the parted soul? Does passion still the formless mind control ?