ODE.

TO A GREAT NUMBER OF GREAT MEN, NEWLY MADE.

SEE, a new progeny descends
From Heaven, of Britain's truest friends:
O Muse! attend my call!

To one of these direct thy flight,
Or, to be sure that we are right,
Direct it to them all.

O Clio! these are golden times!
I shall get money for my rhymes;

And thou no more go tatter'd : Make haste then, lead the way, begin, For here are people just come in,

Who never yet were flatter'd.

But first to Carteret fain you'd sing;
Indeed he's nearest to the King,

Yet careless how you use him;
Give him, I beg, no labour'd lays;
He will but promise if you praise,
And laugh if you abuse him.

Then (but there's a vast space betwixt)
The new-made Earl of Bath comes next,
Stiff in his popular pride:
His step, his gait, describes the man;
They paint him better than I can,
Waddling from side to side.

Each hour a different face he wears, Now in a fury, now in tears,

[ Since this was written, an edition of Sir Charles H. Williams's works, in 3 vols. 8vo, has been printed, of which a properly bitter critique appeared in the 55th number of the Quarterly Review,-it is said from the pen of Mr. Croker.]

Now laughing, now in sorrow; Now he'll command, and now obey, Bellows for liberty to-day,

And roars for power to-morrow.

At noon the Tories had him tight,
With staunchest Whigs he supp'd at night,

Each party tried to 'ave won him ;
But he himself did so divide,
Shuffled and cut from side to side,

That now both parties shun him.

See yon old, dull, important Lord,
Who at the long'd-for money-board
Sits first, but does not lead:
His younger brethren all things make;
So that the Treasury's like a snake,
And the tail moves the head.

Why did you cross God's good intent?
He made you for a President;
Back to that station go;

Nor longer act this farce of power,
We know you miss'd the thing before,
And have not got it now.

See valiant Cobham, valorous Stair,
Britain's two thunderbolts of war,
Now strike my ravish'd eye:
But oh! their strength and spirits flown,
They, like their conquering swords, are grown
Rusty with lying by.

Dear Bat, I'm glad you've got a place,
And since things thus have changed their face,
You'll give opposing o'er:

"Tis comfortable to be in,

And think what a damn'd while you've been, Like Peter, at the door.

[* This is sorry stuff, but Williams did not always write this way. Witness his famous quatrain on Pulteney: When you touch on his Lordship, &c. Leave a blank here and there in each page, To enrol the fair deeds of his youth!

When you mention the acts of his age

Leave a blank for his honour and truth!] [Browne was an entertaining companion when he had drunk his bottle, but not before; this proved a snare to him, and he would sometimes drink too much; but I know

RECITATIVO.

Like Neptune, Cæsar guards Virginian fleets,
Fraught with Tobacco's balmy sweets;
Old Ocean trembles at Britannia's power,
And Boreas is afraid to roar.

AIR.

Happy mortal! he who knows Pleasures which a Pipe bestows; Curling eddies climb the room, Wafting round a mild perfume.

RECITATIVO.

Let foreign climes the wine and orange boast,
While wastes of war deform the teeming coast;
Britannia, distant from each hostile sound,
Enjoys a Pipe, with ease and freedom crown'd:
E'en restless faction finds itself most free,
Or if a slave, a slave to liberty.

not that he was chargeable with any other irregularities. He had those among his intimates, who would not have been such had he Leen otherwise viciously inclined:-the Duncombes, in particular. father and son, who were of unblemished morals.-COWPER, Letter to Rose, 20 May, 1789.] [ Mr. Hawkins Browne, the author of these, had no good original manner of his own, yet we see how well he succeeds when he turns an imitator; for the following are rather imitations, than ridiculous parodies.--GOLDSMITH.]

AIR.

Smiling years that gaily run Round the zodiac with the sun, Tell if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene. British sons no longer now Hurl the bar or twang the bow, Nor of crimson combat think, But securely smoke and drink.

CHORUS.

Smiling years, that gaily run Round the zodiac with the sun, Tell if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene.

IMITATION II.-AMB. PHILIPS. Tenues fugit ceu fumus in auras.-VIRG. LITTLE tube of mighty power, Charmer of an idle hour, Object of my warm desire, Lip of wax and eye of fire; And thy snowy taper waist, With my finger gently braced; And thy pretty swelling crest, With my little stopper prest, And the sweetest bliss of blisses, Breathing from thy balmy kisses. Happy thrice, and thrice agen, Happiest he of happy men; Who when again the night returns, When again the taper burns, When again the cricket's gay, (Little cricket full of play,) Can afford his tube to feed With the fragrant Indian weed: Pleasure for a nose divine, Incense of the god of wine. Happy thrice, and thrice again, Happiest he of happy men.

O THOU, matured by glad Hesperian suns,
Tobacco, fountain pure of limpid truth,
That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought
Su arms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care,

[Browne," said Pope to Spence," is an excellent copyist, and those who take it ill of him are very much in the wrong" This appears to have been said with an eye to Them on, who, soon after the "Pipe" appeared, published in the papers of the day what Armstrong has called "a warin copy of verses" by way of reply! These we have the good luck to recover; they are altogether unnoticed and unknown, and as such, not from their merit, may find a place here.

THE SMOKER SMOKED.†

Still from thy pipe, as from dull Tophet, say,
Ascends the smoke, for ever and for aye?
No end of nasty impoetic breath?

Foh dost thou mean to stink the town to death?
Wilt thou confound the poets, in thine ire,
Thou men of mighty smoke but little fire!
Apollo bids thee from Parnassus ily,

Where not one cloud e'er stain'd his purest sky.
Hence and o'er fat Bootia roll thy streams;
Nor spit and spawl about the Muses' streams.
These maids celestial, like our earthly fair,
Could never yet a filthy smoker bear.

And at each puff imagination burns:

Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires
Touch the mysterious lip that chaunts thy praise
In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown.
Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines
Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue form'd,
And glazed magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill,
From Patotheke with pungent powers perfumed,
Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbibed
Each parent ray; then rudely ramm'd illume,
With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet,
Mark'd with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds,
Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around,
And many-mining fires; I all the while,
Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balın.
But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join,
In genial strife and orthodoxal ale,
Stream life and joy into the Muse's bowl.
Oh be thou still my great inspirer, thou
My Muse; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon,
While I, in clouded tabernacle shrined,
Burst forth all oracle and mystic song.

IMITATION IV.-DR. YOUNG.

-Bullatis mihi nugis Pagina turgescat-dare pondus idonea fumo.-PERS. CRITICS avaunt! Tobacco is my theme; Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam. And you, court-insects, flutter not too near Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere. Pollio, with flame like thine my verse inspire, So shall the Muse from smoke elicit fire. Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff; Yet all their claim to wisdom is- -a puff: Lord Foplin smokes not-for his teeth afraid : Sir Tawdry smokes not-for he wears brocade. Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon; They love no smoke, except the smoke of town; But courtiers hate the pufling tribe,-no matter, Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter! Its foes but show their ignorance; can he Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree? The tainted Templar (more prodigious yet) Rails at Tobacco, though it makes him-spit. Citronia vows it has an odious stink;

She will not smoke (ye gods!)-but she will drink:

Were to the dusky tribe Parnassus free,

What clamb'ring up, what crowding should we see?
Against the tuneful god what mortal sin?
Good lord! what parsons would come bustling in?
What foggy politicians, templars, cits!
What-coffee-house, what ale-house muddy wits?
Take this plain lesson, imitating Zany!
First learn to write, before you write like any.
Be cautious, mortal! whom you imitate,
And wise, remember vain Salmoncus' fate;
Through Grecian cities he, through Elis, drove;
And, flashing torches, deem'd himself a Jove:
Madman! to think for thunder thus to pass
His chariot rattling o'er a bridge of brass.
Wrathful at this, from deep surrounding gloom,
Th' almighty father seized the forky deem;
(No firebrand that, emitting smoky light,
But with impatient vengeance fiercely bright;)
He seized, and hurl'd it on the thundering elf,
Who straight vile ashes fell, his thunders and himself.]

[† Gent.'s Mag. for 1736, p. 743.]

BLEST leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to parsons sense;
So raptured priests, at famed Dodona's shrine,
Drank inspiration from the steam divine.
Poison that cures, a vapour that affords
Content, more solid than the smile of lords:
Rest to the weary, to the hungry food,
The last kind refuge of the wise and good.
Inspired by thee, dull cits adjust the scale
Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy sister beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor less the critic own thy genial aid,
While supperless he plies the piddling trade.
What though to love and soft delights a foe,
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown,
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own.
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings,
And let me taste thee unexcised by kings.

This village, unmolested yet

*

*

*

By troopers, shall be my retreat:
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray;
Who cannot write or vote for * * *
Far from the vermin of the town,
Here let me rather live my own,
Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland
In sweet oblivion lulls the land;
Of all which at Vienna passes,
As ignorant as * * Brass is:
And scorning rascals to caress,
Extol the days of good Queen Bess,
When first Tobacco blest our isle,
Then think of other queens-and smile.
Come, jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry and song;
The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes sweet in City Hall;
The parson's pun, the smutty tale
Of country justice o'er his ale.

I ask not what the French are doing,
Or Spain, to compass Britain's ruin :
Britons, if undone, can go
Where Tobacco loves to grow.

But now she is absent, I walk by its side,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me
complain.

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they;
How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time,
When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their
prime;

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces an handful of grass;
Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see

Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;

Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave ev'ry thing else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they pot
smile?

Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest, And made yourselves fine for-a place in her breast:

You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE was born at the Leasowes, in Hales Owen. He was bred at Pembroke College, Oxford, where he applied himself to poetry, and published a small miscellany in 1737, without his name. He had entertained thoughts, at one period, of studying medicine; but on coming of age he retired to a property at Harborough, left him by his mother, where, in an old romantic habitation, haunted by rooks, and shaded by oaks and elms, he gave himself up to indolence and the Muses. He came to London for the first time in 1740, and published his "Judgment of Hercules." A year after appeared his "Schoolmistress." For several years he led a wandering life of amusement, and was occasionally at Bath, London, and Cheltenham; at the last of which places he met with the Phyllis of his pastoral ballad. The first sketch of that ballad had

been written under a former attachment to a lady of the name of Graves; but it was resumed and finished in compliment to his new flame. Dr. Johnson informs us that he might have obtained Phyllis, whoever the lady was, if he had chosen to ask her.

In the year 1745 the death of his indulgent uncle, Mr. Dolman, who had hitherto managed his affairs, threw the care of them upon himself and he fixed his residence at the Leasowes, which he brought, by improvements, to its far-famed beauty. In these improvements his affectionate apologist, Mr. Greaves, acknowledges that he spent the whole of his income, but denies the alleged poverty of his latter days, as well as the rumour that his landscapes were haunted by

[This Goldsmith justly preferred to any of Shenstone's pastorals.]