For fhe, as prieftefs, knows the rites Wherein the God of earth delights. First, nine ways looking, let her ftand With an old poker in her hand; Let her defcribe a circle round In * Saunder's cellar on the ground: A fpade let prudent † Archy hold, And with difcretion dig the mould: Let Stella look with watchful eye, Rebecca, Ford, and Grattons by. Behold the bottle, where it lies With neck elated tow'rds the skies! The God of winds, and God of fire, Did to its wond'rous birth confpire; And Bacchus for the poet's ufe Pour'd in a strong infpiring juice. See! as you raise it from its tomb, It drags behind a fpacious womb, And in the fpacious womb contains. A fov'reign med'cine for the brains.
You'll find it foon, if fate confents; If not, a thousand mrs. Brents, Ten thousand Archys, arm'd with fpades, May dig in vain to Pluto's fhades. From thence a plenteous draught infuse, And boldly then invoke the muse;
The butler. + The footman.
A lady, friend to Stella. Friends of the author.
(But first let Robert on his knees With caution drain it from the lees) The mufe will at your call appear With Stella's praise to crown the year.
STELLA'S Birth-Day. 1724.
when a beauteous nymph decays, We say she's past her dancing days; So poets lose their feet by time, And can no longer dance in rhyme. Your annual bard had rather chofe To celebrate your birth in profe: Yet merry folks, who want by chance A pair to make a country dance, Call the old house-keeper, and get To fill a place, for want of better: While Sheridan is off the hooks, And friend Delany at his books, That Stella may avoid difgrace, Once more the dean fupplies their place. Beauty and wit, too fad a truth! Have always been confin'd to youth; The God of wit, and beauty's queen, He twenty-one, and fhe fifteen. No poet ever sweetly fung,
Unless he were, like Phœbus, young;
Nor ever nymph infpir'd to rhyme, Unlefs, like Venus, in her prime. At fifty-fix, if this be true, Am I a poet fit for you? Or, at the age of forty-three, Are you a fubject fit for me? Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes, You must be grave, and I be wife. Our fate in vain we would oppose: But I'll be still your friend in profe: Efteem and friendship to express, Will not require poetick drefs; And, if the mufe deny her aid To have them fung, they may be faid. But, Stella, fay, what evil tongue Reports you are no longer young; That Time fits with his fcythe to mow Where erft fate Cupid with his bow; That half your locks are turn'd to grey? I'll ne'er believe a word they say. 'Tis true, but let it not be known, My eyes are fomewhat dimifh For nature, always in the right, To your decays adapts my fight; And wrinkles undiftinguifh'd pafs, For I'm afham'd to use a glass; And till I fee them with these eyes, Whoever fays you have them, lyes.
No length of time can make you quit Honour and virtue, fense and wit: Thus you may ftill be young to me, While I can better hear than fee: Oh, ne'er may fortune fhew her spight, To make me deaf, and mend my fight!
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, March 13, 1726.
THIS day, whate'er the fates decree, Shall still be kept with joy by me:
This day then let us not be told, That you are fick, and I grown old; Nor think on our approaching ills, And talk of spectacles and pills: To-morrow will be time enough To hear fuch mortifying stuff. Yet, fince from reafon may be brought A better and more pleafing thought, Which can in spight of all decays Support a few remaining days, From not the graveft of divines Accept for once fome ferious lines. Although we now can form no more Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running fast, Can look with joy on what is past. Were future happiness and pain A mere contrivance of the brain, As atheists argue, to entice And fit their profelytes for vice, (The only comfort they propofe, To have companions in their woes:) Grant this the cafe; yet fure 'tis hard That virtue, ftil'd its own reward, And by all fages understood To be the chief of human good, Shou'd acting die, nor leave behind Some lafting pleasure in the mind, Which by remembrance will affuage Grief, fickness, poverty, and age, And strongly shoot a radiant dart To fhine through life's declining part. Say, Stella, feel you no content, Reflecting on a life well spent? Your skilful hand employ'd to fave Despairing wretches from the grave; And then fupporting with your store Those whom you dragg'd from death before: So Providence on mortals waits, Preferving what it first creates : Your gen'rous boldness to defend An innocent and abfent friend;
« AnteriorContinuar » |