A great bottle of wine, long buried, being that day dug up.
ESOLV'D my annual verse to pay,
By duty bound, on Stella's day,,
Furnish'd with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely fat me down to think:
I bit my nails, and scratch'd my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled:
Or, if with more than ufual pain,
A thought came flowly from my brain,
It coft me lord knows how much time
To shape it into sense and rhyme:
And, what was yet a greater curse,
Long-thinking made my fancy worse.
Forfaken by th' infpiring nine,
I waited at Apollo's fhrine:
I told him what the world would say,
If Stella were unfung to day;
How I fhou'd hide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would
leer,
How Sh---r the rogue would fneer,
And swear it does not always follow,
That femel'n anno ridet Apollo.
I have affur'd them twenty times,
That Phœbus help'd me in my rhymes,
Phœbus infpir'd me from above;
And he and I were hand and glove.
But, finding me fo dull and dry fince,
They'll call it all poetick licence;
And, when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eufden's right as good as mine.
Nor do I afk for Stella's fake;
'Tis my own credit lies at ftake:
And Stella will be fung, while I
Can only be a stander-by.
Apollo, having thought a little,
Return'd this answer to a tittle:
Tho' you should live like old Methufalem,
I furnish hints, and you should use all 'em,
You yearly fing as the grows old,
You'd leave her virtues half untold,
But, to fay truth, fuch dulness reigns
Through the whole fet of Irish deans,
I'm daily ftunn'd with fuch a medley,
Dean W---, dean D---, and dean Smedley,
That, let what dean foever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home
And, if your voice had not been loud,
You must have pafs'd among the crowd.
But now, your danger to prevent,
You must apply to * mrs. Brent;
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 discretion 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 fkies!
The God of winds, and God of fire,
Did to its wond'rous birth confpire;
And Bacchus for the poet's use
Pour'd in a strong infpiring juice.
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a fpacious womb,
And in the spacious 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 spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's fhades.
From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the mufe;
*The butler.
↑ The footman.
A lady, friend to Stella.
Friends of the author.
(But firft 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.
AS, 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 houfe-keeper, and get her
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 inspir'd to rhyme,
Unless, 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 ftill your friend in profe :
Esteem and friendship to express,
Will not require poetick dress
And, if the muse 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 fay.
but let it not be known,
My eyes are fomewhat dimifh grown:
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my fight;
And wrinkles undiftinguish'd pass,
For I'm afham'd to use a glass;
And till I fee them with these eyes,
Whoever fays you have them, lyes.
|