Shriek'd for the downfall in a doleful cry,
For which their guiltless lords were doom'd to die.
Now to my story I return again :

The trembling widow, and her daughters twain,
This woful cackling cry with horror heard,
Of those distracted damsels in the yard;
And starting up, beheld the heavy sight,
How Reynard to the forest took his flight;
And, cross his back, as in triumphant scorn,
The hope and pillar of the house was borne.
The fox, the wicked fox, was all the cry;
Out from his house ran every neighbour nigh;
The vicar first, and after him the crew
With forks and staves, the felon to pursue.
Ran Coll our dog, and Talbot with the band,
And Malkin with her distaff in her hand;
Ran cow and calf, and family of hogs,
In panic horror of pursuing dogs;
With many a deadly grunt and doleful squeak,
Poor swine, as if their pretty hearts would break.
The shouts of men, the women in dismay,
With shrieks augment the horror of the day.
The ducks, that heard the proclamation cried,
And fear'd a persecution might betide,
Full twenty mile from town their voyage take,
Obscure in rushes of the liquid lake;

The geese fly o'er the barn; the bees in arms,
Drive headlong from their waxen cells in swarms.
Jack Straw at London-stone, with all his rout,
Struck not the city with so loud a shout;
Not when with English hate they did pursue
A Frenchman, or an unbelieving Jew:
Not when the welkin rung with one and all,
And echoes bounded back from Fox's hall,

Earth seem'd to sink beneath, and heaven above to fall.
With might and main they chas'd the murderous fox,
With brazen trumpets, and inflated box,
To kindle Mars with military sounds;
Nor wanted horns t' inspire sagacious hounds.
But see how fortune can confound the wise,
And, when they least expect it, turn the dice.
The captive cock, who scarce could draw his breath,
And lay within the very jaws of death,
Yet in this agony his fancy wrought,

And fear supplied him with this happy thought:
Yours is the prize, victorious prince, said he;
The vicar my defeat, and all the village see;
Enjoy your friendly fortune while you may,
And bid the churls that envy you the prey
Call back their mongrel curs, and cease their cry;
See, fools, the shelter of the wood is nigh,
And Chanticleer in your despite shall die;
He shall be pluck'd and eaten to the bone.

'Tis well advis'd, in faith it shall be done.
This Reynard said; but, as the word he spoke,
The prisoner with a spring from prison broke;
Then stretch'd his feather'd fans with all his might,
And to the neighbouring maple wing'd his flight.
Whom when the traitor safe on tree beheld,
He curs'd the gods, with shame and sorrow fill'd;
Shame for his folly, sorrow out of time,
For plotting an unprofitable crime;
Yet, mastering both, th' artificer of lies
Renews th' assault, and his last battery tries.
Though I, said he, did ne'er in thought offend,
How justly may my lord suspect his friend!
Th' appearance is against me, I confess,
Who seemingly have put you in distress:
You, if your goodness does not plead my cause,
May think I broke all hospitable laws,
To bear

you from your palace-yard by might,

And put your noble person in a fright:
This, since you take it ill, I must repent,
Though, Heaven can witness, with no bad intent;
I practis'd it, to make you taste your cheer
With double pleasure, first prepar'd by fear.

So loyal subjects often seize their prince,
Forc'd (for his good) to seeming violence,
Yet mean his sacred person not the least offence.
Descend; so help me Jove, as you shall find
That Reynard comes of no dissembling kind.

Nay, quoth the cock; but I beshrew us both,
If I believe a saint upon his oath:
An honest man may take a knave's advice,
But idiots only may be cozen'd twice:
Once warn'd is well bewar'd; not flattering lies
Shall soothe me more to sing with winking eyes
And open mouth, for fear of catching flies.
Who blindfold walks upon a river's brim,
When he should see, has he deserv'd to swim!
Better, sir cock, let all contention cease.
Come down, said Reynard, let us treat of peace.
A peace with all my soul, said Chanticleer,
But, with your favour, I will treat it here:
And, lest the truce with treason should be mixt,
"Tis my concern to have the tree betwixt.

THE MORAL.

In this plain fable you th' effect may see
Of negligence and fond credulity:
And learn, besides, of flatterers to beware,
Then most pernicious when they speak too fair.
The cock and fox the fool and knave imply;
The truth is moral, though the tale a lie.
Who spoke in parables, I dare not say;
But sure he knew it was a pleasing way,
Sound sense, by plain example, to convey.
And in a heathen author we may find,
That pleasure with instruction should be join'd:
So take the corn, and leave the chaff behind.

[Inconveniences of Life in Rome.]
[From Juvenal.]

Who fears in country towns a house's fall,
Or to be caught betwixt a riven wall?
But we inhabit a weak city here,
Which buttresses and props but scarcely bear:
And 'tis the village mason's daily calling,
To keep the world's metropolis from falling;
To cleanse the gutters, and the chinks to close;
And, for one night, secure his lord's repose.
At Cuma we can sleep quite round the year,
Nor falls, nor fires, nor nightly dangers fear;
While rolling flames from Roman turrets fly,
And the pale citizens for buckets cry.
Thy neighbour has remov'd his wretched store,
(Few hands will rid the lumber of the poor)
Thy own third storey smokes, while thou, supine,
Art drench'd in fumes of undigested wine.
For if the lowest floors already burn,
Cock-loft and garrets soon will take the turn.
Where thy tame pigeons next the tiles were bred,
Which, in their nests unsafe, are timely fled,
Codrus had but one bed, so short to boot,
That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out;
His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers grac'd,
Beneath them was his trusty tankard plac'd.
And, to support this noble plate, there lay
A bended Chiron cast from honest clay;
His few Greek books a rotten chest contain'd,
Whose covers much of mouldiness complain'd;
Where mice and rats devour'd poetic bread,
And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed.
'Tis true poor Codrus nothing had to boast,
And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost,
Begg'd naked through the streets of wealthy Rome,
And found not one to feed, or take him home.
But if the palace of Arturius burn,

The nobles change their clothes, the matrons mourn;
The city prætor will no pleadings hear;
The very name of fire we hate and fear,
And look aghast, as if the Gauls were here.

While yet it burns, th' officious nation flies,
Some to condole, and some to bring supplies:
One sends him marble to rebuild, and one
With naked statues of the Parian stone,
The work of Polyclete, that seem to live;
While other images for altars give;

One books and screens, and Pallas to the breast:
Another bags of gold, and he gives best.
Childless Arturius, vastly rich before,
Thus by his losses multiplies his store:
Suspected for accomplice to the fire,

That burnt his palace but to build it higher.
But could you be content to bid adieu
To the dear play-house and the players too,
Sweet country seats are purchas'd everywhere,
With lands and gardens, at less price than here
You hire a darksome dog-hole by the year;
A small convenience decently prepar'd,
A shallow well that rises in your yard,
That spreads his easy crystal streams around,
And waters all the pretty spot of ground.
There, love the fork, thy garden cultivate,

And give thy frugal friends a Pythagorean treat;
'Tis somewhat to be lord of some small ground,
In which a lizard may, at least, turn round.
'Tis frequent here, for want of sleep, to die,
Which fumes of undigested feasts deny;
And, with imperfect heat, in languid stomachs fry.
What house secure from noise the poor can keep,
When ev'n the rich can scarce afford to sleep;
So dear it costs to purchase rest in Rome;
And hence the sources of diseases come.

The drover who his fellow drover meets
In narrow passages of winding streets;
The wagoners that curse their standing teams,
Would wake ev'n drowsy Drusius from his dreams.
And yet the wealthy will not brook delay,
But sweep above our heads, and make their way,
In lofty litters borne, and read and write,
Or sleep at ease the shutters make it night.
Yet still he reaches, first, the public place;
The press before him stops the client's pace:
The crowd that follows crush his panting sides,
And trip his heels; he walks not, but he rides.
One elbows him, one justles in the shoal:
A rafter breaks his head, or chairman's pole;
Stocking'd with loads of fat town-dirt he goes;
And some rogue soldier, with his hob-nail'd shoes,
Indents his legs behind in bloody rows.
See with what smoke our doles we celebrate;
A hundred guests, invited, walk in state:

A hundred hungry slaves, with their Dutch kitchens, wait.

Huge pans the wretches on their heads must bear,
Which scarce gigantic Corbulo could rear;
Yet they must walk upright beneath the load:
Nay, run, and running, blow the sparkling flames
abroad;

Their coats, from botching newly bought, are torn.
Unwieldy timber-trees in wagons borne,
Stretch'd at their length, beyond their carriage lie,
That nod, and threaten ruin from on high.
For should their axle break, its overthrow
Would crush, and pound to dust, the crowd below:
Nor friends their friends, nor sires their sons could
know:

Nor limbs, nor bones, nor carcass would remain,
But a mash'd heap, a hotch-potch of the slain.
One vast destruction; not the soul alone,
But bodies, like the soul, visibly are flown.
Meantime, unknowing of their fellows' fate,
The servants wash the platter, scour the plate,
Then blow the fire, with puffing cheeks, and lay
The rubbers, and the bathing sheets display;
And oil them first; and each is handy in his

way.

But he, for whom this busy care they take,
Poor ghost! is wandering by the Stygian lake:
Affrighted with the ferryman's grim face;
New to the horrors of that uncouth place;
His passage begs with unregarded prayer,
And wants two farthings to discharge his fare.
Return we to the dangers of the night;

And, first, behold our houses' dreadful height,
From whence come broken potsherds tumbling down,
And leaky ware, from garret-windows thrown;
Well may they break our heads, and mark the flinty
stone.

'Tis want of sense to sup abroad too late,
Unless thou first hast settled thy estate.
As many fates attend thy steps to meet,
As there are waking windows in the street.
The scouring drunkard, if he does not fight
Before his bed-time, takes no rest that night;
Passing the tedious hours in greater pain
Than stern Achilles, when his friend was slain:
'Tis so ridiculous, but so true withal,

A bully cannot sleep without a brawl:
Yet, though his youthful blood be fir'd with wine,
He wants not wit the danger to decline:
Is cautious to avoid the coach-and-six,
And on the lacqueys will no quarrel fix.
His train of flambeaux, and embroider'd coat,
May privilege my lord to walk secure on foot;
But me, who must by moonlight homeward bend,
Or lighted only with a candle's end,
Poor me he fights, if that be fighting, where
He only cudgels, and I only bear.

He stands, and bids me stand: I must abide;
For he's the stronger, and is drunk beside.

Where did you whet your knife to-night, he cries,
And shred the leeks that in your stomach rise?
With what companion-cobbler have you fed
On old ox-cheeks, or he-goat's tougher head?
What! are you dumb? Quick with your answer, quick,
Before my foot salutes you with a kick.
Say in what nasty cellar under ground,

Or what church porch your rogueship may be found?
Answer, or answer not, 'tis all the same;

He lays me on, and makes me bear the blame.
Before the bar, for beating him you come ;
This is a poor man's liberty in Rome.
You beg his pardon, happy to retreat
With some remaining teeth to chew your meat.
Nor is this all; for when retired, you think
To sleep securely; when the candles wink,
When every door with iron chains is barr'd,
And roaring taverns are no longer heard;
The ruffian-robbers by no justice aw'd,
And unpaid cut-throat soldiers are abroad;
Those venal souls, who, harden'd in each ill,
To save complaints and persecution, kill.
Chas'd from their woods and bogs, the padders come
To this vast city as their native home;
To live at ease, and safely skulk in Rome.
The forge in fetters only is employ'd;
Our iron mines exhausted and destroy'd
In shackles; for these villains scarce allow
Goads for teams, and ploughshares for the plough.
Oh, happy ages of our ancestors,
Beneath the kings and tribunitial powers!
One jail did all their criminals restrain,
Which now the walls of Rome can scarce contain.
More I could say, more causes I could show
For my departure; but the sun is low:
The wagoner grows weary of my stay,
And whips his horses forwards on their way.
Farewell; and when, like me, o'erwhelm'd with care,
You to your own Aquinum shall repair,
To take a mouthful of sweet country air,
Be mindful of your friend; and send me word
What joys your fountains and cool shades afford;

Then, to assist your satires, I will come,
And add new venom when you write of Rome.

[Enjoyment of the Present Hour Recommended.] [From the twenty-ninth ode of the First Book of Horace.] Enjoy the present smiling hour, And put it out of Fortune's pow'r: The tide of business, like the running stream, Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,

And always in extreme.

Now with a noiseless gentle course
It keeps within the middle bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force;
And trunks of trees come rolling down;
Sheep and their folds together drown:
Both house and homestead into seas are borne ;
And rocks are from their old foundations torn ;
And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd
honours mourn.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call to-day his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day.
Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,

The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not heaven itself upon the past has power;

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

Fortune, that with malicious joy
Does man, her slave, oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,

Is seldom pleas'd to bless :

Still various, and inconstant still,
But with an inclination to be ill,

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;
But when she dances in the wind,

And shakes her wings, and will not stay,
I puff the prostitute away:

The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd:
Content with poverty, my soul I arm;

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

What is't to me,

Who never sail in her unfaithful sea,

If storms arise, and clouds grow black; If the mast split, and threaten wreck? Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from Fortune's blows, Secure of what I cannot lose, In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar; And running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek, Within some little winding creek, And see the storm ashore.

JOHN PHILIPS.

Mr Southey has said that the age from Dryden to Pope is the worst age of English poetry. In this interval, which was but short, for Dryden bore fruit to the last, and Pope was early in blossom, there were about twenty poets, most of whom might be blotted from our literature, without being missed or regretted. The names of Smith, Duke, King, Sprat, Garth, Hughes, Blackmore, Fenton, Yalden, Hammond, Savage, &c., have been preserved by

Dr Johnson, but they excite no poetical associations. Their works present a dead-level of tame and uninteresting mediocrity. The artificial taste introduced in the reign of Charles II., to the exclusion of the romantic spirit which animated the previous reign, sunk at last into a mere collocation of certain phrases and images, of which each repetition was more weak than the last. Pope revived the national spirit by his polished satire and splendid versification; but the true poetical feeling lay dormant till Thomson's Seasons and Percy's Relics of Ancient Poetry spoke to the heart of the people, and recalled the public taste from art to nature.

Of the artificial poets of this age, JOHN PHILIPS (1676-1708) evinced considerable talent in his Splendid Shilling, a parody on the style of Milton. He was the son of Dr Philips, archdeacon of Salop, who officiated as minister of Bampton, in Oxfordshire. He intended to follow the medical profession, and studied natural history, but was cut off at the early age of thirty-three. Philips wrote a poem on the victory of Blenheim, and another on Cider, the latter in imitation of the Georgics. The whole are in blank verse. He was an avowed imitator of Milton, but regretted that, like his own Abdiel, the great poet had not been found'

faithful

But he however let the muse abstain,
Nor blast his fame, from whom she learnt to sing
In much inferior strains, grovelling beneath
Th' Olympian hill, on plains and vales intent-
Mean follower.

The notion, that Philips was able, by whatever he might write, to blast the fame of Milton, is one of those preposterous conceits which even able men will sometimes entertain.

The Splendid Shilling.

- Sing, heavenly muse !

Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme, A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire. Happy the man, who, void of care and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-hall1 repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe or Phillis, he each circling glass Wishes her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, Wretched repast! my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill'd fingers; or from tube as black As winter-chimney, or well-polish'd jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent: Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Britain (versed in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Avonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town

1 Two noted alehouses in Oxford, 1700.

375

in his exquisite imitation of Horace's sixth satire; and Thomson and Cowper, by their descriptions of rural life, have completely obliterated from the public mind the feeble draught of Pomfret.

[Extract from The Choice.]

If Heaven the grateful liberty would give
That I might choose my method how to live;
And all those hours propitious fate should lend,
In blissful ease and satisfaction spend;
Near some fair town I'd have a private seat,
Built uniform, not little, nor too great;
Better, if on a rising ground it stood;

On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood.
It should within no other things contain
But what are useful, necessary, plain;
Methinks 'tis nauseous; and I'd ne'er endure
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden grateful to the eye,
And a cool rivulet run murmuring by;
On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes or sycamores should grow.
At th' end of which a silent study plac'd,
Should be with all the noblest authors grac'd:
Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines
Immortal wit and solid learning shines;
Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew:
He that with judgment reads his charming lines,
In which strong art with stronger nature joins,
Must grant his fancy does the best excel;
His thoughts so tender, and express'd so well:
With all those moderns, men of steady sense,
Esteem'd for learning and for eloquence.
In some of these, as fancy should advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise;
For sure no minutes bring us more content
Than those in pleasing useful studies spent.
I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteely, but not great;
As much as I could moderately spend;
A little more, sometimes t'oblige a friend.
Nor should the sons of poverty repine

Too much at fortune; they should taste of mine;
And all that objects of true pity were,

Should be reliev'd with what my wants could spare;
For that our Maker has too largely given
Should be return'd in gratitude to Heaven.
A frugal plenty should my table spread;
With healthy, not luxurious, dishes spread;
Enough to satisfy, and something more,

To feed the stranger, and the neighbouring poor.
Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food
Creates diseases, and inflames the blood.
But what's sufficient to make nature strong,
And the bright lamp of life continue long,
I'd freely take; and, as I did possess,
The bounteous Author of my plenty bless.

EARL OF DORSET.

CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET (1637-1706), wrote little, but was capable of doing more, and being a liberal patron of poets, was a nobleman highly popular in his day. Coming very young to the possession of two plentiful estates, and in an age when pleasure was more in fashion than business, he applied his talents rather to books and conversation than to politics. In the first Dutch war he went a volunteer under the Duke of York, and wrote or finished a song (his best composition, one of the prettiest that ever was made,' according to Prior) the night before the naval engagement in which Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was blown up, with all |

his crew. He was a lord of the bedchamber to Charles II., and was chamberlain of the household to William and Mary. Prior relates, that when Dorset, as lord chamberlain, was obliged to take the king's pension from Dryden, he allowed him an equivalent out of his own estate. He introduced Butler's Hudibras to the notice of the court, was consulted by Waller, and almost idolised by Dryden. Hospitable, generous, and refined, we need not wonder at the incense which was heaped upon Dorset by his contemporaries. His works are

trifling; a few satires and songs make up the cata-
logue. They are elegant, and sometimes forcible;
but when a man like Prior writes of them, 'there
is a lustre in his verses like that of the sun in Claude
Lorraine's landscapes,' it is impossible not to be
struck with that gross adulation of rank and fashion
which disgraced the literature of the age. Dorset's
satire on Mr Edward Howard has some pointed lines:
They lie, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren,
When deep conceits, like maggots, breed in carrion.
Thy stumbling founder'd jade can trot as high
As any other Pegasus can fly;

So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud
Than all the swift-finu'd racers of the flood.
As skilful divers to the bottom fall
Sooner than those who cannot swim at all,
So in this way of writing, without thinking,
Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking.

Song.

Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes,
United, cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high, but quickly dies;
Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight.
Love is a calmer, gentler joy;

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace; Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,

That runs his link full in your face.

Song.

Written at sea, the first Dutch war, 1665, the night before an engagement.

To all you ladies now at land,

We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand

How hard it is to write;

The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.

With a fa la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain;

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind,

To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea.
With a fa, &c.

Then, if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind:
Our tears we'll send a speedier way;
The tide shall bring them twice a-day.
With a fa, &c.

The king with wonder and surprise,
Will swear the seas grow bold;
Because the tides will higher rise
Than e'er they did of old:
But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs.
With a fa, &c.