Poems on several subjects: written by Stephen Duck, lately a poor thresher in the County of Wilts, at the wages of four shillings and six pence per week. ; Which were publicly read in the drawing-room at Windsor Castle, on Friday the 11th of September, 1730, to Her Majesty Queen Caroline--who was thereupon pleased to take the author into her protection. ; To which is addd [sic] The woman's labour: an epistle to Stephen Duck; in answer to his poem, called The thresher's labour: together with the three wise sentences taken from Esdras, Ch. III and IV. By Mary Collier, a washer-woman.

Poems on Several Subjects.

THE SHUNAMITE.

DEIGN, Heav'nly Muses to assist my Song: To Heav'nly Muses Heav'nly Themes belong. But chiefly thou, O God, my soul inspire, And touch my lips with thy celestial fire: If thou delight'st in flow'ry Carmel's shade, Or Jordan's stream, from thence I crave thy aid: Instruct my tongue, and my low accents raise, To sing thy w••nders, and display thy praise; And make th•• inhabitants of Judah's land Give ear, and Israel to my voice attend.

Thus when the Shunamite had made her pray'r, The crouds promiscuous throng'd around to hear Th' amazing tale•• while thus her joyful tongue, Mov'd by the Heav'nly pow'r, began the song.

Attend, ye seed of Abram, and give ear, Whilst I Jehovah's glorious acts declare: From that great source of pow'r what wonders spring, If he assist my lays, my muse shall sing. My Lord and I, to whom all bounteous Heav'n His blessings with no sparing hand had giv'n, Like faithful stewards of our wealthy store, Still lodg'd the stranger and reliev'd the poor, And as Elisha, by divine command, Came preaching virtue to a sinful land, He often deign'd to lodge within our gate, And oft receiv'd an hospitable treat; A decent chamber we for hi•• prepar'd; And he, the generous labour to reward, Honours in camp or court to us propos'd, Which I refus'd, and thus my mind disclos'd; Heav'n's king hath plac'd us in a fertile land,

Where he show'rs down his gifts with copious hand; Already we enjoy an affluent store, Why should we be solicitous for more? Give martial camps, and kingly courts to them Who place their only bliss in fleeting fame; There let them live in golden chains of state, And be unhappy, only to be great. But let us in our native soil remain, Nor barter happiness for sordid gain. Here we may feed the indigent in peace, And cloath the bare with superfluous fleece, And give the weary fainting pilgrim ease. This we prefer to pomp, and formal show, Which only serves to varnish o'er our woe; Refulgent ornaments, which dress the proud, Objects of wonder to the gazing croud; Yet seldom give content or solid rest, To the vain man by whom they are possess'd.

All blessings, but a child, had Heav'n supply'd, And only that, the Almighty had deny'd; Which, when made known to the prophetic Seer, He said, and I before him did appear, And the first moment I approach'd the room, He gravely rose, and did new looks assume; Not such a wildness and fanatic mien, With which some say, the Delphic priests are seen, When they for mysteries of fate explain The odd cimaera's of a frantic brain; But with a grave majestic air he stood, And more than human in his aspect glow'd: Celestial grace sat on his radiant look, And pow'r diffusive shone before he spoke. Then thus: Hail generous soul! thy pious cares. Are not forgot, nor fruitless are thy pray'rs: Propitious Heav'n, thy virtuous deeds to crown, Shall make thy barren womb conceive a son. So spake the Seer, and to complete my joy, As he had said, I bore the promis'd boy. Soon to my friends the welcome news was known, Who crouded in a-pace to view my son;

Surpriz'd, to hear my unexpected bliss, And each rejoices for my happiness. When all had said, I mov'd my joyful tongue, And thus, to God, address'd my grateful song.

O God! What eloquence can sing thy praise; Or who can fathom thy stupendous ways? All things obey at thy divine command, Thou mak'st a fruitful field of barren land: The' obdurate rock a fertile glebe shall be, And bring forth copious crops, if bid by thee; Arabia's Desert shall with plenty smile, And fruitful vines adorn th' uncultivated soil.

As thus she spake, her audiance raise their voice, And interrupt her song, as they rejoice. O God! We gladly hear thy mighty pow'r, And joyfully thy gracious name adore: All nature is subservient to thy word, And shifts her wonted course t' obey her lord. We, for thy servant's joy, our thanks express; As grows the child, so let her bliss increase; And may thy delegate, who did preside Over his native hour, his actions guide! And, ye protecting Angels, that do still Wait round the bless'd, preserve him from all ill; Inspire his soul with virtue whilst on earth, And be his watchful guardians until death, Then safely bear—The dame here wav'd her hand, The people straight obey the mute command: All silent stand, and all attentive look, Waiting her words, while thus she mournful spoke.

All pleasures are imperfect here below; Our sweetest joys are mixt with bitter woe: And while we wait our growing happiness, Some sudden grief destroys the rising bliss. E'er fourteen years were measur'd by my son, (So soon alas! the greatest blessing's gone) He in the harvest to the reapers goes, To view the bearded sheaves erect in rows; Like an embattled army in the field; (A new delightful prospect to the child!)

But either there the scorching sun display'd His heat intense, and on his vitals prey'd; Or sudden blast, or apoplectic pain, With racking torture seiz'd his tender brain: His spirits fail'd, he straight began to faint, And ••ainly to his father made complaint. The glowing rose was quickly seen to fade, At once, his beauty and his life decay'd.

Soon, at my house, the dismal news I heard; Soon, at my house, the dying child appear'd. T' embrace him I with fond affection run, And O! said I, what pain afflicts my son? He try'd to speak; but fault'ring gave a groan: No perfect word proceeded from his tongue, But on his lips the broken accents hung.

All means I us'd that might allay his pain, And strove to give him ease, but strove in vain: Short, and more short he drew his rosy breath, Too sure presage of his approaching death. The blood congeal'd the heaving heart beat low; And his head dropt with a declining bow: Thrice from my breast to raise himself he try'd, And thrice sunk down again, and groaning dy'd.

Thus, when with care we've nurs'd a beauteous vine, And taught the docile branches where to twine: An Eastern gale, or some pernicious frost, Nips the young tree, and all our labour's lost.

With horror chill'd, a-while aghast I stood Viewing the child, and trembling as I view'd: My eyes discharg'd their humid store a-pace, And tear succeeded tear a-down my face: Scarce my dilated heart the grief sustain'd; At length, recovering speech, I thus complain'd.

O fleeting joys, inconstant as the wind, That only for a moment please the mind, Then fly, and leave a weight of woe behind! But yet in vain I thus lament and mourn, The Soul once fled shall never more return; And the fair body now must be convey'd To earth's dark bosom, and eternal shade.

Yet let me not prescribe a bound to Heav'n, 'Twas by a miracle the child was giv'n; No•• ••••n I think the wonder is more great, If the departed soul resumes her seat. What if I to Mount Carmel haste away, To him who did his mystic birth display? His pow'rful word the barren fruitful made: His pow'rful word, perhaps, may raise the dead. The famous Tishbile rais'd a widow's son: Elisha has as wondrous actions done. When he to Jordan's rapid torrent came, He with the mantle smote th' impetuous stream; Obsequious to the stroke, the waves divide, And raise a liquid wall on either side.

At Jericho, long had the barren soil Deceiv'd the husbandman, and mock'd his toil; Yet at his word it grew a fertile field, And pois'nous springs did wholesome waters yield.

Nor can 〈◊〉〈◊〉 only such great blessings send, But curses, if invok'd, on him attend: E•••••• how at Bethel call'd he vengeance down, At a just scourge on the ••pprobrious town?

Again, when Moa•• peace with Israel broke, And vainly strove to quit the servile yoke: Our pow'rful Kings led forth th' embattled host Thro' Edom's sultry wilds and air adust, Where the confed'rate troops no water found; Dry were the springs, and ••••e•••• was the ground. The captain's wanted strength 〈◊〉〈◊〉 courage fail'd, When thirst and foes at once the host assail'd. The kings to him their joint petitions made, And fainting soldi••••▪ crav'd his timely aid; Nor crav'd in vain▪ The pow'rful word he spake, A•••• ••••••ing waters form'd a spacious lake; The shining streams advance their humid train, And Edom's wilds soon grow a liquid plain. N••t in more plenty did the waters run Out of the rock, when struck by Amram's son. And who can that amazing act forget, Which he perform'd to pay the widow's debt?

Whose quantity of oil one pot contain'd, Yet num'rous vessels fill'd before 'twas drain'd, Then he who such stupendous acts has done, If God propitious prove, can raise my son. So saying, up I caught the child with speed, And laid it on the sacred prophet's bed: Then call'd my servant to prepare the steed. Pensive and sad, my mourning husband said, Fain would I from this journey thee dissuade: No God to-day the prophet does inspire, Nor can he aught reveal thou dost require.

To whom thus I: Rather than sink, attempt my hopes to raise, Tell me no more of ceremonial days, His God is present still, and hears him when he prays.

Thus said: urging my steed with eager haste, Swift as the mountain roe, the plains I past; O'er hills and dales my journey I pursu'd, Nor slack'd my pace till flow'ry Carmel view'd: On whose delightful brow, in cool retreat Among the curling vines, the prophet sat, Whose twining arms a beauteous arbour made; The beauteous arbour form'd a grateful shade: The fanning Zephyrs gently play'd around, And shook the trembling leaves, and swept the ground; Down humbly at his feet I prostrate fell, Submiss, and weeping, told the mournful tale.

Calm and compose thy anxious mind, said he, Tears can't revoke th' Almighty's fix'd decree. We live and die, and both as he thinks fit; He may command, but mortals must submit. Death is a debt we all to nature owe, And not an evil, but when counted so. Yet if of Heav'n I can my suit obtain, Thy child shall live, and thou rejoice again. Thus said, with looks divine his staff he views, As if some pow'rful charm he wou'd infuse; Then calls his servant hastily, and said, On the child's face see this discreetly laid. Th' obsequious servant his command obey'd.

O thou, said I, on whom my hope depends, Do not transfer this ••ork to servants hand! If thou thyself refuse with me to go, Here to the list'ning vines, I'll vent my woe; Still prostrate lie, lamenting for my son, 'Till ev'ry hill prove vocal to my moon. More had I said, but grief the words sup••••••ss'd; Yet sighs and silent tears explain'd the rest.

At length be from his verdant seat aro•••• And hastily adown the mountain goes To Shunem, we with speed our way pursue, The city soon appears within our view; And the returning servant at the gate, Pensive and sad without success, we met: The beauteous child by death still vanquish'd lay; Still death insulted o'er the beauteous prey: 'Till to the house ••he sacred Seer was come, And with supernal pow'r approach'd the room.

By the dead child a-while he pensive stood, Then from the chamber put the mourning crowd: That done, to God he made his ardent pray'r, And breath'd upon the child with vital air: And now the soul resumes her pristine seat, And now the heart begins again to beat; A second life diffuses o'er the dead, And death, repuls'd, inglorious doth recede.

Thus when a prowling wolf had stol'n a lamb, He sternly guards it from the blea••ing dam; But if the keeper comes, he quits his prey, And, lowring, with reluctance makes away.

And now the prophet to my longing arms Resigns the child, with more than wonted charms; The blushy rose shone fresher in his face, And beauty smil'd with a superior grace.

So when Heav'n's lamp that rules the genial day, Behind the sable moon pursues his way, Affrighted mortals, when th' eclipse is o'er, Believe him more illustrious than before.

Here ends the dame, and the promiscuous throng, With Hallelujahs thus conclude the song:

Righteous and good art thou, Lord God of Host, And all my works are wonderful and just; Both life and death are in thy pow'rful hand; Both life and death obey thy great command: By thy great pow'r the Heav'n's and Earth are aw'd, Then let the Heav'n's and Earth adore their God. Thou glorious sun, that measur'st all our days, Rising and setting, still advance his praise. Thou moon, and ye less glitt'ring orbs that dance Round this terrestrial globe, his praise advance: Ye liquid seas, still waving to and fro, Praise when ye ebb, and praise him when ye flow: Ye wandring rivers, and each purling stream, As ye pursue your course, his praise proclaim: Ye dews, and mists, and humid vapours, all Praise when ye rise, and praise him when ye fall: But chiefly Israel, who so oft do'st view His pow'rful works, his daily praise renew.

THE THRESHER's LABOUR.

THE grateful tribute of these rural lays, Which to her patron's hand the muse conveys, Deign to accept; 'tis just she tribute bring To him whose bounty gives her life to sing: To him whose generous favours tune her voice, And bid her 'midst her poverty rejoice. Inspir'd by these, she dares herself prepare To sing the toils of each revolving year: Those endless toils, which always grow anew, And the poor Thresher's destin'd to pursue; Ev'n these with pleasure can the muse rehearse, When you, and gratitude, command the verse.

Soon as the harvest hath laid bare the plains, And barns well fill'd reward the farmer's pains; What corn each sheaf will yield, intent to hear, And guess from thence the profits of the year;

Or else impending ruin to prevent, By paying, timely, threat'ning landlord's rent, He calls his threshers forth: Al••••nd we stand, With deep attention waiting his command: To each our tasks he readily divides, And pointing, to our different stations, guides, As he directs, to different barns we go; Here two for wheat, and there for barley two. But first to shew, what he expects to find, These words, or words like these disclose his mind: So dry the corn was carry'd from the field, So easily 'twill thresh, so well 'twill yield; Sure large day's work I well may hope for now; Come, strip, and try, let's see what you can do. Divested of our cloaths, with frail in hand, At a just distance, front to front we stand; And first the threshald's gently swung, to prove, Whether with just exactness, it will move: That once secure, more quick we whirl them round, From the strong planks our crab-tree staves rebound, And echoing barns return the rattling sound. Now in the air our knotty weapon's fly; And now with equal force descend from high: Down one, one up, so well they keep the time, The Cyclops hammers could not truer chime; Nor with more heavy strokes could Aetna groan, When Vulcan forg'd the arms for Thetis' son. In briny streams our sweat descends a-pace, Drops from our locks, or trickles down our face, No intermission in our works we know; The noisy threshal must for ever go. Their master absent, others safely play: The sleeping threshal doth itself betray. Nor yet the tedious labour to beguile. And make the passing minutes sweetly smile, Can we, like shepherds, tell a merry tale? The voice is lost, drown'd by the noisy flail. But we may think—Alas! what pleasing thing Here to the mind can the dull fancy bring?

The Eye beholds no pleasant object here: No chearful sound diverts the list'ning Ear. The Shepherd well may tune his voice to sing, Inspir'd by all the beauties of the Spring: No Fountains murmur here, no Lambkins play, No linnets warble, and no fields look gay; 'Tis all a dull and melancholy scene, Fit only to provoke the Muses spleen. When sooty Pease we thresh, you scarce can know Our native colour, as from work we go; The sweat and dust, and suffocating smoke, Make us so much like Ethiopians look: We scare our wives, when ev'ning brings us home; And frighted infants think the Bug-bear come. Week after week we this dull task pursue, Unless when winnowing days produce a new; A new indeed but frequently a worse, The Threshal yield but to the master's curse. He counts the bushels, counts how much a day, Then swears we've idled half our time away. Why look ye, Rogues! D'ye think that this will do? Your neighbours thresh as much again as you. Now in our hands we wish our noisy tools, To drown the hated names of rogues and fools; But wanting those, we just like School boys look, When th' angry master views the blotted book: They cry their Ink was faulty and their pen; We, the Corn threshes bad, 'twas cut too green. But now the winter hides his hoary head, And Natur's face is with new beauty spread; The Spring appears, and kind refreshing show'rs, New clothe the field with grass, and deck with flow'rs. Next her, the rip'ning Summer presses on, And Sol begins his longest stage to run: Before the door our welcome master stands, And tells us the ripe grass requires our hands. The long much-wish••d intelligence imparts Life to our looks, and spirit to our hearts: We wish the happy season may be fair, And joyful, long to breathe in op'ner air.

This change of labour seems to give much ease; And does, at least, imagination please. With thoughts of happiness our joy's complete, There's always bitter mingled with the sweet. When morn does thro' the Eastern windows peep, Straight from our beds we start, and shake off sleep; This new employ with eager haste to prove, This new employ becomes so much our love: Alas! that human joys should change ••o soon, Ev'n this may bear another face at noon! The birds salute us as to work we go, And a new life seems in our breast to glo•• A cross one shoulder hangs a Scythe well ••••eel'd, The weapon destin••d to unclothe the field: T'other supports the Whetstone, Scrip, and Beer; That for our Scythes, and th•• ourselves to chear. And now the field design'd our strength to try Appears, and meets at last our longing eye; The grass and ground each chearfully surveys, Willing to see which way th' advantage lies. As the best man, each claims the foremost place, And our first work seems but a sportive race. With rapid force our well-whet blades we drive, Strain ev'ry nerve, and blow for blow we give: Tho' but this eminence the foremost gains, Only t' excel the rest in toll and pains. But when the scorching Sun is mounted high, And no kind barns with friendly shades are nigh, Our weary Scythes entangled in the grass, And streams of sweat run trickling down a pace; Our sportive labour we too late lament, And wish that strength again we vainly spent. Thus in the morn a Courser I have seen, With headlong fury scour the level green, Or mount the hills, if hills are in his way, As if no labour could his fire allay, Till the meridian Sun with sultry heat, And piercing beams hath bath'd his sides in sweat;

The lengthen'd chace scarce able to sustain, He measures back the hills and dales with pain. With heat and labour tir'd, our Scythes we quit, Search out a shady tree and down we sit; From scrip and bottle hope new strength to gain; But scrip and bottle too are try'd in vain. Down our parch'd throats we scarce the bread can get, And quite o'er-spent with toil but faintly eat; Nor can the bottle only answer all, Alas! the bottle and the beer's too small. Our time slides on, we move from off the grass, And each again betakes him to his place. Not eager now, as late, our strength to prove, But all contented regular to move: Often we whet, as often view the Sun, To see how near his tedious race is run; At length he vails his radiant face from fight, And bids the weary Traveller good-night▪ Homewards we move, but so much spent with toil, We walk but slow, and rest at every stile. Our good expecting wives, who think we stay, Got to the door, soon eye us in the way; Then from the pot the dumpling's catch'd in haste, And homely by its side the bacon's plac'd. Supper and sleep by morn new strength supply, And out we set again our works to try: But not so early quite, nor quite so fast, As to our cost we did the morning past. Soon as the rising Sun hath drank the dew, Another scene is open'd to our view; Our master comes, and at his heels a throng Of prattling females, arm'd with rake and prong: Prepar'd, whilst he is here, to make his hay; Or, if he turns his back, prepar'd to play. But here, or gone, sure of this comfort still, Here's company, so they may chat their fill: And we're their hands as active as their tongues, How nimbly then would move their rakes and prongs? The grass again is spread upon the ground,

Till not a vacant place is to be found; And while the piercing Sun-beams on it shine, The hay-makers have time allow'd to dine: That soon dispatch'd, they still sit on the ground, And the brisk chat renew'd, a-fresh goes round: All talk at once, but seeming all to fear, That all they speak so well, the rest won't hear; By quick degrees so high their notes they strain, That standers-by can nought distinguish plain: So loud their speech, and so confus'd their noise, Scarce puzzled echo can return a voice; Yet spite of this, they bravely all go on, Each scorns to be, or seem to be, outdone: Till (unobserv'd before) a low'ring Sky, Fraught with black clouds, proclaims a show'r nigh; The tattling crowd can scarce their garments gain, Before descends the thick impetuous rain: Their noisy prattle all at once is done, And to the hedge they all for shelter run.

Thus have I seen on a bright summer's day, On some green brake a flock of sparrows play; From twig to twig, from bush to bush they fly, And with continu'd chirping fill the sky; But on a sudden, if a storm appears, Their chirping noise no longer dins your ears; They fly for shelter to the thickest bush, There silent sit, and all at once is hush. But better fate succeeds this rainy day, And little labour serves to make the hay; Fast as 'tis cut, so kindly shines the Sun, Turn'd once or twice, the pleasing work is done Next day the cocks appear in equal rows, Which the glad master in safe reeks bestows.

But now the field we must no longer range, And yet, hard fate! still work for work we change. Back to the barns again in haste we're sent, Where lately so much time we pensive spent: Not pensive now; we bless the friendly shade,

And to avoid the parching Sun are glad. But few days here we're destin'd to remain, Before our master calls us forth again: For Harvest now, says he, yourselves prepare, The ripen'd harvest now demands your care. Early next morn I shall disturb your rest, Get all things ready, and be quickly drest. Strict to his word, scarce 〈…〉〈…〉 dawn appears, Before his hasty su•• ••••il•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ars. Obedient to his call, straight up we get, And finding soon our company complete; With him, our guide, we to the Wheat-Field go; He, to appoint, and we, the work to do. Ye reapers, cast your eyes around the field, And view the scene its different beauties yield: Then look again with a more tender eye, To think how soon it must in ruin lie. For once set in, where'er our blows we deal, There's no resisting of the well-whet steel: But here or there, where'er our course we bend, Sure desolation does our steps attend. Thus, when Arabia's sons, in hopes of prey, To some more fertile country take their way; How beauteous all things in the morn appear, There Villages, and pleasing Co••s are here; So many pleasing objects meet the sight, The ravish'd eye could willing gaze 'till night: But long e'er then, where'er their troops have past, Those pleasant prospects lie a gloomy waste.

The morning past, we sweat beneath the Sun, And but uneasily our work goes on. Before us we perplexing thistles find, And Corn blown adverse with the ruffling wind: Behind our backs the female gleaners wait, Who sometimes stoop, and sometimes hold a chat. Each morn we early rise, go late to bed, And lab'ring hard, a painful life we lead; For toils, scarce ever ceasing, press us now, Rest never does, but on the Sabbeth show, And barely that, our master will allow.

Nor, when asleep, are we secure from pain, We then perform our labours o'er again: Our mimic fancy always restless seems, And what we act awake, she acts in dreams. Hard fate! Our labours ev'n in sleep don't cease, Scarce Hercules e'er felt such toils as these. At length in rows stands up the well dry'd Corn, A grateful seene, and ready for the barr. Our well-pleas'd master views the sight with joy, And we for carrying all our force employ. Confusion soon o'er all the fields appear, And stunning clamours fill the workmen••s ••ars; The bells, and ••••••hing whips, alternate ••••••nd, And rattling 〈…〉〈…〉 thunder o'er the ground. The Wi•• 〈…〉〈…〉, the Pease, and other grain, Share the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and soon leave bare the plain: In noisy triumph the last load moves on, And loud huzza's proclaim the Harvest done. Our master joyful a•• ••he welcome sight, Invites us all to feast with him at night. A table plentifully spread we find, And jugs of humming beer to chear the mind; Which he, too generous, pushes on so fast, We think no toils to come, nor mind the past. But the next morning soon reveals the cheat, When the same toils we must again repeat: To the same barns again must back return, To labour there for room for next year's Corn.

Thus, as the year's revolving course goes round, No respite from our labour can be found: Like Sysiphus, our work is never done, Continually rolls back the restless stone: Now growing labours still succeed the past, And growing always new, must always last.

ON POVERTY.

THERE's no ill on Earth which mortals fly With so much dread, as abject Poverty. O despicable name! We thee to shun, On every other evil blindly run. For fear of thee, distrustful Niggards go In tatter'd rags, and starve their bodies too; And still are poor, for fear of being so. For fear of thee, the trader swears and vows His wares are good, altho' his conscience knows That he hath us'd his utmost art and skill, Their faults and imperfections to conceal. The sailor terrify'd with thoughts of thee, Boldly attempts the dangers of the sea: From East to West, o'er rocks and quick-sands steers, 'Tis Poverty, 'tis that alone he fears. The soldier too, whom nought but thee can scare, In hopes of plunder, bravely meets the war: To fly from Poverty, he runs on death, And shews he prizes riches more than breath. Strange terror of mankind! by thee misled, Not conscience, quick-sands, rocks, or death, they dread; And yet thou art no formidable foe, Except to little souls, who think thee so. 'Tis only the imagination, that The blunted edge of Poverty can whet. 'Tis servile fear that does us most affect; 'Tis that transforms a shadow to a ghost. Thus when a tim'rous man, in fears grown old, Reminds the Fairy Tales his nurse has told; In the dark night he oft will sideways squint, And see's a Gobling, when there's nothing in't.

Contented Poverty's no dismal thing, Free from the cares unwieldy riches bring: At distance both alike deceive our view, Nearer approach'd, they take another hue. The poor Man's Labour relishes his meat;

His morsel's pleasant, and his rest is sweet. The little, nature craves, we find with ease; Too much but surfeit into a disease: And what we have, more than we can enjoy, Instead of satisfying, does but cloy.

But should we in another prospect take it; Was Poverty so hideous as they make it; That steady Man is worthy of our praise, Who in distress, or pinch'd with hunger, says, Let Poverty, or Want, be what it will, It does proceed from God, therefore's no ill. How does his great heroic soul aspire Above that sordid wealth the rest admire! His noble thoughts are fix'd on things above, Where by true faith, he sees the God of love Hold forth th' attractive prize, which makes him run His moral race, to gain th' immortal crown. Not all the snares a crafty Devil can lay, Can intercept, or stop him in his way; His God-like soul pursues the thing that's good, And soars above the common multitude.

Not all the scornful insults of the proud, Nor censures of the base and groveling crowd Nor Poverty, in all her terrors drest, Can shake the solid quiet of his breast. Unmov'd he stands, against his worst of foes, And mocks the darts which adverse fortune throws; Calm and compos'd amidst or ease or pain, Enjoys that true content, which others seek in vain.

So stands a fix'd rock, lofty and steep, Within the confines of the briny deep: Lash'd by the foaming surges on each side, Yet can't be shaken by th' indignant tide.

Then why should phantoms discompose the mind, Or woes, so far from real, fright mankind? Since wealth is but imaginary fame, Since Poverty is nothing but a name; Since both from God's unerring hand are sent, Lord, give me neither, give me but content.

HONOUR'D SIR,

I HAVE before the Time prescrib'd by you, Expos'd my weak productions to your View. 'T had been unjust so long to make you wait, For what at last had scarce been worth your sight: And only hopes for pardon at your hand, Because produc'd to light by your command, Haply you might expect some finish'd ode, Or sacred song, made to the praise of God. A glorious thought, and laudable! O then Think on th' illiterate Soul that guides the pen; Ill suit such tasks with one that holds the Plow, Such lofty subjects with a fate so low.

Alas! great Sir, was but your learning mine; And I, like you, a fav'rite of the nine; Sacred Parnassus' top I soon would climb, And find a Hero worthy of my Rhyme My well chose subject then I'd treat with sense, And grace each line with art and eloquence.

I would not sing of Troy, or ancient Greece; Of sage Ulysses, or of Priam's Race; Or any of these fictious sons of fame, Pagans, unworthy of a Christian's Theme. Much nobler thoughts my grateful voice shou'd raise, In lofty Strains, to Great Messiah's praise: With joy I'd sing of his stupendous birth, And paint his god-like virtues whilst on Earth. Then with reluctance, horror, and surprize, I'd mournfully recite his agonies; I'd trace the heav'nly hero to the tree, And shew how God in man expir'd for me. Next in Heroic Numbers would I tell, How the third day he rose, and vanquish'd Hell; Subdu'd the grave, and death victoriously, And gave us earnest of Eternity. Such noble subjects shou'd my lays excite;

And you, great patron, wou'd in such delight: Grateful to me, when you well pleas••d shou'd view Th' accomplish••d sacred piece inscrib'd to you.

But in Meshah••s cause I can't proceed, L••st when 〈◊〉〈◊〉 praise him, I degrade. My fate unkind, compels me to be mute, Because of learning I am destitute; By which no thought, tho' well conceiv'd, can rise To full perfection, but in Embryo dies. Yet my unpolish'd Soul wou'd fain produce, And bring forth something, tho' 'tis of no use.

Thus in the country often have I found, (Th•••• slothful man's neglect) a plat of ground Waste and uncultivated, void of seeds, Producing nothing but the rankest weeds.

But why stand I my fate accusing so? The field calls me to labour, I must go. The Cow lows after mea••; the hungry Steed, Neighing, complains he wants his usual feed. Then, Sir, adieu! Accept what you did crave, And be propitious to your humble slave.

STEPHEN DUCK.

The following ingenious Pieces, we hope will not be thought improperly placed here.

ON STEPHEN DUCK.

O Duck! prefer'd by bounteous queen, To cackle verse on Richmond Green: Wild Duck in genius! You on high Soar with bold wing: our rhyming fry Are tame ones, and not made to fly. All glorious souls, who e'er have been, Some lesser Beings usher in. One hardly worthy to unloose The leathern thongs that tie thy shoes,

We udge did 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his eye on thee. In his Duck 〈◊〉〈◊〉 prophecy: Where, now fulfill'd, we sense explore, Dark, (as it should be) all before.

Thy notes our ears with pleasure treat, So very wild so very sweet: More than Amphion thou hast done, And raised walls, which prove thy own, This, Stephen, if there's faith in news, Preferment, Heav'n open'd views: And yet, by sov'reign goodness own'd, By critick's hands escapes unston'd. O sent in mercy to these times! With vigour thresh our modern rhymes: Much stalk from little grain withdraw, And save our pence in buying straw. No chaffy Bard dare thee assail, There's no fence against a flail. Our dang'rous state we all discern, And fetch Dictators from the Barn.

To Stephen Duck, on his late preferment by Her Majesty.

OLD Homer tho' a Bard divine, (If not by fame bely'd) Stroll'd about Greece; old Ballads sung; A beggar liv'd and dy'd. Fame Milton too, our British Bard, Who as divinely wrote, Sung like an Angel, but in vain; And dy'd not worth a groat. Thrice happy Duck! a milder fate Thy Genius does attend; Well hast thou thresh'd thy Barns and Brains To make a Queen thy friend! O! may she still new favours grant, And make the Laurel thine! Then shall we see next New Year's Ode, By far the last outshine.