THE DISPENSARY. CANTO I.

SPEAK, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell
How ancient leagues to modern discord fell;
And why physicians were so cautious grown
Of others' lives, and lavish of their own;
How by a journey to th' Elysian plain
Peace triumph'd, and old Time return'd again.

Not far from that most celebrated place,
Where angry Justice shows her awful face;
Where little villains must submit to fate,
That great ones may enjoy the world in state;
There stands a dome, majestic to the sight,
And sumptuous arches bear its oval height;
A golden globe, placed high with artful skill,
Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill:
This pile was, by the pious patron's aim,
Raised for a use as noble as its frame;
Nor did the learn'd society decline
The propagation of that great design;
In all her mazes, nature's face they view'd,
And, as she disappear'd, their search pursued.
Wrapp'd in the shade of night the goddess lies,
Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise,
But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes.
Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife
Of infant atoms kindling into life;
How ductile matter new meanders takes,
And slender trains of twisting fibres makes;

[The origin of the Dispensary has not hitherto been explained with sufficient fulness or accuracy; there was a selfish motive on the part of Garth and his associates for this college charity to the poor. Soon after the Restoration, the apothecaries taught the art

By doctors' bills to play the doctor's part, ventured out of their assigned walk of life, and to compounding added the art of prescription. This was treading injuriously, it was thought, on the peculiar province of the College of Physicians, who, incensed at the intrusion of the druggist gentry, advertised that they would give advice gratis to the poor, and establish a dispensary of their own, for the sale of medicines at their intrinsic value. Hence the hostility so ludicrously depicted in this poem by Garth, and the unexplained allusion of Dryden in his epistle to his Chesterton cousin

And how the viscous seeks a closer tone,
By just degrees to harden into bone;
While the more loose flow from the vital urn,
And in full tides of purple streams return;
How lambent flames from life's bright lamps
arise,

And dart in emanation through the eyes;
How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours,
To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers;
Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim;
How great their force, how delicate their frame;
How the same nerves are fashion'd to sustain
The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain;
Why bilious juice a golden light puts on,
And floods of chyle in silver currents run;
How the dim speck of entity began
T'extend its recent form, and stretch to man;
To how minute an origin we owe
Young Ammon, Cæsar, and the great Nassau;
Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim,
And why chill virgins redden into flame;
Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise,
And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes;
All ice, why Lucrece; or Sempronia, fire;
Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire ;
When Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown,
Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane;
How matter, by the varied shape of pores,
Or idiots frames, or solemn senators.

The apothecary train is wholly blind.
From files a random recipe they take,
And many deaths of one prescription make.
Garth, generous as his Muse, prescribes and gives:
The shopman sells, and by destruction lives.

It appears from the law reports of the time, that the College of Physicians brought a penal action, under its charter, against one Rose, an apothecary, for attending a butcher, and that the Court of Queen's Bench decided in their favour, that the making up and compounding of medicines was the business of an apothecary, but the judging what was proper for the case, and advising what to take for that purpose, was the business of a physician. The House of Lords, in 1703, reversed this decision: and since then, it has been the law of the land that apotheos ries may advise as well as administer.]

Nor climes nor seasons his resolves control,
The equator has no heat, no ice the pole.
With arms resistless o'er the globe he flies,
And leaves to Jove the empire of the skies.
But, as the slothful god to yawn begun,
He shook off the dull mist, and thus went on:
"Twas in this reverend dome I sought repose,
These walls were that asylum I had chose.
Here have I ruled long undisturb'd with broils,
And laugh'd at heroes, and their glorious toils.
My annals are in mouldy mildews wrought,
With easy insignificance of thought.
But now some busy, enterprising brain
Invents new fancies to renew my pain,
And labours to dissolve my easy reign.

With that, the god his darling phantom calls, And from his faltering lips this message falls:

Since mortals will dispute my power, I'll try Who has the greatest empire, they or I. Find envy out; some prince's court attend, Most likely there you'll meet the famish'd fiend; Or where dull critics authors' fate foretell; Or where stale maids, or meagre eunuchs, dwell; Tell the bleak fury what new projects reign Among the homicides of Warwick-lane; And what the event, unless she straight inclines To blast their hopes, and baffle their designs.

More he had spoke, but sudden vapours rise, And with their silken cords tie down his eyes.

THE revocation of the Edict of Nantes brought over many ingenious artists to this country from France; but we should hardly have expected an increase to our poets among them: yet Peter Anthony Motteux, who was born and educated at Rouen in Normandy, was driven to England by the event of that persecution, and acquired so much knowledge of the language as to write a good translation of Don Quixote, and to be

come a successful writer in our drama. But his end was not so creditable: he was found dead in a disorderly house, in the parish of St. Clement Danes, and was supposed either to have been murdered, or to have met with his death from trying an experiment which is not fit to be repeated. He established himself respectably in trade, and had a good situation in the postoffice.

SONG.

FROM "MARS AND VENUS."

SCORN, though Beauty frowns, to tremble;
Lovers, boldly urge your flame;
For a woman will dissemble,

Loves the joy, but hates the name.

Her refusing, your pursuing, Yield alike a pleasing pain; Ever curing, and renewing, Soon appeased to rage again.

If the soldier storms and rages, Face him with a lovely maid; This his fury soon assuages,

And the devil soon is laid.

He ne'er conquers but by toiling,

But the fair subdues with ease; Blood he sheds with hatred boiling,

But the fair can kill and please.

A RONDELEAUX.

IN "THE MOCK MARRIAGE," BY SCOTT. MAN is for woman made,

And woman made for man:
As the spur is for the jade,
As the scabbard for the blade,

As for liquor is the can,
So man's for woman made,

And woman made for man. As the sceptre to be sway'd, As to night the serenade,

As for pudding is the pan, As to cool us is the fan, So man's for woman made,

And woman made for man. Be she widow, wife, or maid, Be she wanton, be she staid, Be she well or ill array'd,

A LETTER FROM ITALY.*

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LORD HALIFAX.

WHILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease:
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung;
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleased to search the hills and
woods

or rising springs and celebrated floods!

view the Nar, tumultuous in his course, And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source; To see the Mincio draw his watery store, Through the long windings of a fruitful shore; And hoary Albula's infected tide O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide. Fired with a thousand raptures, I survey Eridanus through flowery meadows stray, The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains, The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows, Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, I look for streams immortalized in song, That lost in silence and oblivion lie,

(Dumb are their fountains, and their channels dry,)

Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the famed river's empty shores admire,
That, destitute of strength, derives its course
From thirsty urns, and an unfruitful source;
Yet sung so often in poetic lays,

With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;

[Few poems have done more honour to English genius than this. There is in it a strain of political thinking that was, at the time, new in our poetry. Had the harmony of this been equal to Pope's versification, it would be incontestably the finest poem in our language; but there is a dryness in the numbers which greatly lessens the pleasure excited by the poet's judgment and imagination.-GOLDSMITH.]

So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,
And unobserved in wild meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd,
Its rising billows through the world resound,
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse..

Oh, could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, Or, when transplanted and preserved with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mountain juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride: Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my soul a thousand passions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties I descry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre's amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That, on its public shows, unpeopled Rome,
And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb :
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies,
And here the proud triumphal arches rise,
Where the old Romans, deathless acts display'd,
Their base degenerate progeny upbraid:
Whole rivers here forsake the fields below,
And wondering at their height through airy chan-
nels flow.

Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires,
And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires;
Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown,
And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone.
In solemn silence, a majestic band,
Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand,
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown; [sued,
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly
Still show the charms that their proud hearts

subdued.

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, And show the immortal labours in my verse,

Where from the mingled strength of shade and

light

A new creation rises to my sight,

Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colours glow.
From theme to theme with secret pleasure toss'd,
Amidst the soft variety I'm lost :

Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of sound;
Here domes and temples rise in distant views,
And opening palaces invite my Muse.

How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avail her unexhausted stores,

Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores,
With all the gifts that Heaven and earth impart,
The smiles of nature, and the charms of art,
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns,
And tyranny usurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The reddening orange and the swelling grain:
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

O Liberty, thou goddess, heavenly bright,
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eased of her load subjection grows more light,
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;
Thou makest the gloomy face of nature gay,
Givest beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.
Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores;
How has she oft exhausted all her stores,
How oft in fields of death thy presence sought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought!
On foreign mountains may the sun refine
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive swell with floods of oil:
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine;
'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak moun-
tains smile.

Think, O my soul, devoutly think,
How, with affrighted eyes,
Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep,
In all its horrors rise.

Confusion dwelt on every face,

And fear in every heart!

When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, O'ercame the pilot's art.

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord!
Thy mercy set me free;
Whilst in the confidence of prayer,

My soul took hold on thee.

For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,

I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retired, Obedient to thy will;

The sea, that roar'd at thy command,
At thy command was still.

In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore;
And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preservest my life,

Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, if death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to thee.

PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.

THE Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd's care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye :
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary, wandering steps he leads:
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious, lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile,
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.