The Year of Wonders Being a literal and poetical translation of an old Latin prophecy, found near Merlin's cave, By S---n D---k [i.e. Stephen Duck] |
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 | The Year of Wonders |  |
Thus, or from some Mistake, or from Design,
Britain, to be betray'd, the Lot is thine.
What Genius's have in thy Land been born,
The Heroe's Contrast, and the Patriots Scorn?
This flagrant most unhappy Truth we took
From Wharton, Harcourt, and a Bollingbroke.
Either had Heads to save this sinking State,
And make their forlorn Country fortunate.
The former Two are to their Fathers gone,
And matchless Bollingbroke survives alone.
Oh! Bollingbroke! how excellent thy Parts?
How well refin'd by the politer Arts?
To you the Int'rests of all States are known,
Their Arts, their Genius, Taste, are all your own;
The subtle Chain that binds each Nation fast,
And how secure Alliances may last:
The Statesman's Windings, and the secret Springs
Of Councils in the Cabinets of Kings,
You've throughly gain'd: What Machiavel has wrote
You have digested, and what Richlieu thought.
See him relax'd in Wine, his Thoughts unbend,
And with his Wit regale the curious Friend,
With Wit such as in Pope and Swift you find
Familiariz'd proud Berkeley's lofty Mind.
His Dissertation upon Parties shews
Beyond a Doubt, how much this St. John knows.
But Heav'n to Man a perfect Soul denies,
And tinges with some Errors the most Wise.
What Blessings happy Britons must have known,
Had he been firm, had he true Honour shewn?
We had not been the Dupes of France and Spain,
Cajol'd in Treaties, bullied on the Main;
Britons would then have kept them all in Awe,
Baffled their Schemes, and given Europe Law:
Intestine Factions would have all confess'd,
That Britons in a Bollingbroke were bless'd.
Must such a Genius to Great Britain's Cost,
Lye useless, unemploy'd, entirely lost?
It must (since Fate has so ordain'd) it must,
For one so loose in Honour who can trust?
Whoe'er wants Courage to be just and brave,
Tho' otherwise an Angel, is a Slave.
Britain, to be betray'd, the Lot is thine.
What Genius's have in thy Land been born,
The Heroe's Contrast, and the Patriots Scorn?
This flagrant most unhappy Truth we took
From Wharton, Harcourt, and a Bollingbroke.
6
And make their forlorn Country fortunate.
The former Two are to their Fathers gone,
And matchless Bollingbroke survives alone.
Oh! Bollingbroke! how excellent thy Parts?
How well refin'd by the politer Arts?
To you the Int'rests of all States are known,
Their Arts, their Genius, Taste, are all your own;
The subtle Chain that binds each Nation fast,
And how secure Alliances may last:
The Statesman's Windings, and the secret Springs
Of Councils in the Cabinets of Kings,
You've throughly gain'd: What Machiavel has wrote
You have digested, and what Richlieu thought.
See him relax'd in Wine, his Thoughts unbend,
And with his Wit regale the curious Friend,
With Wit such as in Pope and Swift you find
Familiariz'd proud Berkeley's lofty Mind.
His Dissertation upon Parties shews
Beyond a Doubt, how much this St. John knows.
But Heav'n to Man a perfect Soul denies,
And tinges with some Errors the most Wise.
What Blessings happy Britons must have known,
Had he been firm, had he true Honour shewn?
We had not been the Dupes of France and Spain,
Cajol'd in Treaties, bullied on the Main;
Britons would then have kept them all in Awe,
Baffled their Schemes, and given Europe Law:
Intestine Factions would have all confess'd,
That Britons in a Bollingbroke were bless'd.
Must such a Genius to Great Britain's Cost,
Lye useless, unemploy'd, entirely lost?
It must (since Fate has so ordain'd) it must,
For one so loose in Honour who can trust?
Whoe'er wants Courage to be just and brave,
Tho' otherwise an Angel, is a Slave.
| The Year of Wonders | |