Poems on Several Occasions By the Reverend Mr. Thomas Warton |
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The Eighth ODE of the Second Book of Horace.
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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The Eighth ODE of the Second Book of Horace.
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Imitated.
To Sir Robert Walpole.
1.
If ever Justice with her iron Hand,Had dar'd to thrust thee from this groaning Land,
Or on thy Front, t' avenge a People's Cry,
Burnt the red Marks of shameless Villany;
Or, as from righteous Japhet, cropt an Ear,
Which; daily, fine-spun Flatt'ry wont to hear;
Poor Britain might appease her Griefs, and smile,
And hope her Genius had not left her Isle.
2.
But You—the less your Country you befriend,The more the Courtier-mob before you bend:
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As hungry Insects a corrupted Corse;
While bowing Bards with panegyric Lays,
Wipe off, or turn your Vices to your Praise;
As if the Muse, with all her Pindus' Stream,
Cou'd wash a Negro white, or clean your Name.
3.
What tho' you swear your Country to redress,To shield in War, to cherish her in Peace;
None dare thy false, Ligurian Words believe,
Who deem'st it Depth of Wisdom to deceive.
4.
At this Corruption smiles with ghastly Grin,Foretelling Triumphs to her Sister Sin;
Who, as with baneful Wings aloft she flies,
“This ruin'd Land be mine”——exulting cries;
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And whets his flaming Sword that thirsts to stay.
5.
How widely spreads thy Pow'r! almighty Knight!Conquest is surer when you bribe, than fight:
No more let Persia hail her laurell'd Lord,
Before a Sesterce what avails a Sword?
Yet sure 'tis strange your Slaves will Slaves remain,
Tho' ten Times kick'd they come, they cringe again;
As foolish Phædria still sigh'd for his Whore,
Tho' the dear Jilt had thrust him from her Door.
6.
Striking her Breast, what Tears has Virtue shed,To see plain Justice, Truth, and Valour fled?
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How much she sighs, how deeply she complains,
That Britain bends to thy corruptive Pow'r,
Debauch'd, like Danäe, with a golden Show'r?
| Poems on Several Occasions | |