Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems on Several Occasions

With Imitations from Horace, Ovid, Martial, Theocritus, Bachylides, Anacreon, &c. To which is prefix'd A Discourse on Criticism, and the Liberty of Writing. In a letter to a Friend. By Samuel Cobb ... The Third Edition. To which is added, Poems on the Duke of Marlborough, Prince Eugene, the Electoral Prince of Hannover, with other Poems. Never before Printed

Cobb, Samuel (1675-1713)

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Non ego mendosos aufim defendere Versus.
Ovid.

At neque, cum scribo, si forte quid aptius exit,
Quando hæc rara avis est, si quid tamen aptius exit,
Laudari metuam ------
Pers.

A Prefatory Discourse.

[For tho' retiring to the Western Isles]

For tho' retiring to the Western Isles,
At the long Distance of five thousand Miles,
You've chang'd dear London for your Native Seat;

And think Barbadoes is a safe Retreat;
You highly err: Nor is the Wat'ry Fence
Sufficient Guard against Impertinence.
The Muse, which smiles on jingling Bards, like Me,

Has always Winds to waft her o'er the Sea.
Blow on, ye Winds, and o'er th' Atlantick Main,
Bear to my Gen'rous Friend this thankful Strain.

[Born to surprize the World, and teach the Great]

Born to surprize the World, and teach the Great
The slippery Danger of exalted State,
Victorious Marlbro to Ramilly flies;
Arm'd with new Lightning from bright ANNA's Eyes.

Wonders like These, no former Age has seen;
Subjects are Heroes, where a Saint's the QUEEN.

[For to display our Candour and our Sence]

For to display our Candour and our Sence,
Is to discover some deep Excellence.
The Critick's faulty, while the Poet's free;
They raise the Mole hill, who want Eyes to see

[Rules they can write, but, like the College Tribe]

Rules they can write, but, like the College Tribe,
Take not that Physick which their Rules prescribe.
I scorn to praise a plodding, formal Fool,
Insipidly correct, and dull by Rule:
Homer, with all his Nodding, I would chuse,
Before the more exact Sicilian Muse.
Who'd not be Dryden; tho' his Faults are great,
Sooner than our Laborious Laureat?
Not but a decent Neatness, I confess,
In Writing is requir'd, as well as Dress.
Yet still in both the unaffected Air
Will always please the Witty and the Fair.

To His MAJESTY.

In imitation of Horace. Ode 15th. Lib. 4.

Phœbus volentem prœlia me loqui
Victas & Urbes, &c.

[I.]

I tun'd the Lute, and strait begun
To play of Wars and Battles won:
Of Sieges and Heroic Things;
Of routed Armies, vanquish'd Kings:
Till Phœbus, to reprove my Care,
With haste did to my Song repair,
And check'd the trembling Strings.

Desist, he said, nor dare in vain
Beyond thy peaceful, humble strain;
Nor tempt with slender Sails the Dangers of the Main.

II.

What Age, O William, ever equall'd Thine?
By Thee the World is happy made,
Whether it fly for refuge to thy shade,
Or seek the blessings of thy glorious shine.
The Healthy Farmer walks around
Th' extended Acres of his Ground
With pleasure and delight to see
The Hills with yellow plenty crown'd,
And blesses Heav'n and Thee.
Under Thy clam auspicious Reign
The careful Merchant dreads no more
French Malice, but securely ploughs the Main
To farthest China, or the Western shore.

The Sea it self, Thy Empire, now
Uncurls it's rough tempestuous Brow.
Now every Face begins to shine,
And every Heart where Anger dwelt,
Does now into Compassion melt,
Taught Gentleness by Thine.

III.

Nassovian Heroe! under Thee
All, but Licentiousness, is free.
Profaneness, and the spreading Train
Of numerous Vices, you restrain;
You curb th' Excesses of the Land
By your Example and Command,
And call back Ancient Arts again.
Arts, which, in hardy Edgar's days,
Advanc'd the losty British Name,

Extending his Dominions, and his Praise
O'er the Virginian and the German Seas.
Till, under Thee, Imperial England's Fame
Is to remotest shores and Islands spread
From the Sun's Rising to his Western Bed.

IV.

No Civil Discord shall create
Divisions, and embroil the State,
No Jars in Europe shall prevail,
While the Britannick Cæsar holds the Scale,
And moderates her Fate.
No Wrath, nor Hatred shall appear,
Which forms the Gun, and points the Spear.
To which unhappy Nations owe
Their Enmity and Overthrow.
Great Arbitrator of the World, NASSAW!

Whose bold Presumption dares transgress
Thy stablish'd Articles of Peace,
Or disobey thy Law?
The Turkish and Venetian Power,
With those who dwell nigh Danow's sounding Shore,
Or Russian Moscow, or the German Rhine,
Thy Friendship court, Thy Aid implore
To carry on some Great Design:
And for a Peace, or for a Truce,
Thy prudent Mediation chuse,
And in Confederacy joyn.

V.

For thy important Reign, and length of Years
All Temples eccho with our Prayers.
For Thee the comely British Dame
Sollicits Heav'n with lifted Eyes,
For Thee her tender hopes implores the Skies,

And with imperfect Speech lisps the Nassovian Name
While We above a common flight will soar,
And in loud numbers tell,
Numbers unheard of and unknown before,
Who for their Countries Cause, like Grafton fell,
Or bled, like Talmarsh, on the Gallick shore.
Thus will we sing, thus shall our measures flow,
Joyn'd with the skilful Harmony of BLOW.
Thus o'er a Glass of Generous Wine,
From the Burgundian fetch'd, or Florentine,
In never-dying Verse we'll trace
The Glories of the British Race,
And sing each God-like Hero's Acts, from Brutus down to Thine.

A Pindaric Ode,

Occasion'd by the Succession of Spain, the Wars in the North, and the Juncture of Affairs in the Year of our Lord 1700. in the 13th of the Reign of King William the Third.

[I.]

The Muse, which taught the Theban Swan
To stretch his Silver wings, and soar
Where Vulgar Pinions never can,
In Regions of the Sky, unknown before:
She, Queen of Numbers, who could raise
The Voice of PRIOR to a pitch so high,
As might with envy'd Cowley vye,
When lissning to his Lays,
Old smiling Janus blest the new-born Century.
Now from her Airy Bower descends,

(Not always the Companion of the Great)
To honour Things of meaner state,
And to My Song attentive bends.
As Cytherea's feign'd to fly
From amorous Gods, and leave the Sky,
To bless with a Divine embrace
Some Favourite of Mortal Race,
And there disclose the Lustre of her Eye,
And each Ambrosial Grace.

II.

She calls me with a Voice, as would excell
Th' Orphean, could the golden Lyre
And charming Tongue again conspire
To vindicate Eurydice from Hell.
Lo! from this abject Earth she seems to bear
Me, through untrodden Air.
Like Virgil's Fame, she flies
O'er tracts of Sea, and spacious Land,
Where-e're Nassovian Arms command,

Her Foot upon the Ground, her Head above the Skies,
There views the Desert Æther round; a Place
Where Nothing lives, the blue, expanded Space
There sees the Stars, which rule the Night,
Which in the Sky, like a Republick, sway
With scattered and imperfect Light,
Whose Beams more happily unite
In the Great Monarch of the Day.

III.

Not all the rowling Lamps above will dare
With the Phebean to compare.
Nor can th' united Wit of Man below
With all his fondness and pretence
To Business, Management and Sense,
Such Universal Rays bestow
As the NASSOVIAN Influence.
Wheher He leave his Native seat
To warm us with his kindly heat:

Or if He please to lift the Dart
And take Religion's injur'd part.
Like that Young God he flies, by Homer sung,
Descending from Olympus, to the Aid,
Of the wrong'd Priest, and ravish'd Maid,
When the vindictive Quiver on his shoulders hung,
And from his silver Bow the poison'd Arrow rung.
Fond Agamemnon! to provoke
Apollo's pestilential stroke.
What Heroes thro' Thy Passion slain
Of Thee in Stygian Groves complain!
Of Thee, whose blinded Lust could dare
The Pious Virgin to detain,
And combat against Innocence and Prayer.

IV.

Wrongs to Revenge, and Succour the Distrest,
William was always nigh,
At the soft warning of a Sigh,
To thousand Ills expos'd his Valiant Breast.

Oppression trembled at his Sight,
And sunk into the Womb of Night,
Too impotent to bear so great a Light.
Soon as that Hydra, Faction, rose,
She saw, and stagger'd at his dazling shine,
Nor durst her Multiplying Heads oppose
To Vertue so Divine.
For William, if his Counsel Fails,
Shakes but his Thunder, and prevails.
If on the Gallick or the Northern Shore,
From Oaken Walls his Cannons rore.
He frights the bold, presumptuous Crew,
As Ancient Jove is said to do.
When he hurl'd Typhon from th' affected Skies
To bellow under Ætna; where,
Bruis'd with the marks of Heav'nly Wrath, he fries
In rowling Sulphur, and when e're
He shifts his brawny side below,
Above he shakes th' Eternal Snow.

Still eager to renew his Ancient War,
Still to retort new Mountains at the Thunderer.

V.

In vain he tosses Fire, in vain
He bites his Adamantine Chain,
Struggles with Heav'n's Decree, and Everlasting Pain.
Just Penance! for the Wretch who dare,
War against the Gods declare.
Tho' to the Vulgar this a Fable seem,
Or some Poetic, Idle Dream.
Dorset, sagacious Hallifax, and Those
To whom the Muse her Secrets does betray,
Whom She instructs in her mysterious way,
This dark Ænigma can disclose;
And with Lyncean Eye,
Conceal'd to meaner Sight the Depth of this Vast Stream discry.
In Typhon They behold the Fall
Of the Vain Russian, and ambitious Gaul.

This th' unhewn Muscovite can tell,
Who struck with Swedish Lightning, fell
Down from his Airy Steep, to prove
Ten thousand Gyants are no odds to Jove.
Imperious Death! on that Triumphant Day,
How didst Thou feast! how riot on thy Prey!
When Charles, like a Gustavus, rose
And through arm'd Myriads of his Foes
Mow'd his Victorious Way.
Let Narva tell, how many Leagues the Slain
Lay dismembred on the Plain,
Tell, how her VVaters blush'd with an inglorious Stain

VI.

Nor stops the Northern Worthy here,
Swiftly he urges on his fiery Career,
Th' Apostate Saxon quakes, and warlike Polander.

So early Charles pursues
The steps of William, and creates new business for the Muse.
Next to Godlike William's Name,
In th' Eternal Book of Fame
Write him, O Clio, and prepare a place
Among the Heroes of Immortal Race,
In Valours Temple let him sit
With Roman Julius, or our great Plantagenet;
Let all to the Nassovian Name Submit.
All to Superiour Greatness bow,
Bring Olive to his Hands, and Laurel to his Brow.
Tell us, who at the Twentyeth Summer run
The Course of Fame, when Philip's Son
With all his hopes in Prophecy begun.
Propp'd on his Genius, William leads
To Conquest, and Heroic Deeds,
Nor Oracle, nor Omen needs;
Nor Armour to defend his Breast,

Such as Rome's boasted Father wore,
Or such as stern Pelides bore,
At the Sea-Godess's Request.
Or such as to the British Arthur did belong,
By whose inchanted blaze, in Spencer's Song,
The cursed Paynim fell; while Saxons mourn
The Desolation of his Flaming Calliburn.
No: it is less than William, to desire
A magick Shield, or Sword, or Dart
At Lemnos forg'd in Vulcan's fire,
Or charm'd by Merlin's horrid Art;
No Armour like his Cause, no Weapon like his Heart.

VII.

Whether the Princely Youth ingage
With Luxemburg's experienc'd Age,
Or with cool Wisdom temper Conde's Rage,
No Forces could unhinge his Mind,
No Arts his cautious steps inclose,
Arts, which his Generous Soul declin'd,
And piti'd in his Foes.

So thinly spun is Human sleight!
So feeble is Borbonian Wit,
When aim'd at Heav'n's peculiar Favourite!
Batavia, witness how Thy Heroe flew
To snatch Thee, like a flaming Brand,
From the fierce Ravager's destroying hand,
Thy Provinces reseize, Thy Liberty renew.
As a brave Eagle, when she finds the Nest
Robb'd, where her future Heroes us'd to rest,
Stays not to mourn, but through the Liquid Sky
Sails with full Wing to seek her Barb'rous Enemy,
She does at last the greedy Vulture spy
Lodg'd on some Mountain's top, or lofty Tree,
A helpless, undefending Sanctuary.
People below with wonder and affright
Behold the Noble Fight.
But She, who must Jove's Thunder bear,
Buffets the Dastard, and redeems the Prey,
And gives sure Omens of a better Day,

When, ripening to the Strength and Force
Of her Imperial Ancestors,
She shall the struggling Dragon dare,
Provok'd by Hunger, or the Thirst of War,
And lead her Triumph o'er the wide Dominions of the Air.

VIII.

Lo! from the well hatch'd Seeds of Time, what Fate
Had registred To Be, the Months and Days
Leap forth in all their decency, and Rays,
Miraculously bright and great,
And all the future Year's reserv'd for WILLIAM's Praise.
Enough of Actions past; now look,
My Muse, in thy Mysterious Book;
Rowl o'er the next Immortal Page,
And View what's destin'd for maturer Age.
I see it: 'tis a vast Herculean Task
Which will Collected William ask.

Descend, O Clio, and if near the Stream
Of Father Cam, or Isis you delight
To bless the sacred Poet's Dream,
And succour his Auspicious Flight.
Or with thy Voice, or with thy Strings
Lament the Funeral of Kings.
See! a large Field lies open to thy View,
And the whole World is thy Purliew.
Whether the Eastern Islands you behold,
Or Western Mexico, or rich Peru,
(The fertil Womb of fatal Gold)
All mourning for the Monarch lost, and fearing for the New.

IX.

We call him happy, who is doom'd to wear
A Diadem besieg'd with care.
Mistaken Notion! not to know
What Thorns on Crowns and Scepters grow,

The splendid Ornaments of pompous Woe.
Is it for this perfidious Bourbon's Pride
Would o'er insulted Nations Ride,
And sail to Empire through a Sanguine Tide?
For this so many Leagues he breaks,
For this so many Widows makes;
For this so oft the Virgin sighs,
So oft his Iron Hand has wrung
Tears from the humble Shepherds Eyes,
And Curses from his Tongue.

X.

Beauteous Iberia! once a potent State,
Magnificent and Fortunate!
With Thy own Indies Thou art sold,
And wilt, I fear, repent, as Midas did of old,
Thy Thirst and Avarice of Gold.
How often wilt Thou wish in vain
For the grim Moor, the Suevian, or Alane,
The Vandal or the Goth, a milder Reign?

They, like a Torrent, pouring from a Hill,
And boistrous as the North, from whence they came,
Ravage Thy Lands, and all thy Countries fill
With Slaughter, and depopulating Flame.
Th' intriguing Gaul, like a dissembling Sea,
Whose Smiling waters steal below the ground
Eats under, the Foundation to betray,
Taught through the weaken'd Earth to work it's way,
And with a bursting Quake the tottering Ball confound.

XI.

For this Europa, like a Sacrifice,
The Sword just lifted, on the Altar lies;
Hark! how she knocks her Lovely Breast, and wounds the Suffering Skies.
Like that Phænician Dame,
From whence she drew her Name,

When the lascivious and Impostor-God,
Laid down his Heav'nly Arms, and that commanding Nod,
With which he rules the Powers Above,
Degrading his Divinity for Love.
When on his milky Shoulders through the Sea,
He bore His beauteous, panting Prey.
In vain on the Sidonian Strand
Her fellow Virgins weeping stand;
In vain to th' unattentive Sky
Europa lifts her snowy hand,
And calls on Jove; but thinks not Jove so nigh.
With the false Waves the traiterous Winds conspire
Against th' afflicted Fair,
To gratifie th' Immortal Thief's desire,
And blow each gentle sigh away, and each ingaging Prayer,
But O, Europa, now forget to fear,

For in his own Majestick shape.
Behold thy better Jupiter appear,
Not to beguile Thee to a Rape,
But save Thee from the Ravisher.

XII.

That Gallick Pride, which many years has strove
To satisfie his large, insatiate Love,
Still like the fabled Heav'nly Lust of old,
Try'd all his Strength, and all his Charms,
To grasp the Virgin to his Arms.
He shook his Thunder, and he rain'd his Gold.
Till long-departed Justice came below,
With awful step she march'd, and dreadful to behold,
Like the German, stern and bold,
Her Vengeance certain, tho' her Motion slow.
Lead on, Astræa, thy Triumphant way,
And to th' affrighted World display

Aloft thy bloody Banner, to chastise
Successful Rapine and absolve the Skies.
Down from the Alpin Hills her Armies pour,
Eridanus is with amazement struck,
And wonders why the Mountain shook,
Convulsions never felt before,
Such Thunder never heard to rore,
Since Phaeton fell headlong from the Sky
She now no Second Fall can fear,
But thinks the God himself is nigh,
When she beholds his Eagle there.

XIII.

Let wise Impiety be dumb,
Like her own thoughtless Deity become.
Which neither rule nor order keeps,
But in Eternal ease supinely sleeps.
Madness! behold God's strange Mysterious way,
How sure his Arrows fly, no random play;

So lingring is his Wrath! so fatal his Delay!
To raise the weak, and mortify the proud,
See marching from afar
His Ministers of Wrath, a formidable Crowd,
With all the horrid clang of a tumultuous War,
Fierce as his Lightning, as his Thunder loud.
Loud as the Water-falls of Nile,
When they with mighty flow
Rowl from some Æthiopian Hill,
And drown or deafen all below.
When Savoy's Eugene and his Fortunes lead the way,
O Italy, how frail is Thy Pretence
Of Nature's strong and rocky Fence!
In vain thy Rivers swell, in vain thy Alps obstruct his stay
When He of old to Victory was flown,
The Moon of Ottoman began to wane,
The Lesser Stars grew pale, which fill'd her Eastern train;

Nor does the Turkish Majesty alone,
Bow to his Awful Name;
But onward marching, his Triumphant Fame
Knocks at Versailles, and shakes the Celtick Throne.

XIV.

Where Purple Cruelty in haughty state,
Presides, Tyrannically Great:
Moves Arbitrary in his Orb of Light,
Till urg'd by the Decrees of Fate,
From his high Solstice in his fullest blaze
He takes his Ignominious flight,
Rowls backward his diminish'd Rays,
And in succeeding Darkness ends the Glory of his Days.
Yet sleep not, Albion; for, with armed Hand
And watchful Eyes, thy Foes around thee stand.
Nay, thy own Sons, with thy best Blessings fed,
Conspire against thy sacred Head,

To drive Thee to the last extream;
While their black Malice, and ingrateful Wit
Does like the Augur's Razor seem,
Which cut the Hone that sharpened it.
But Heav'n has nodded with a firm consent
To guard thy Island from her Cruel Foes,
And all their fruitless Treachery prevent
Who dare with Force, or golden Arms oppose
Thy NAVY, and Thy PARLIAMENT.

Carmen Seculare.

Cha. 12. King of Sweden.

Alluding to the Death of Charles 2d. K. of Spain.

Duke of Anjou.

NICANDER.

A Pastoral Elegy, lamenting the Death of that Victorious Monarch William the Third, who dy'd on the 8th Day of March 1701–1702. Inscrib'd to the Right Honourable Charles Lord Hallifax.

Ye tuneful Sisters of the sacred Throng,
Whom Sylvan Shades delight, and Rural Song;
Whether residing by Oxonian Streams,
Or pleas'd with Reverend Cam, or silver Thames:
Whatever Lakes your Deities possess,
Whatever Groves your Smiles and Graces bless,
In your rude Weeds, and rustick Plainness fair,
As once to Colin's Verse, to mine repair,
And make it worthy Halifax's care,

O Thou, who couldst Nicander's Acts relate,
And only fit to mourn Nicander's Fate,
Suspend thy Transports, and diviner strains,
And listen to the voice of weeping Swains.
While every Tree attended to their Lays,
Witness'd how just their Sorrow, and their praise.

Nigh Kentish Downs, from whence you may survey,
England's tall Bulwarks floating on the Sea.
On a Hill's sunny top young Melan stood
Surpriz'd, and gazing on the moving Wood.
A sudden warmth his generous mind possest,
Inflam'd his Fancy, and inlarg'd his Breast.
The Fields he scorn'd, and would no care bestow
On his soft woolly Charge, which fed below.
On a high Subject he presum'd to sing,
Promis'd new Glories to th' insuing Spring
From two such Helps, the NAVY, and the KING.

While Strength and Wealth in happy Union meet,
A giving Senate, and a potent Fleet.
He thought how safe Fair Albion might repose,
By Seas begirt, and fenc'd with Walls, like those.
He saw, Busiris, thy approaching Fate,
But thought, (poor Swain!) Nicander's would be late.
Oft on Nicander's Genius would he call,
Urge on the ruin of the Faithless Gaul;
His Throne shall totter, when thy Thunder rores,
And shakes his false, unhospitable Shores.
Deferring Heav'n his Justice shall display,
And speak a Vengeance fatal by Delay.

Thus did the Youth pursue his noble choice,
And dar'd above a Shepherd's humble voice.
He sung Nicander, Valorous and Young,
Surpassing ev'n the Race, from whence he sprung.
Told how he sav'd the rich Batavian Soil
When Crown'd with Victory, and cloath'd with Spoil,

From Blood, from Slaughter and from Mons he came,
The Gallick Genius droop'd, and fled before his Flame.

K. of F.

What Lambent Fire did round his Temples shine,
When on the conscious banks of trembling Boyne
He stood? the flying Stream confest her fear,
Saw that no common Majesty was near.
Nor was all Fortune; for the tuneful Swain
Led him thro' Dangers, and o'er heaps of Slain;
From Steinkirk Field, to Landen's bloody Plain.
How the pale Nymphs thro' with'ring Grotto's ran!
The Fountains wept, the Trees to fade began.
In hollow Caves oft were sad Ecchoes heard;
All, but Nicander, for Nicander fear'd.
But the Nymphs ceas'd to mourn, a sudden Grace
Adorn'd the Trees, and Nature's chearful Face.

Safe he return'd from War's unkind Alarms,
At Home rewarded with Maria's Charms.
The Valleys round new verdant Garments wore,
And Flowers sprung up where they ne'r grew before.
Darling of Heav'n! Thy Presence is Divine
To bless our Meadows, and preserve our Kine,
And guard 'em from bewitching Eyes, with Thine,
Such was that Heroe whom the Shepherd praisd
When to a higher Note his voice he rais'd,
While, careless of their Food below, the liss'ning Cattle gaz'd
But ah! when Heav'n such mighty Blessing pours
On Man, they fall and dy, like hasty Showers.
For lo! not far a Shepherd in Despair
Appears, with haggard Looks, and matted Hair,
Sad signs of sorrow, and of wondrous Care.
Thyrsis, the Name of that unhappy Swain,
The Herdsmen follow'd, a lamenting Train.

Soon as young Melan hears their doleful Tale,
His Colour fades, his sinking Spirits fail.
Then on the Ground his wretched Corpse he cast,
Fell, like a Pine, rent by some Northern Blast.
His folded hands uplifted to the Skies,
While scalding Rivers gutter'd from his Eyes,
Thus he began; O no, ye Powers above,
No more be fam'd for Gentleness and Love;
You, who so mild and merciful appear,
On that sad Morn why were you so severe?
Like some rude Hands, more cruel and unkind
To springing Roses, than the Sun or Wind.
The rising Greatness you refuse to spare,
And crop that Vertue which no Storm can tear.

But we resign, since Heav'n requires his own,
Submit with Patience, and restore the Loan.
Yet give me this last Comfort to lament,
And from my gushing Eyes my Sorrow vent.

As your lov'd Shepherd mourn'd on Israel's Plains,
Not more profusely, tho' in nobler Strains.
His lofty Pipe could breath a louder sound,
When with harmonious grief he curs'd the ground
Where weltring in his Gore his Friend was found.
No: I'll not curse the Hills, nor flow'ry Dales;
Let the sweet Dew descend, and fill the Vales:
Ye barren Mountains, be o'erflown with Rain,
Then spend your Moisture, and with me complain.
Nicander!—from his Eyes fresh Rivers rowl'd,
Each Swain was struck at the sad Tale he told,
Mute as the Grave, and as Nicander cold.
Grief and Amazement fill'd the mournful place,
And a dumb Horror reign'd in every Face;
Till Thyrsis gently rais'd the fainting Swain,
Rise, Melan, and pursue thy Tragick Strain.
Whether you raise Nicander to the Skies,
Or mourn the mighty Dead, in Verse which never dies.
A Task of wond'rous Praise.—

Mel.
—A Task indeed
Superiour, and unsuited to my Reed.
Yet could my Voice rise to a pitch so great
As his, who mourn'd Pastora's cruel Fate,
My Grief above the Vulgar should appear,
And offer something Nobler than a Tear.

Thy.
Tears are the Claim of every Northern Swain;
You must perform above a common Vein.
The Willows chide thee, and the fading Grass,
And murm'ring Streams upbraid thee, as they pass.
The conscious Zephyrs, and th' unwilling Air,
With Grief to yonder Shore the heavy Tidings bear.
And wilt thou, careless Swain, forget to show
What to Nicander's Memory you owe?

Mel.
Ah! no, my Thyrsis, I've no Thought so low.
Sooner shall Thyme prove hateful to the Bee,
Woods to the Boar, and to the Whale the Sea;
Tygers with Lambs, & Wolves with Sheep shall join,
And Thames and Medway mingle with the Rhine,

E're from Nicander's Love I will depart,
Rooted for endless Ages in my Heart.
E're on his Vertues I forget to call,
Or cease with Tears to mourn his mighty Fall.

Say, what dark Caverns, what secure Recess
Dost thou, Nicander, with thy Presence bless?
Dost thou to starry Groves above repair,
Where sweet Celestial Nymphs, divinely fair,
Knit rosie Garlands for thy golden Hair?
Why hast thou left these Plains, these Flocks alone?
They for their Shepherds pine, for thee their Shepherds moan.
Has Malice drove thee from this hated Shore?
Never! oh! never to behold it more!
Or envious Planets snatch'd thee from our fight,
To add new Lustre to their drooping Light?

Whene're Nicander plough'd the watry Plain,
Safely he past the Dangers of the Main.

Rude Winds were chain'd: no Tempest vex'd the Sea,
But all was gentle, and as calm as He.
With endless prayers Heav'n's vaulted Roof we rent,
As oft it eccho'd with the praise we sent.
Now vain are all the Vows we can bestow,
H'es gone, alas! (O Scene of endless woe!)
On his last Voyage to the shades below.
On Albion's Isle he shook his sacred Head,
Cast back his wishing Eyes, and dying, said,
A long Farewell, be happy, when I'm dead.
Bear the sad news, ye Winds, ye Zephyrs weep,
No more to waft your Master o'er the Deep.
Like us, ye Seas, spend all your brackish store,
And let the falling Clouds supply You more.
Tho' we, and Holland should all Tears ingross.
Whose groaning Lyons seem to mourn the loss.
What Sighs are blown from either Coast! while She
Mourns for a Son, but for a Father We.

A Father, fearless in the heat of Fight,
Whom Death in all his Shapes could never fright.
Mark, how profuse of his important Life
Forward he spurs, and mingles in the strife.
As if such precious blood would nothing cost,
When Kingdoms tremble for each drop that's lost.
Ah! spare thy Soul, Nicander, spare to run
On pointed Swords, and Dangers of the Gun;
The heedless Pike will gore thy tender Side,
Or some malicious Gaul thy Flesh divide.
Or Frosts will hurt Thee, or the Damps unsound,
When Evening Dews affect th' unwholsom ground.
But Damps and Dews were to Nicander kind,
Their Venom scatter'd by a Friendly Wind.
While Bullets tamely flew thro' hissing Air,
And only mark'd whom they had charge to spare.

O had He longer kept his sacred Breath,
Nor fell inglorious by a bloodless Death!

On France the grief of Albion had turn'd,
And the League-breaker had unpity'd mourn'd.

But Heav'n is just, and we deserve our Fate,
Who rashly murmur'd at a Gift so great
Pay your last Tribute, Shepherds, to his Herse,
With Tears bedew it, and adorn with Verse.
'Tis the sad Spoils of that Triumphant King,
Of whom each Grove, each Meadow us'd to ring,
Now a pale Carcass, an unheeded thing.
No more those Arms the glittering Sword shall wield,
No more shall thunder in the dusty Field.
No more shall Rivers at his Voice retire,
Mo more shall Castles tremble at his Fire.
Mourn him, ye Heroes, of the British Race;
Glory of Arms, and Valour's highest Grace.
He taught you Arts the Martial Dance to lead,
The Spear to brandish, and to curb the Steed.

The Foe to fright, and frighted to pursue,
Schemes, which no Time, no Nations ever knew.
Speak, ye shrill Trumpets, in a softer Tone,
And sigh ye Canons, to express our moan.

Tell us, ye Skilful Swains, who Nature chase,
O'er Woods, and Groves, and every shady place,
Who trace her winding steps for Health below,
Whether on herby Hills, or Vales she grow,
Or in Salubrious Fountains chuse to Flow.
Where was the Magick which to Plants belong,
So boasted, Daphnis, in thy Sacred Song?
Ye Springs, where fled ye, on that fatal Day,
When struggling with pale Death Nicander lay,
A Mournful Victim, a lamented Prey?
No more ye Springs, which in fair Kent abound
In wholsom Channels flow beneath the Ground,
Be ever useless, and no more renown'd.

No more, Ye Plants, be clad with useful green;
Let none but letter'd Hyacinths be seen.
Funereal Cypress, and the baleful Yeugh
Are fittest Objects for the Shepherds view.
Let the Triumphant Ivy now decline,
Low is that Head, round which it us'd to twine.
Wither, Ye Laurels, there's no use for you,
Lost is Nicander, for whose Brows you grew.
O could I find him, whither would I run?
What Climates visit, like the trav'ling Sun?
O'er what steep Mountains would I take my way?
Nor fear, nor Danger should excuse my stay.
I'd pass the Lybian Sands, where Tygers yell,
Where Lyons haunt, and Dragons chuse to dwell.
Plough the vast Sea, to farthest Islands go,
Traverse the spacious Globe, with Indians glow
In scorching Beams, or freeze in Russian Snow.
Could I bring back Nicander to these Plains,
Where once he rul'd, and cheer'd the joyful Swains.

Could I restore a Soul so justly brave,
And vindicate the Heroe from the Grave.
But gloomy Darkness, and invidious Night
Shuts him for ever from our longing Sight.

Thyr.
Shepherd, thy Tears are just, thy numbers sweet,
Like cooling shades in July's sultry heat.
Hark! how the Birds repeat on yonder Tree,
The Thrush and Bullfinch learn thy Harmony,
And Philomel takes a new Note from Thee.
Yet shall our Judgments give to Damon's place,
If that be he who wears a chearful face.

Dam.
Shepherds, rejoice, begin in merry Strains,
Tis Holy-day, and shall be round the Plains,
Fair Annabel survives, a new Elisa reigns.

Mel.
What Goddess is this Annabel, relate,
Whose Presence can repair a loss so great?

Dam.
She's like an April Sun, whose powerful rise
Scatters the rainy storms, which cloud the Skies,
And chases briny Showers from British Eyes.

See! how her Vertue is diffus'd around;
New Blossoms crown the Trees, new Roses scent the Ground.
Where-e're she treads, blew Violets appear,
And when she Smiles, she glads the Vernal Year.

Mel.
Sure this is she, born for that wondrous Praise

Mr. Cowley of Plants.

We thought was destin'd for Maria's Days,
It is: I see the forming Years advance,
Beauty and Valour lead the Noble Dance.
Here on the Rhine victorious Baden fights,
And blazing, like a Prodigy, affrights.
There German Eugene, and his Fortunes go,
At Mantua knocks, and thunders on the Po.
Here Annabel's Imperial Flag appears,
Spain a new Drake, a second Essex fears.
By distant Winds the dreadful Sound is blown
To proud Versailles, and shakes the Celtick Throne.
New Rising Suns shall blaze in English Flame
And to the lofty Skies lift Denmark's Name.

Here Peace shall dwell, here Spring for ever smile,
While Annabel shall bless this Happy Isle;
Whose Lightning shall, like Heav'n's, abroad dismay,
At home be constant Calm, and endless Day.

VIGOVIA.

A Poem.

Occasion'd by the Success of Her Majesty's Forces by Sea and Land, under the Command of the Duke of ORMOND, General, and Sir George Rook, Admiral.

To Her MAJESTY.

DREAD MADAM,

On whose Royal Ensigns wait
Auspicious Glory, and designing Fate:
To whom Success and Victory repair,
Kind to the Great, and constant to the Fair:
Whose Name around the Continent is blown,
And spreads a Terrour o'er the Gallick Throne:

Whose Thunder o'er the shaken West prevails,
Whose Charms can conquer, where Thy Thunder fails.

Lo! from the opening Womb of Time appears
A long Procession of Saturnian Years.
New Scenes advance; a new Platonic Train
Of Mighty Months rowl on to bless Thy Reign.
So chang'd is Fate, since when th' unwearied Sun
Twice fifty Times his Annual Stage has run.
Since when that Mistress from our Hearts it tore
Who curb'd the Proud, and shook th' Iberian Shore.

Tho' since in Monarchs of th' Heroic kind
We've seen some glimpses of her God-like Mind;
Less than a Century could ne're suffice
To raise up Anna, when Elisa dies.

So just is Heav'n! so regular and true
His wondrous ways, beyond Conception, new!

'Twas the sad Month the Royal Virgin dyed,
When England yielded to the Royal Bride.
We murmur'd then, but God rebuk'd our Sense,
Unknowing of the paths of Providence.
“Count hence a Hundred rowling Years, said he,
“Then shall this stiff repining Nation see
“Sufficient for One Age, a Second Prodigy.
“This fatal Month with Blessings will be kept,
“And Children triumph'd, where their Fathers wept.
“A New Armada shall again be seen,
“A Prey that's worthy the Britannick Queen.
“Again with Fleets the burden'd Sea shall grone;
“Nor shall our threatned Blow strike Spain alone.

Hence flows my Theme; Bright Guardian of our Isle!
Look down, and smiling on my willing Toil,

Permit me at Thy Feet this Verse to lay,
And prophecy, as far as Poets may,
A brighter Glory to this previous Ray.
Lo! at thy ORMOND's Name the Muse prepares
To joyn with Anthems her officious Airs,
And meet with Praises, whom we sent with prayers

'Twas not in vain we lent so vast a Mind
To the loose Waves, and each inconstant Wind.
Great Souls in their own Courages are sure,
And Cæsar in a Tempest is secure.
Nor can an English Heart presume to faint,
Blest with so Great a Queen, so Good a Saint.
None but Emphatic Cowards can dispair
In ANNA's Fortune, and in ANNA's Prayer.
If on her Fleet she shall a Blessing crave,
The Brave grow bolder, and the Coward, Brave.
Swift from above some happy Angel flies,
And brings the sacred Pass-port from the Skies.

O'er all the watry World Heav'n's Charge is read,
Old Ocean rises from his owzy Bed,
And to his Sovereign Queen submits his hoary Head.

Now did the Terrour of Perfidious France
Our Navy, from retiring Lands advance,
And bound o'er Billows in a Martial Dance.
Joy thro each Squadron runs, the Valorous DUKE
Inspires the Soldier, and the Sailor, ROOK.
And, as when Helen's beauteous Brothers shine,
Rough Storms are hush'd by the propitious Sign.
So is the Face of Heav'n from Tempest free,
When ENGLAND's Admiral insults the Sea,
Joyn'd with th' Heroic Blood of OSSORY.
The British Angel moves upon the Deep,
And lulls the angry Waves and Winds to sleep.
None but kind Breezes and befriending Air
Their weighty Charge to the wish'd Haven bear.
Europe begins to dread the blow, and all
Fear where this Cloud will burst, this Thunder fall.

Traytors to God and Man at ev'ry Sail
Now quake; and Impudence itself looks pale.

As when some low'ring Cloud, which Vapours form,
Preparing to discharge a Show'ry Storm,
Gathers apace, looks black, and bellies low;
The Shepherd quits the Flock to shun the Blow:
The Wary Pilgrim kens it, and amain
Trips to some Shady Covert o'er the Plain:
Or, as when Fiery Comets, hung on high,
Traverse with frightful March th' enlighten'd Sky;
The Populace below, with wife Amaze,
Look up, and tremble at th' unusual Blaze.
Avert, Good Heav'n! (they cry) th' unhappy Sign!
For sure it must some Plague or Dearth divine.
Some thousands by the bloody Sword will die:
Wo to that Kingdom whose sad Ruin's nigh!

Nor less the Dread of the Britannick Fleet,
With ev'ry Instrument of Death replete.
With Cannons against Castles to prevail,
Whene'er they batter with their Iron Hail;
With murd'ring Carcasses, too sure to slay,
And Bombs, and Men more terrible than they.
If any Terror touch'd Europa's Breast,
The Spirits above as great Concern exprest.
For They, whom the Almighty has assign'd
To watch below, and wake for Human kind,
Hearing, assembl'd in a deep DIVAN,
Concern'd for that unhappy Creature, Man,
When thus, the Guardian of the West began:

Bright Fellow Ministers of God most High!
Kindred or Heav'n! Companions of the Sky!

Who wield by turns, commission'd from above,
The Sword of Veng'ance, and the Shield of Love.
Now here, now there, your faithful Wings display,
And guard with watchful Eyes the Realms you sway;
Nor sleep in silent Night, nor tire in busie Day.
Declare what secret Cause to me unknown,
(You, who bow nearest at th' eternal Throne,
While I, laborious, o'er those Regions run
Where bright Ithuriel rowls the setting Sun;)
Has mov'd Almighty Wrath? For whom prepar'd
His Shafts? For whom whose Floating Fabricks rear'd
Which now oppress the Main? What Nation's Doom
Sleeps in the British Oak's Destructive Womb?

Is this the time in which th' Almighty swore
His Holy Son's Religion to restore?
Are these to punish the Blaspheming East,
Which fondly trusts in Mecca's cursed Priest?
Or do they (as alas my Fears divine)
Drive to more adverse Shores, and threaten Mine?
Does the loud Blood at last, of Millions shed
In Mexico, call Vengeance from the Dead?
Or, have we since so swell'd th' increasing Score?
And will the Thunderer connive no more?

He said: The rest did on each other look,
As if confounded at the Words he spoke,
Till Michael, Northern Angel, silence broke.

Dominions, Principalities and Thrones,
Armies of Heav'n, Guardians of Mortal Crowns,

Whene'er the Eastern Viol shall be pour'd,
Whene'er High God shall whet his angry Sword,
The Rising Sun shall see True Faith restor'd.
Tho' yet the Doom of Mahomet's behind,
And Haly's for a later Wrath design'd.
Sleep on their evil Hour! and let the Times
Awake, appointed for more horrid Crimes.
The Barb'rous Turk is to his Prophet just;
But Christians mock the God, in whom they trust.
Does Earth-born Man so small his Anger make?
Move he his Finger, and the World not shake?
Or are his Bolts so soft and harmless grown
In Air to wanton; and, like Feathers, thrown?
No: Let my Charge, the North, a Witness be
That Heav'n may Wink, but wants not Eyes to See.

Witness th' Apostate Saxon, how he flies,
Tost here and there; Derision of the Skies!
While Sweden follows, to renew his Fear,
As the young Lion hunts the flying Deer.
Go on, brave Youth, belov'd of Heav'n, proceed,
And finish What th' Almighty has decreed.
The Doom of Perjury let France behold,
Tho' harden'd with Success, with Triumphs bold.
Her King, that Glow-worm, that assuming Clay,
Plum'd with false Grandeur, and dissembl'd Sway,
Worn out in Fraud, and in Ambition gray:
Her King shall see (nor is it far) the Hour,
When wrong'd Forbearance, and affronted Pow'r
Shall rightly vindicate their high Command,
And use their Vengeance by a Female Hand.
This the loud Groans of suff'ring Saints desire,
Slain Martyrs this with vocal Blood require.

Thus does the perjur'd Gaul, thus represent
The High below? Is this Heav'ns Government?
Is Tyranny an Attribute? Or can
Eternal Will revoke his Word, like Man?
Ten thousand Woes befal him from on high,
Who, plac'd the Substitute of Heav'n, can lye,
Break sacred Oaths, and ev'ry solemn Tye!

Here Light'nings flash'd along the Chrystal Ground,
Consenting Peals of Thunder mov'd around.
Th' Angelick Guardians (far as Spirits cou'd)
With Horror shook; till thus their Prince persu'd.
Nor far the Preludes of his Promis'd Fall:
For, from the Western Streights, which Mortals call
CADIZ; behold a Navy homeward steer,
Below a Race of valiant Men appear,
All mov'd with Anger, but untouch'd with Fear.

These must exchange their unsuccessful Aim
(Happy Misfortune!) for a nobler Game.
See farther Westward with Peruvian Oar,
A Navy making for the Spanish Shoar.
'Tis for VIGOVIA's unknown Strand they hold,
A faithless Harbour for ill-gotten Gold.
This is that Prey, so long ago declar'd
In Council, for the British Queen prepar'd.

The Author having unfortunately lost his Scheme, this Poem is unfinish'd; which the Reader is desired to excuse.

Queen Elizabeth dy'd, Marh 1602. Queen Ann began her Reign March 1702.

THE Portugal-Expedition. February 1703–1704.

On King Charles the Third's Voyage to recover the Dominions of Spain, usurp'd by the Duke of Anjou.

At length Auspicious Blasts are heard to blow
From Icy Lakes, and Mountains cloath'd with Snow.
Go, Austrian Hope, with this propitious Gale,
And loosen to the Wind thy swelling Sail.
The rugged North, pleas'd with the great Design,
Pays this to Anna's Wishes, and to Thine.

So has he chang'd his rough, uncourtly Mien,
Bows to the Hero, and obeys the Queen.

Tho' once unkind, he drove the fierce Alane,
And hardy Suevian from a colder Plain:
Tho' with a bleaker Breath he could displace
The Goth and Vandal, an unletter'd Race:
Force them, like hungry Beasts of Prey; to run,
And change their Climate for a warmer Sun.
Rome felt them, and Iberia was alarm'd,
Her Heat invited, and her Riches charm'd.
Yet now, relenting, he restores to Spain
Saturnian Times, and a true Golden Reign.
Think not, Hesperian, that the Sea can bear
A Burden fatal to the Grand Affair.
No: England thy Armada can forgive,
Nor sends her Own to Conquer, but Relieve.

Peru is worthless to a Prize so great,
And all thy Indies less than such a Weight.

Breath gently, Boreas, nor too brisk ingage;
Call the soft Eastern Wind to calm thy Rage.
Come, Eurus, nor in spicy Groves retreat,
Blow all thy balmy Briezes on the Fleet.
Neglect Arabian Forrests, nor refuse
When Anna's Breath inspires, thy own to use.

Sail, Happy Prince, to that expecting Strand
Where wealthy Tagus rowls his golden Sand.
Ah! whither gone? What God inflames thy Mind
Thus to attempt the Deep, and trust the Wind?
Here watry Mountains, never seen before,
Hang o'er thy Sacred Head, there Billows roar.
Dost thou nor Sands, nor Rocks, nor Tempests fear?
Whence so great Courage, when such Danger's near?

Canst thou undaunted look, when ev'ry Wave
With gaping Mouth presents thee with a Grave?

Yes, nor let thy Imperial Father pause,
When Anna to Her Side His Eagle draws,
And lends the Thunder to support the Cause.

From the French Continent let Tyrants rise;
Let Earth breed Titans to invade the Skies:
And, to dislodge the Gods, usurp a Claim
To the fork'd Lightning, and avenging Flame.
Defer thy Triumphs, Gaul, withold thy Boast,
Nor think with windy Threats to fright our Coast.
Britain shall thy false Thunderer remove,
Prepar'd, like Crete, to give the Rightful Jove.

On the Birth of the Duke of Britany.

Boast not, Great Bourbon, of thy num'rous Train
Of Princes born to a successive Reign.
ANJOU lamenting his untimely Fall,
On his Progenitor shall vainly call.
Curst with a tedious multiplying Race,
For length of Issue lengthens thy Disgrace.
Remember Priam, by old Homer sung,
From whose prolifick Loyns the fiftieth Hero sprung.
The Ghost of Dardanus was pleas'd to see,
And smil'd on his ill-fated Progeny.

But Pallas with her frightn'ing Ægis strove
Against his Fortunes, and prevail'd with Jove.
No more Apollo could Assistance give,
But caus'd their Miseries in Verse to live.
Hector, untimely, felt the Pelian Steel,
Dragg'd at the Conqueror's triumphant Wheel.
In vain Astyanax, untaught to speak,
With tender Tears besought the ruthless Greek.
Ah Troy! from Thee let Kingdoms learn their End,
When False Laomedons the Throne ascend.

The Passion of Myrrha.

Orpheus relates the Story in Ovid. Metam. l. 10. v. 300. beginning

Dira canam, procul hinc natæ, &c.

Amazing things of monstrous Love I tell,
Kindled by Furies, and provok'd by Hell.
O read not, Daughters, my polluted Rhimes;
Ye Parents hence, and shun forbidden Crimes.
But if my Verse shall o'er your Minds prevail,
Think of the Poet, and distrust the Tale.

Or if a Poet your Belief shall win,
Believe that Punishment pursu'd the Sin.

If yielding Nature in a hotter Clime,
Can viciously comply with such a Crime.
Happy, thrice Happy Ismarus and Thrace,
My Native Country and first breathing Place!
O Rhodope, be thou for ever blest,
Nor frying Heats thy frigid Air infest;
Or to incest'ous Loves provoke a Getick Breast.
Such Faults as these can parch'd Arabia shun?
'Tis well our Climate is not near the Sun.
Where his hot Beams their guilty Influence dart,
To fire the boiling Blood, and scorch the Heart.

Shine on, ye sweet Panchœan Groves, and rear
Your Spicy Branches in the scented Air.

Let Cinnamon ambrosial Odours throw,
And costly Plants in the rich Forrests grow.
Let the glad Arab take delight to see
The Spices labour from the sweating Tree.
While Myrrha rises to her own Disgrace;
Vain all her Fragrance from a Cause so base!
Thee, Myrrha, Thee, no Cupid did inspire,
The God of Love refus'd his modest Fire.
He, whose bright Altars never cease to shine
But with a Flame more pure, and more divine,
Disclaims his Title to a Wound, like Thine.
Some Furious Sister of the Cruel Three
Left her delighted Acheron for Thee,
Rose from the dreaded Styx, and in her Hand
Swelling with Venom, shook th' infernal Brand.
The twisted Vipers round her Temples clung,
And thy unguarded Heart with secret Poison stung.

To hate a Father, does inhuman show:
But less inhuman than to love him so.
Rich, youthful Lords thy Eastern Countries bear,
And Princes, beauteous as the Gems they wear.
All these contend thy blooming Youth to wed,
And reap the Honours of thy Virgin Bed.
Incline, O gentle Myrrha, and be kind,
Preserve thy Vertue and absolve thy Mind.
Chuse one of these adapted for thy Play,
If out of these thy Father be away.
Some brisk, young Bridegroom, who thy Flames may meet,
With Flames repeated, and requite thy Heat.

Revolving this in her molested Mind,
Th'unquiet Daughter could no Comfort find.
Sometimes she loves, sometimes she hates the Name
Of Lust, like that, and blows away the Flame.

Pensively thoughtful from her Couch she rose,
And Words, like these, her wav'ring Sense disclose.

O Strange Design! what brooding Thoughts within
Hatch unripe Vices, and unacted Sin?
Me, most unhappy of my Royal Race,
Shou'd I be guilty of a Crime so Base!
Ye Rights of Parents, and ye Gods above,
Oppose the Progress of such Impious Love!
Forbid the Sin! if yet a Sin it be
To love a Father:— But to love like me.
Yet Salvage Beasts have Nature's just Dispense
To couple freely, and without Offence.
When she provokes them on, no Law denies
The Vig'rous L---s, and the promiscuous Ties.
The gen'rous Horse supplies a Husband's place
On his own Daughter, and renews his Race.

The sprightly Sparrow, in his heated Pride,
Receives his wanton Mother for his Bride.
But anxious Care, and conscientious Doubt,
Aw'd tim'rous Man, and sent curst Precepts out.
Nature has hung the goodly Mark in sight,
Gave us a Loose in uncontroul'd Delight.
Would make our Joys immortally divine,
But interposing Laws forbid the Seas to join.

Yet Lands there are in some remoter Clime,
Where Custom governs, and allows the Crime.
Where the kind Sons obediently comply
With their own Mothers, and improve the Joy.
The Daughter yields her Beauty and her Charms
To an imploring, lusty Father's Arms.
This filial Favour does their Duty prove,
Doubles Affection, and increases Love.

O had I there improv'd my glorious Race,
And ne'er been born in this unlucky place!
Curst be the Hour!—But why should I exclaim,
And with forbidden Hopes abuse my Name?
Away! my Father may be lov'd, 'tis true,
But as a Daughter is oblig'd to do.
Daughter! That Word does all my Bliss destroy,
Or else I cou'd great Cinyras destroy,
I could all Night lie panting by his Side,
And, were he not my Father, be his Bride.
Proximity alone disturbs my Rest,
O were I Foreign, how should I be blest!
Fly, fly thy Country, such a Vice to shun,
Far, far remote, O wretched Myrrha, run
To Climates unpolluted by the Sun.
Yet something stops me, and commands my stay,
An evil Ardour, which I must obey.

Fain wou'd I see my Father Face to Face,
Talk with him, touch him, kiss him, and embrace,
Gaze on his Beauty, and his Form adore,
I'd be content with this,—if nothing more.
O impious Maid! Blast that unruly Thought,
Why shou'd you hope for more than what you ought?
Think'st thou that Laws are useless, and the Names
Of Duty nothing, which a Parent claims?
Thy Father and thy Mother will be sham'd,
And thou an Harlot and Adultress nam'd.
Would'st thou be call'd (Prepostr'ous to be done!)
Thy Brother's Mother, Sister to thy Son?
Think you behold Tisiphone, and dread
The lighted Torches, and her Snaky Head.
See how she glares! how terrible she seems!
Persues your Fancy, and disturbs your Dreams.
Then since alas! he cannot be enjoy'd,
Th' immodest Thought of such a Crime avoid.

Stain not your untouch'd Honour, nor defile
The Law of Nature, with a Lust so vile.
Suppose you would: the Thing requires your Awe,
Your Father's pious, and observes the Law.
And wou'd to Heav'n he had the same Desire,
Burn'd with like Fury, and with equal Fire!

She spake, and from her Royal Chamber came,
But labour'd to conceal the struggling Flame.
The Cyprian Court shone with the noblest Lords,
And richest which the wealthy East affords.
Contending Princes crowded in to wooe,
So bright a Train the conqu'ring Myrrha drew!
Her Father, doubting, ask'd her which to chuse,
To whom she wou'd consent, and whom refuse.
The blushing Virgin knew not what to speak,
But fixes Face to Face, and Cheek to Cheek.

O how the Dew did uncommanded rise,
And in warm Rivers trickle from her Eyes!
Her loving Father wipes away the Tears,
Thinks them the Tokens of a Virgin's Fears,
Then on her Lips he seal'd a gentle Kiss;
She gladly press'd her eager Lips to His.
Grasp'd him with Lovers Arms, as loth to part,
A more than filial Joy enlarg'd her Heart.
Ask'd to what Prince she wou'd be closely ty'd,
In whom she wou'd delight; she streight reply'd,
In one like You: Her Royal Father smil'd,
Call'd her Dear Daughter, and Obedient Child.
Daughter! that Word was Poison; at the Name
She hung her conscious Head, & blush'd with shame.
'Twas now the Noon of Night, when Mortals steep
Their weary'd Bodies, and their Cares in Sleep:
Not so did Myrrha; for her Flames of Love
Were far more watchful than those Fires above.

Sometime in Rage her dangling Locks she tears,
Stifles her furious Wishes, and despairs.
Sometimes resolving to reveal her Fires,
Shame stops her Speech, but not her strong desires.
As when some lofty and Imperial Oak,
E're she receives the last deciding stroke,
Nods here and there, and, doubting where to fall,
On all sides threatens, and is fear'd on all.
With various Wounds so Myrrha's Mind's opprest,
Unfixt each moment, and unus'd to Rest.
No Ease at last, no Remedy is found,
But Death alone, to heal the mortal Wound.
Then welcome, Death, the Cure of Love, she cries,
And to a Beam her Golden Girdle ties.
Farewel, she groan'd, Dear Cinyras, farewel!
Oh! at those Words what Briny Rivers fell!
Let This, said she, (and pointed to the Knot)
Declare my Love, when Myrrha is forgot.

'Tis said, the Nurse o'erheard her silent Moans,
Her faultring Speech, and undistinguish'd Groans;
With eager Haste up rose the trembling Dame,
Unlock'd the Doors, and to her Chamber came.
When entring (who the Horrour can relate?)
She saw the ready Instruments of Fate.
What Tears she shed! what Fears her Mind possest!
At once she tore her Hair and beat her Brest.
From Myrrha's milky Neck the Cord she rent,
And then she took some Minutes to lament:
Embrac'd her close, and with a tastless Kiss,
Ask'd her the cause of a Despair like This.
A dreadful Silence seiz'd the Royal Maid,
Her Crime discover'd, and Attempt betray'd.
Her Head hangs down, her steddy Eye-balls stare,
Fix'd on the Ground, as if her Eyes grew there.
In muttering Sounds she curses as she stands,
Th' unfinish'd Labour of her tardy Hands.

Th' old Beldam urges, with her Bosom bare,
Her empty Breasts, and ragged, hoary Hair,
To tell her secret Troubles, and impart
The pungent Anguish of her wounded Heart.
By all th' indearments of her tender Yeare,
By her first Cradle, and her Infant Tears.
By Myrrha turn'd away, her Face to hide;
Again she asks and is again deny'd.
Trust me, she said, I'll be for ever true,
Nor only secret, but assisting too.
Think me not useless in my Life's last Page;
The Mind grows stronger by experienc'd Age.
Say, my dear Myrrha, is it Love you feel?
My Charms shall loose it, and my Herbs shall heal.
Or if some evil Look thy Mind betray,
We'll purge the Venom in a Magick Way.

If Heav'n be angry, we will Heav'n invoke,
Altars shall shine, and Frankincense shall smoke.
What shall I think? your Fortune and Estate
Are safe from Danger and the Shock of Fate,
Your Mother's Beauteous, and your Father's Great.
When she heard Father nam'd, what Groans did shake
Her tortur'd Breast, as if her Heart would break!
And now the cunning Beldam does begin
To find 'tis Love, but dreams not of the Sin.
Impatient, and resolv'd, with eager Haste,
The weeping Virgin in her Lap she plac'd,
And threw her wither'd Arms around her Waste.
Come tell me, Daughter, (nor believe me blind)
I see the sad Distemper of your Mind:
Tell me your Man, and I'll so careful prove,
That your own Father shall not know your Love,

Trust me, he shall not. At those Words she sprung
From her weak Arms, like one possest, and wrung
Her snowy Hands, about the Room she flew,
And on the Couch her wretched Body threw.
Be gone, said she, I cannot, dare not name
The secret Causes of my rising Shame.
Depart the Room, or cease to vex me so;
O 'tis a Crime which you desire to know.
Th' astonish'd Dame in wild Amaze appears,
And trembles more with Horrour than with Years.
Kneels at her Feet, and when her Flatt'ries fail,
She try's how Threats and Anger can prevail.
Shows her the Halter, frights her to confess,
Threatning, the Court shall know the dire Disgrace.
But vows, if trusted, to be true and kind;
A heavy Sorrow prest the Virgin's Mind:

Her ready Tongue was lifted up to tell,
But down th' unwilling, willing Member fell.
When her swift Words refus'd a longer Stay,
And broke through Sighs and Groans, which stop'd their Way.
O Happy Mother (here she hid her Face)
In such a Husband, such a King's Embrace!
And then she groan'd. At this the Nurse began
To fear: deep Horrour thro' her Marrow ran.
Her lank, white Hairs, erected with the Fright,
Rose in a bristly Form, and stood upright.
With solid Proofs she argu'd to disswade
Th' unnatural Passion of the Royal Maid.
The Royal Maid with deep Attention heard
Her just Disswasions, and her Counsels fear'd:
Knew she spoke Truth; but with a fainting Breath
Groan'd out, I must enjoy my Love or Death.

Live then, said she, you shall enjoy! your Love;
She spake; and vouch'd it with the Name of Love.

'Twas now the time, when yellow Ceres yields
The bearded Honours of the fruitful Fields.
When pious Matrons to her Temple go,
And clad in Garments imitating Snow,
Pay the first Fruits to her by whom they grow.
'Tis counted heinous, for nine tedious Nights
To taste of Love and conjugal Delights.
'Mongst these, the Consort of the Cyprian Throne
Appear'd, and left her Cinyras alone.
The Beldam chose this favourable Time,
The Queen now absent, to promote the Crime.
And now she goes, her Promise to fulfil,
Wickedly careful, diligently ill.
For as on bed the lusty Monarch lay,
Opprest with Wine, and full of amorous Play

Which Wine had rais'd: in comes the studious Dame,
Disclosing under a dissembled Name,
The Love of Myrrha, and provokes his Flame.
And when with stammering Speech the King inquires
Whether her Bloom would answer his Desires.
She streight replies with a deluding Tongue,
She's fair, like Myrrha, and like Myrrha, young.
Haste then, said he, and fetch this charming Maid;
She flies, and answers you shall be obey'd.
Returning home, Daughter rejoyce she cry'd,
For we have conquer'd on the surest side,
Th' unhappy Maid no perfect Joy could feel,
A conscious Grief presag'd approaching Ill;
Yet She rejoyc'd: So various is her Will.

'Twas the deep Ebb of Night: Bootes Car
Mov'd upwards, rowling nigh the Northern Star.

Her dubious Mind divided passions sway'd,
Slowly she walk'd, half joyful, half afraid.
The bashful Moon blush'd at th' unseemly Sight,
Drove down the Sky, and hid her borrow'd Light:
The glimm'ring Lamps above, which wink'd before
On mortal Crimes, saw this, and wink'd no more.
Th' Icarian Taper did her Brightness shrowd,
And Virgo fled behind a misty Cloud.
Thrice (hateful Sign!) she Stumbled, as she went,
Thrice were her Knees upon the Threshold bent.
The hooting Owl in an unlucky Note,
Thrice Scream'd ill Omens from his fatal Throat.
Still she goes on, while Night's officious Shade
Asists the Boldness of the lustful Maid.
On the Dame's Shoulders her left Hand she Lay,
While t'other blindly feels the secret Way.
Now at the destin'd Chamber-Door she Stands,
With shivering Knees, sad Looks, and trembling Hands.

The Rose and Lilly vanish'd from her Face,
And Fear and Paleness leap'd into their Place.
Her Courage fails, which boil'd so high within;
And oh! how willing would she shun the Sin!
She now repents; thinks it a Crime to stay,
The pressing Beldam chid her dull delay,
And drew her, where th' expecting Monarch Lay.
Here take your Love, embrace her, and be Kind,
And then their two devoted Breasts she joyn'd.
The Father revels in soft filial Charms
And throws around her his polluted Arms.
Perhaps, with rev'rence to his graver Years,
Call'd her, dear Daughter, to allay her Fears.
But she, perhaps, tho' trembling at the Name,
Might call him, Father; to compleat their Shame.
And now the fatal Bed the Daughter leaves,
While with incestuous Seed her Womb conceives.

Nor is He sated with unripe Delights,
The Crime is doubled by repeated Nights.
Till Cinyrds with long Enjoyment tir'd,
Began to loath what he so much desir'd:
And fain wou'd know on what soft Lady's Breast
So oft he panted; whom so oft carest.
At his Command discov'ring Lights betray'd
His Crime, and Daughter, now no more a Maid.
He saw, he blush'd, he wept, his Soul boil'd more
With Indignation, than with Lust before.
Straight from his Sheath his shining Sword he drew;
Up Myrrha starting, to the Desart flew.
The friendly Darkness of th' officious Night
Diverts her Murder, and assists her Flight
O'er spacious Meadows, and deserted Sands,
Palmy Arabia, and Panchœan Lands.

Nine times the Moon hid her diminish'd Head,
And blush'd as often with increasing Red,
E're Wandring Myrrha in Sabœa's Wood,
Tir'd, and impatient of her Burthen, stood.
Where thus contending in a doubtful Strife,
The Fear of Death, and Weariness of Life:
She to the Pow'rs above these Pray'rs addrest:
Ye Pow'rs, if any pity Crimes confest,
I ask no Pardon, no Reprieve desire;
But punish Myrrha as her Crimes require.
Yet, lest my Life or Death Infection spread
Among the Living or among the Dead,
Transform my wretched Shape. I neither crave
To breath in Air, nor moulder in the Grave.

Some God or Goddess, milder than the rest,
Assented kindly to her last Request.

Robb'd of her Beauty, of her Form depriv'd,
In part she perish'd, and in part surviv'd.
Her Senses gone, still mournful she appears,
Weeping sweet Drops of Estimable Tears.
Her Name shall flourish in Sabœan Myrrh,
An odoriferous Tree, so call'd from Her.

The Power of Beauty.

To SERAPHINA.

Read Seraphina, what this Paper tells,
How much a Beauty, like your own, excels.
How Man is foil'd, how Love's unerring Dart,
Like Death's, impartial, pierces ev'ry Heart.
How vainly Kings, and conqu'ring Heroes bear
Their Swords and Sceptres, to resist the Fair!

Yet tho' so large and boundless is your Sway,
Be gentle; Pride forget, and Love repay.
Take, Seraphina, and with Kindness use
This double Present of my Heart and Muse.

I feel the Force of what these Lines rehearse;
Do thou approve my Passion, and my Verse.

Three sprightly Youths grown eminent in Arts,
Three Questions started, to exert their Parts.
The first appearing in the Grape's Defence,
Affirms that Strongest which subdues the Sense.
The next, that nothing has so just a right,
As Scepter'd Grandeur and Imperial Might.
The last does stronger Arguments prepare
For the Weak Side, and vindicates the Fair.

Now high enthron'd the Persian Monarch sate,
In Pompous Scene of Majesty and State.
The Nobles stand around on either side,
To hear the Trial, and the Cause decide.

But when the second Orator had said,
The Court divided, and a Party's made.
Some the exalted Strength of Wine esteem,
The Speaker praise, because they like the Theme,
The flatt'ring Tribe assert the Strongest Thing
Is Man; of Men none equal to the King.
O'er all the Palace diff'rent Murmurs ran,
Till Eloquent Zorobabel began.

Hear me, ye Persians, and attend me well;
Nor Man prevails, nor does the King excel
In Sov'reign Pow'r, nor ought we to assign
The Strongest Vertue to the Strongest Wine.
Wine, what it conquers, has not strength to keep,
If still we rise refresh'd, and new from Sleep.
Nor is this Praise due to the mighty Boast
Of valiant Numbers, and a warlike Host.

Monarchs their Length of Empire plead in vain,
If forc'd to bow to a superiour Reign.
WOMEN alone are those inchanting Things,
Which vanquish Armies, and which conquer Kings.

From WOMEN sprung all Men whate'er they be;
Lords of the Land and Sov'reigns of the Sea.
The King himself his Birth to WOMAN owes:
To WOMAN they, by whom the Vineyard grows,
They rear'd the blushing Vine, and WOMEN those.
From Silken Webs soft Garments they prepare
To fence the Body from the glowing Air.
Should they refuse their useful Aid to bring,
Man were a helpless melancholy Thing.

The greedy Merchant, to augment his Heap
Of Gold and Silver, sails upon the Deep.
Despising Tempests, he undaunted tries
The raging Ocean, and the louring Skies.
And if his Bark has fortunately sped,
He laughs at Thunder grumbling o'er his Head,
But if a Charmer of the Female Race
Dart with her Eyes, and lighten with her Face,
He gapes and gazes on th' alluring Sight,
Pines all the Day, and sighs away the Night.
His Eastern Gems he ceases to prefer,
And Pearls grow worthless if compar'd to Her.

If once a Youth conceive an am'rous Flame,
Fathers are nothing but an empty Name.
Mothers in vain oppose their flowing Tears,
Their Nine Months Labours, and their anxious Fears.

For a soft Bride he will his Country fly,
For which brave Heroes have rejoyc'd to dy.
His Native Clime he willingly forgoes,
Fryes in the Sun; or treads the Mountain Snows.
Combats with all the Miseries of Life,
Pleas'd with his Labour, if he please his Wife.

Whether he ploughs the Deep, or ploughs the Soil,
He smiles on Danger, and delights in Toil.
Brings to the Fair the Product of his Pains,
His Summer Profits, and his Autumn Gains.
To raise her Glory, and maintain her Pride,
He sails on Rivers, dares the boistrous Tide.
And lest his Love should murmur or complain,
Robs on the Land, and Pyrats on the Main.
Such strange Inchantment in a Woman lies!
Such wondrous Magick sparkles in her Eyes.

Should his wrong'd Country or weak Parents call,
For her dear sake he would refuse them all.
If She commands, obedient to her Charms,
He's hoop'd in Iron, and affrights in Arms.
Patrouls in Desarts, and wild Beasts pursues,
Tastes Evening Vapours, and unwholsom Dews.
If a starv'd Lion meet him in the Way,
His Throat he seizes, and bestrides the Prey;
So strong his Love, he will a Monster fight,
Does the vain terrours of thick Darkness slight,
And frowns away the Goblins of the Night.

Some with their Senses have been known to part,
And lost their Reason when they lost their Heart.
Others have warr'd for Woman's sake alone,
Gave the World Freedom, and resign'd their own.

Kings of ten thousand Slaves, have Slaves became,
And scorn'd Dominion for their glorious Flame.

Crimes, Rapines, Murders, Treasons owe their Rise
To a dear Woman's fair bewitching Eyes.
Some, the wide Wounds of slighted Love to heal,
Deep in their Hearts have thrust the fatal Steel.
Or with their Wine, when the Coy She deny'd,
Have mingled Poison, drank, despair'd, and dy'd.

Is there a King of more extended Power,
Through the whole Globe, than Persia's Emperor?
Is it not Treason to dispute his Sway?
And Death, if he commands, to disobey?
Dare Monarchs murmur at th' approaching Sound
Of his vast Armies, covering all the Ground?

Indus and Ganges tremble when they hear
Their clattering Armour, and are froze with Fear.

Yet fair APAME, with her Smiles or Frowns,
Rules that Great Head, whose Nod shakes Eastern Crowns.
As at a Banquet, with the King of late,
On his Right Hand the Lovely Charmer sate,
From his Imperial Head she snatch'd the Crown,
And (for I saw her) fix'd it on her own.
I saw her strike him with her snowy Palm,
And yet that awful Brow was wondrous calm.
Th' enamour'd King, to reconcile the Fair,
Tries all Indearments and each gentle Prayer;
To ev'ry Art of Love, for Aid he flies,
Watching each Glance and Motion of her Eyes:

His ev'ry Passion She alone could guide;
If She withdrew her charming Face, He sigh'd,
Smil'd, if She smil'd, but if She frown'd, He dy'd.

Surely, nor Men, nor Monarchs can compare
With Woman if they thus obey the Fair.

He said; the Court his Eloquence approve,
And Great Darius judg'd the Cause for Love.

THE Desperate Lover.

[_]

Imitated from the Greek of Theocritus. Idillium. 23.

A youth, who often felt Love's mighty Pain,
Lov'd a fair Nymph, but was not lov'd again.
Beauteous her Face, her Features beauteous were,
But she, alas, was more unkind than fair.
For, as his Love grew strong, she coyer grew,
Nor was she only coy, but cruel too.
The winged Boy oft shot his fatal Dart,
But she, unpractis'd, never felt the Smart;
Unwounded was her Breast, untouch'd her Heart.

Whether blind Cupid was a God or no,
How sharp his Arrows, and how strong his Bow,
She either knew not, or she would not know.

Rough was her Soul, and savage her Converse,
Her Mien was haughty, and her Language fierce.
Her Cheeks and Lips might shame the opening Rose;
But these no Hopes afford, no Comfort those.
Those stubborn Lips refusing to impart
A Kiss, which softens Love, and warms the Heart:
Those Eyes, which first inflam'd the Am'rous Boy,
Those Eyes, which shone like Light, like Fire destroy.
As a wild Beast, design'd the Hunter's Prey,
Rouls back his angry Eyes, and scours away.

Such was the Nymph! so shunn'd his youthful Flame!
So frown'd! which ill her beauteous Face became.
And if by chance she touch'd him with a Look,
The sparkling Beams her wrathful Eyes forsook.
Straight, by Antipathy, her Colour fled,
Her Cheeks grew pale, and lost their lovely Red.

Yet, barb'rous as she was, he thought her Fair,
As if her very Anger charming were.
Nor could that Fierceness, which had chang'd her Face,
Dislodge his Passion from its ancient Place.
At last, his Grief unable to contain,
And show'ring from his Eyes a briny Rain,
When with despairing Looks he had survey'd
The hated House, where the stern She was laid,

He kist the Threshold, which her Feet had prest,
And thus th' inexorable Fair addrest.

Ah cruel Nymph! of Women Thou the worst!
Thee surely Mountains bred, Thee Tygers nurst.
For Rocks and Tygers soft and human be,
If Rocks and Tygers are compar'd with Thee.
For generous Love Thou mak'st no kind Return,
Unworthy of the Flames with which I burn!
But now I come to cure my fond Disease;
This Steel thy flinty Breast will surely please.
Think not I mean thy Choler to create,
Or breed new Matter for thy Scorn or Hate.
This Gift th' unpleasing Object shall remove;
Then you will smile, you will my Pangs approve,
'Tis such a Present, such a Sight you Love.

Where Thou hast doom'd me, I prepare to go,
And find a Lover's Remedy below.

100

There I shall Draughts of cold Oblivion take;
Yet should I drink the whole Lethœan Lake,
Not all its Rivers could remove Desire,
Or slake my Thirst of Love, or cool my Fire.

But now no more I will my Passion tell,
Here, smiling, take my long, my last Farewel.
Relentless Nymph! I know thy future Doom:
Roses are sweet, and lovely in the Bloom;
Yet soon their Odour and their Beauty's past,
Spoil'd by rude Hands, or by some Northern Blast.
A short-liv'd Youth the Violet enjoys,
This Month that blossoms, which the next destroys.
Fair Lillies wither, and the Silver Snows,
By the warm Sun dissolv'd, their Whiteness lose.
Such will thy Beauty be, which charms the Plain!
So short thy Cruelty! a Tyrant's Reign.

101

The Time will come, when Thou shalt weep to see
Thy Self forsaken, and refus'd, like Me.
Avenging Love will take my injur'd Part,
For all thy Triumphs o'er my slighted Heart.

Yet since the living Lover pleads in vain,
Allow one Favour to the dying Swain.
When smear'd with Blood you see my Body ly,
Stand still and gaze, nor pass regardless by.
Then take and wrap me in thy silken Vest,
Ah! let the Dead obtain this small Request!
Human at least to my last Shade appear,
And sacrifice one Sigh, one Funeral Tear.
Fear me no more, for should thy Arms embrace
My bloodless Corps, and Tears bedew my Face,
Should'st thou relent, thy Tears were shed in vain
To fetch the Dead to hated Life again.

102

Thy softest Kisses would be fruitless all,
Which might have sav'd whom they can ne'er recall.

Make me a hollow Tomb, a Tomb which may
Hide my hard Love, and there my Body lay.
Then thrice (departing) cry, My Friend is dead;
Add, if you please, My lov'd Companion's fled.
Then on the Marble, which my Bones shall keep,
Inscribe this Verse, and make the Marble weep.

Ye Passengers, behold a Lover slain,
By Unkind Hate, but more Unkind Disdain.
He lov'd a Nymph, the Fates did so decree,
The Fates were cruel, but more cruel She.

103

He said: and with the Dagger, which he bore,
He pierc'd his Heart; out flow'd the purple Gore.
The Nymph beheld him weltring on the Ground,
And carelesly survey'd the gaping Wound.
Yet still her Breast no melting Pity knew,
No streaming Tears her stubborn Eyes bedew.
With no Concern on the slain Corps she stood,
And dipt her Virgin Garments in his Blood.

No Mourning in her Face or Dress she shows,
But to the Ring, the Park, and Playhouse goes.
With Courtly Nymphs the distant Bath frequents:
The God she injur'd views, nor yet relents.
For o'er the Water you might Cupid see,
In Marble carv'd, but not so hard as She.
Whether by Chance or Choice, with mighty Fall,
Love's Statue tumbles from the Pedestal,

104

Crushing th' inhuman Nymph's devoted Head,
Whose Breath with these last dying Accents fled.

Farewel, ye Lovers; for the Nymph is slain,
Whom a kind Shepherd lov'd, but lov'd in vain.
Ye scornful Virgins, be forewarn'd by Me,
How Your Disdain offends the God; for He
Has Arms to punish, and has Eyes to see.

105

THE FAIR INFIDEL.

Fair Seraphina has a wondrous Art,
To wound and charm the most obdurate Heart.
But then the Nymph, to Unbelief inclin'd,
In Love's Religion has a Jewish Mind.
Hence she derides Melander's amorous Pains,
And binds the Slave, yet never sees the Chains.
All Ovid's Tales of no such Changes tell,
A Goddess turn'd into an Infidel!

The fam'd Descendants from the Queen of Love,
Obtain'd Protection, when Tarpeian Jove

106

With Sacrifice was anciently implor'd,
And Victims offer'd where they most ador'd.
This I have done, but to compleat my Grief,
Gain no Assistance, nor create Belief;
As if my Vows were nought but empty Sound,
And all the Victim bled without a Wound.
With Unconcern she hears my purest Sighs;
She sees the fragrant Incense mount the Skies:
But thinks the first from false Devotion came,
And vows the Altar smoak'd without a Flame.

Say, cruel Charmer, is't a thing so new,
That Beauty should the Power of Man subdue,
In all its Lightning drest, and Arm'd like You?
The hardy Soldier, exercis'd in Wars,
Proud of pitch'd Battles, and his glorious Scars,

107

Won, when the Gallick Fury he withstood,
And waded for his Liberty in Blood;
Would court his Fetters, if he saw your Charms,
Dispirited, and useless in his Arms.
The Wise believe it Interest and Gain,
To lose their Freedom, and embrace your Chain:
A Slavery which Kings would proudly own,
And for their Passion Abdicate a Throne.
To fall, like Me, fair Seraphina's Prize,
And croud the numerous Triumphs of her Eyes.

Still not believe the Truth of my Desire?
Has ever Hear flow'd from a painted Fire?
Say, at a sudden View, what means the Smart.
Which smites my Liver? Why recoils my Heart?
Why, when by chance I hear your sacred Name,
My Visage changes with a generous Shame?

108

As in discolour'd Summer-Fruits we find,
The Tracks of Lightning or a blighting Wind,
So Heav'nly Love has a peculiar Art
To paint the Face by Touches from the Heart.

To shun the Converse of all Human Race,
I court the Woods and each forsaken Place.
All Nature hears me, and believes my Tale,
The Winds, the Hills, and every humble Vale.
If in the Groves, my melancholy Choice,
I talk to Trees, and Things depriv'd of Voice,
Soft Echoes pity my unhappy Care,
And, if I would consent, would blame the Fair.
The Leaves around are to my Plaints inclin'd,
Shook by my frequent Sighs, a mournful Wind!
The Myrtle seems to listen and to learn,
And nodding signifies a dumb Concern.

109

The Laurel, once a cruel Nymph, like You,
Wishes that Phœbus had been half so true.
She had not then refus'd, nor coyly fled,
But blest his Heart, and ne'er adorn'd his Head.

Round me the Birds a solemn Chorus make,
And, prattling, witness her unkind Mistake.
Young warbling Philomels, when I complain,
Learn a new Lesson, and improve their Strain.
But she alone, while I this Song rehearse,
Denies the Witness, nor believes my Verse.

So lov'd Apollo, when Cassandra's Pride,
Or not believ'd, or, if believ'd, deny'd.
The God, revengeful of the Phrygian Dame,
Blasted the Credit of his Delphick Flame.
But Miseries, like Mine, are doubly great;
Like His, my Passion; and like Her, my Fate.

110

To William Jordan of Gatwick, Esq. Horace's 9th Ode, B. 2d. imitated.

Quid bellicosus Cantaber & Scythes. &c.

May the 29th. 1705.

I.

Hence the Unseasonable Thoughts of War!
Nor ask who in Livonia will succeed,
Whether the Warlike Pole, or Russian Czar,
The sleeping Genius of the North will rouze,
Against the Fury of th' Unthinking Swede,
And ravish their lost Laurels from his Youthful Brows.

111

Or whether MARLBOROUGH designs
To storm Saar-Louis, or attack the Lines.
Campaigns, My Friend, and Sieges are
Below Thy more important Care.
Nor should such ruffling Storms molest
The Halcyon Smoothness of thy Breast
Doubt, Avarice, and the pale Multitude
Of greedy Harpyes, which intrude
Ev'n at our Meals, no Entrance find
On the strong Armour of your Mind,
Which You can straiten or unbend;
Skill'd in those generous Arts which bless
Whom Fortune and the Muse caress,
The Gentleman, the Scholar, and the Friend

II.

On gilded Earth we're fondly bent:
Short Life with Little is content.

112

The Tide of Blood, whose sportive Race
Inlarg'd the Veins, and flush'd the Face:
Which wanton'd in the lively Eye,
Will ebb, and leave the Channel dry.
Smooth Youth will, like the Sun, retreat,
Drive backward its Solstitial Heat.
Time will the Winter of our Years expose
To frigid Age and hoary Snows.
Then Love with all his Ammunition flies,
And wanders for some nobler Prize;
Some active Youth, for his performing Dart,
No more to strike your worthless Heart;
No more shall gentle Slumber close your waking Eyes.

III.

Succeeding Months change Nature's Face,
Dethroning with a swift Decay

113

That reigning Pride, that vernal Grace
Which blossom'd in the flow'ry May:
The Mistress of the Skies, the Moon,
Which now the azure Heav'n adorns,
Shall rowl her less'ning Orb from her Nocturnal Noon,
With feeble Beams and waining Horns;
Nor will she always rule the Night
With equal Blushes, equal Light.
The present Minutes are the best;
To Providence commit the rest.
Let trifling To---d and his empty Tribe
Presumptuously attempt to find
The Counsels of th' Eternal Mind,
And shallow Reason for a Rule prescribe.
With Arms uncapable to swim,
He labours in his Fairy Dream,
Till with inferiour Strength he plunge th' unfathomable Stream.

114

IV.

To Wisdom Infinite we wisely leave
What our short Opticks never can conceive.
We justle in the Dark to know
The secret Cause of Things below.
And if We some small Knowledge get,
'Tis hammer'd out with Pains and Sweat.
Then let old Nature's Mysteries alone
To Ray, to Lister, or to Sloane.
While thus more chearfully we sit,
And taste the Season of the Year
Beneath this spreading Oak, and hear
The sportive Innocence of Wit.
Round us the merry Poets of the Spring
Instruct us how to Live and Sing.
'Tis SECOND CHARLES's glorious Day;

115

Boy, bring the Florence; let us shew
What to his Memory we owe;
What Bankrupt we can never pay,
To Him, who sav'd a sad distracted Nation,
By happy Omens of his Birth, and happier Restoration.

V.

ANN, British Monarch, Pious and Divine,
Sprung from the Royal STUART's Line.
Fill up the Glass: Let every Man
Begin a Health to Royal ANN;
Wish she may still survive to see
Her Second Self in some immortal Progeny!
Thus in good Friendships were I always blest,
I could with Joy my Fortunes bear,
Nor envy D---'s poor Estate:

116

Thus cou'd I ever rest,
Above th' ambitious Hunger of the Great:
Slacken'd from all importune Care,
But that which SERAPHINA blows into my glowing Breast.
Go, Muse, and bring her home, and tell
How much her Beauty and her Love
Our Happiness will heighten and improve:
A Happiness which nothing can excel,
But that we hope to find ABOVE.

117

To Stephen Harvey, Esq;

In Imitation of Horace's Ode 3. Book I.

Quem tu, Melpomene, semel
Nascentem placido lumine videris, &c.

I.

The Man, whom once the smiling Muse
Has nourish'd with Castalian Dews,
Soon as he makes Life's first Essay,
New to the World, and Stranger to the Day,
Must bid a long Farewel to All
Which Happiness by Irony we call.
Nor shall he to the Indies roam
Nor bustle in the Change at home:

118

Nor shall he eminent appear
In Chancery or Westminster;
Unless, like HARVEY, He can joyn
The smoother Labours of the Nine
With the rough Study of the Bar.

II.

Unskill'd to guide the foaming Steed,
To curb his Rage, or rule his Speed,
When his wing'd Heels scarce print the place,
He shall not Rival in his Race
The flying Coursers of New market Breed.
Him neither clashing Arms nor Camps shall please,
(The Muses court Retirement and soft Ease)
No slaught'ring Weapon shall he wield,
In bloody Wars no Honour gain,
Nor climb the Pyrenœans of the Slain

119

In the discolour'd Field,
Fam'd Hockstet, or Ramillia's Fatal Plain;
Known for Bavaria's Second Fall,
And the swift Flight of the defeated Gaul,
Too impotent in hopes to grasp the Universal Ball.

III.

Nor shall he for Vigovian Spoils
Or more renown'd Brabantine Toils,
On a Thanksgiving-Day repair
To Paul's in a Triumphant Coach;
Nor amidst thund'ring Shouts, which wound the Air,
Make his magnificent Approach.
Nor shall he shine in History,
In Annals or in Poetry,
Because near Barcino, or Calpe's Shore,

120

(Old Ocean from Tyrannick Fleets to free)
From Rash Thoulouse's Hand he tore
The TRIDENT of the Sea.

IV.

To bind the Poet's peaceful Brows
New Laurel in the Forrest grows,
If nigh the Banks of murm'ring Thames,
(Rival in Praise with Heliconian Streams)
In Mantuan Numbers he excel,
Or like Mœonides; describe Campaigns,
Or, skilful in Pindaric Strains,
Strike the Melodious Shell.
O Muse, sweet Empress of the Lyre!
If Thou exalt my chosen Name
Among the Foremost in the List of Fame,
And HARVEY, Great and Good, inspire:

121

AUGUSTA's Sons shall deign to place
Your Votary among the Tuneful Race,
Whose Verse no Teeth of Time, nor snarling Envy, shall Deface.

122

An Epithalamium.

[I.]

Come, lovely Youths, who never try'd
The Blessings of a charming Bride;
And You, who never yet could tell
What Pleasures in a Bridegroom dwell,
Observe this Happy Couple well.
You softest Virgins come, and see
How sweet the Joys of Marriage be.
Attend them to the Nuptial Bed,
And there the Rose and Lilly spread.
Tho' if we rightly things compare,
It seems unnecessary Care,
They more than Roses sweet, and more than Lillies fair.

123

II.

Play harmonious Notes, begin,
Strike the sprightly Violin.
Let every Instrument and Art
Of Melody perform its Part.
What Musick can like Them agree.
Can any Song or Consort be
Brisk as the Bridegroom, and as soft as She.
Bid the Drum beat, and move
The ready Warriours to the Feat of Love.
A silent War, which breeds no Wounds,
Which needs not the shrill Trumpet's Sounds,
To hearten the brave Soldier on,
And drown the last departing Groan.
It is the Husband and the Wife
Who here decide the fatal Strife,
And yet the Companions die to give new Heroes Life.

124

III.

Hail Happy Pair! and may the World behold
In You, the Reliques of the Age of Gold!
Or let us cease to say, how Men
Enjoy'd unsully'd Blessings then:
How the First Couple liv'd before the Fall,
But take from You th' Original.
So, like the Sun, (for things below
Are less than can my Wishes show)
May You in Age and Vigour grow!
May You, like Him, each Year create, and see
New Plants, and smile upon your beauteous Progeny!
So plac'd above the vulgar Crowd,
Like Him, with constant Glory shine,
Without His Spots, without his Cloud,
Both when You rise, and when decline,

125

Like Him, to newer Business; tho' he seems
To take his Lodging in Hesperian Streams:
Yet, while to Us he ceases to disclose
His Rays, He sets to Labour, not Repose,
And in new Worlds his scatt'ring Vigour sows.

126

On a Lady, of a Voice incomparably sweet, who died Young.

[I.]

As a sweet Bird, to rest his weary Wings,
Takes to a Wood, and on some stately Tree,
Ne'er dreaming of his Misery,
Tunes his harmonious Throat, and sings:
Till a remorsless Wretch, whose Ears
Ne'er felt the Force of Melody and Verse,
With an unpitying Hand destroys
The feather'd Charmer's Voice.
So fair Emilia did excell;
So She sung, and so She fell.
Abruptly snatch'd away by hasty Death,
Who stopp'd his Ears, to stop her Breath:

127

For much he fear'd, that if he should delay
To hear Her sing, He should for ever stay.

II.

Sweet Charmer! Thou art mounted to the Skies,
Where an eternal Ecstasy goes round:
With what Attendance to the Gods she flies!
How all the Heav'ns resound!
See where the laurel'd Angels sit!
Hark! how the sacred Poets string
Their golden Instruments, and sing!
But she is silent yet.
When She begins some Heav'nly Air,
Some Hymn so excellent and rare,
Sure 'twill inhance the Blessings there.

128

Daphne's Denyal

I

When Daphne o'er the Meadows fled
To save her untouch'd Maidenhead,
And shun Apollo's Suit:
The haughty Virgin did not fear
His certain Darts, nor scorn to hear
The Musick of his Lute.

II

No: something else must needs create
The Cause of such a cruel Hate:
And this was her Condition;
She lov'd the God, as he was fair,
And of a bright immortal Air,
But hated the Physician.

129

A DITHYRAMBICK:

Imitated from the Greek of Bacchylides.

Γλυκει αναγκη σευομενα κυλικων.

I.

BACCHUS , the Seed of Thund'ring Jove,
Begot the Queen of Love.
Whatever Ancient Poets feign,
Who, in a cold and sober Vein,
Thought sprightly Heat could from dull;

130

And thence they lifted to the Skies
The greatest of the Deities.
But sure a Goddess so Divine
Would scorn th' ennervate Froth and unperforming Brine
And owe her Birth to nothing less than Wine.
With all her little hoves I see her swim
Above the Glass, and sparkle on the Brim.
Down, down she goes, o'er ev'ry Part
The Gentle Goddess reigns:
I feel her trickle in my Veins,
And steal upon my Heart.
My Liver, and my Blood she warms,
Now, now I view my SERAPHINA's Charms,
And now I clasp her in my Arms.
I ask not Winds to cool my Fire,
But bid them hasten, and remove
Those grave Impertinents which damp my Love

131

And interrupt Desire,
Blow then beyond the farthest East and West,
And in the Ganges plunge Despair,
As in this Glass I drown my Care,
And drive it an Eternal Exile from my Breast.

II.

Hence, dreaming Loyterer! the Spring draws nigh;
We'll to the Wars: Bid the Drum beat,
And Trumpet sound: For we will meet
In Battle, and prevent th' insulting Enemy.
Why this delaying? Come, march on,
Let not the Rhine, nor Sea your Passage stop;
But swim it o'er, or drink it up:
Till we have Hannibal out gone:
Or that poor weeping Conqueror of Macedon.

132

We are Bold Britons all, and scorn to shed
A Tear, except it runs in red.
We'll spend our precious Gore,
And when that's out we'll drink for more,
And fill our Veins with nobler Blood, and better Life restore.
Come on! My leading Genius calls,
Storm Namure, and shake the Walls.
Down, down they fall:
Death and Destruction triumph over All,
And we reign Arbitrary Monarchs o'er the Conquer'd Ball.

III.

Whatever I behold
Is Silver all, and Indian Gold.
Crœsus, and He who drank the foaming Bowl

133

Of floating Gold, was but a common Soul,
Compar'd to Me,
To whom the Riches of the Sea
With ev'ry Billow rowl.
No: I shall ne'er be poor, shall never pine
For want of Money, or of Wine.
Here's a whole Fleet, a Cargo come,
Some from the Streights, from the East Indies some.
Some fill my Granaries with Corn,
And some into my Coffers pour
All Pointy's pillag'd Wealth, an unexhausted Store:
Here rowls a Sea of Wine from Bourdeaux and Leghorn.
So can the pow'rful Grape our Reason cheat,
And o'er our giddy Fancy reign.
Till from the Trance recover'd, we regain
Our better Minds, and find it all Deceit.

134

LOVE and MUSICK,

An ODE for the Entertainment of the Musical CLUB in Cambridge, 1700.

TO VENUS.

[_]

The Two first Stanza's, and the last, are Set to Musick by Mr. Quarles of Trinity College.

[I.]

Come, Cytherea, from Thy Paphian Bower,
Bring ev'ry Grace, and ev'ry Smile
To favour the Britannick Isle,
And listen while we Celebrate thy Pow'r.
Upon the Dewy Ground
With Flowry Garlands crown'd,

135

Thy sweet Adonis lays his Head
With blushing Roses round him spread,
And op'ning Lillies for his Bed.

II.

Hark! he calls in Musick's Voice:
With am'rous Talk the pratling Strings,
Resound, and thy Adonis sings,
While the loud Trumpet's sprightly Noise
Calls the brisk Violin, and soft Flute,
And manly Viol to dispute
The Conquest, and with Triumph gains the Cause
Chorus. Come, Cytherea, come, we all agree,
That Love and Musick make the World's sweet Harmony.

136

III.

Prolifick Queen! from Heav'n descend,
Mount thy gay Chariot, drawn by milky Doves,
With all thy little Troop of Loves,
Which fill thy Train, thy Court attend.
She comes! she comes! Prepare the glorious Way
With Musick, and salute the Day.
Her wanton Sparrows first appear
And celebrate the new-born Year.
The Lark repeats her lofty Song;
And, stretching out her mounting Wings,
By weary Steps to Heav'n she springs,
And strikes it with her Tongue.
While the shrill Linnet tunes her Silver Throat,
And Philomel instructs her warbling Young
With melancholy Note.

137

IV.

Venus obeys the signal Sound:
She views the Sunny Hills around,
And from the Sky descends to bless the pregnant Ground.
The Groves erect their Branchy Heads,
And when new liquid Life she pours,
The healing Plants and fragrant Flowers
Rise from their humid Beds.
Numidian Lions feel her gentle Power;
And, soften'd into Tenderness and Love,
Lay down their Fierceness, and forget to roar;
When o'er the howling Wilderness they rove,
To seek their tawny Paramour;
Th' untroubled Ocean flows
With a serener Tide;

138

Tritons above the Waves, emergent, ride,
And each his ratling Coral blows.
Come, Goddess, and exert thy Reign;
At thy Approach large Phocæ play
Submitting to thy easie Sway,
And all the Scaly People of the Main,
Thee, Sea-born Queen, obey.

V.

Love, like a subtil Poyson creeps
On Man, and there his Empire keeps.
Rise, Anthony, repair thy ruin'd Fame,
And waken to a Nobler Flame.
The Trumpet calls thee, and the Drum
Rattles; Octavius and the Romans come,
To find a second ACTIUM.
Lo! rouz'd from his deep Lethargy,

139

Horrid in Steel the Hero shines afar,
Like Mars, when rushing to the War;
But VENUS smiles to see.
By Venus taught th' Egyptian Queen prepares
Softer Musick, tender Airs.
Delighted Cupids clap their Wings,
And temper all the Magick Strings.
Down, down the melting Lover lies,
Lull'd in th' inchanting Sorceress's Arms,
He feels the Witchcraft of her Eyes,
And true Egyptian Charms.

VI.

What cannot Love and Musick do?
Love sent the Thracian Bard down to the Shades below,
When to his Lute the Savages he drew,
And rapid Rivers ceas'd to flow.

140

Thrice, Eurydice, he cry'd!
Hell, Thrice, Eurydice reply'd.
Then on the steep insuperable Hill
The Stone of Sisiphus stood still,
And Musick stopt the running Wheel.
He Sung and Play'd,
The Stygian Pow'rs obey'd,
And from the pale Infernal Throng
Streight to his Arms restor'd the beauteous Shade,
So Mighty was his Love! So wondrous was his Song!

141

On a Gentleman drawing his Own Picture, Sept. 1703.

Such Strokes so Bold, so Eloquent, and True,
Were Those which Nature's forming Pencil drew,
When in your Features she at first design'd
T'express an Excellence of Human kind.
So You, with wond'rous Skill surprize and please,
Bold to Refine upon a Master-piece.
Your Touch so graceful, and so strong your Art,
There's all of Nature, but the Speaking Part.
Yet ev'n in that we're willingly deceiv'd;
Our Eyes are false, nor are our Ears believ'd.
Let Chloë, if thy Flame she disapprove,
Look on thy Picture, and she dies with Love.

142

Had Great Apelles in such Lines been drest,
So spoke in Paint, by his own Hands exprest;
The skilful. Artist had more Honour won,
Than by the Cyprian Queen, or Philip's Son.

Paint on: The British Genius draw, (since You
Can for your self perform what none can do)
In ANNA's Face; Nor need your Art despair,
Mix Jove and Venus formidably Fair.
Here let the Thunder from her Navy fly,
And there the Lightning sparkle from her Eye.

143

The REPEATER.

[_]

Out of Martial, l. 3. Ep. 37.

Occurrit tibi nemo quod libenter, &c.

You often ask, Sir, when we meet,
Why all Men shun you in the Street:
Why ev'ry place, where'er you go,
A lonesome Solitude does grow.
The Reason is, if you would know it,
You smell too rank, Sir, of the Poet.
And trust me, 'tis a dang'rous Crime
To worry Men to Death with Rhime.
Robb'd Tigresses, mad Bulls, and Bears;
Are not so dreaded or so fierce
As those who Bedlam it in Verse.

144

For, tell me, Sir, what Man of Sense
Can bear with such Impertinence?
Eternall Dulness, which would tire,
A Socrates, or Job to hear.
Where'er I walk, where'er I run,
You persecute me like a Dun.
Or if I stand, or if I sit,
I'm plagu'd with your inhumane Wit.
If I go home with Resolution,
To fly Poetick Persecution,
And study very hard to find
A way to pay you in your kind;
In vain I on the Muses call
For Help; for you ingross them all.

No place is safe: for if I fly
To cooling Streams, or Rivers nigh;

145

Yet still you hover o'er the Brim,
Repeating faster than I swim.
To Sup I go, where you, Repeat
Ten Verses every Bit I eat.
With Hearing spent, and almost dead,
I fly for Refuge to my Bed.
Me, the Still Night, think I, secures,
When every Tongue is mute, but Yours.
Me from Your Voice no Night can keep;
Like Ghost in Chains You closely creep;
And, ratling, chime away my Sleep.

Sir, would you know what harm you do?
You're Just, you're Innocent and True.
Your Vertue's honour'd; but your Metre
Is curs'd by All, Thou Damn'd Repeater!

146

The ASS.

[_]

From Monsieur Fontaine.

In Italy, as Authors tell us,
There liv'd a Painter wondrous Jealous:
Tormented with a Female Evil,
Tempting, and Subtil as the Devil.
A slippery Proteus, whom no Chain,
Nor all the Padlocks could contain.

Thus she created frequent Smart
To Husband's aking Head and Heart.
And 'twas the Business of his Life
How to Confine that Eel his Wife.

Inventing Noddle teems at last
With an Odd Whim to hold her fast.

147

Resolv'd with Brush his Art to shew,
Whate'er he can't perform below.
He drew an ASS with wondrous Skill
On the soft Brow of Venus-Hill.

Thus, if she stray'd he could for certain
Know her, by drawing up the Curtain.
Or, if a Neighbour were so bold
To leap the Fence, or break the Hold,
The Ass wou'd speak,—

But ah! how vain our Counsels are,
And all our Plots against the Fair!
Comes an old Friend, a Pencil-Brother,
Rubs out one Ass, and paints Another.
But adding what the First did lack,
He draws a Saddle on the Back.

148

CHLOE was wondrous pleas'd and smil'd;
To think how Segniour was beguil'd;
Who reeling home one Evening late,
With Mellow Looks, and Jealous Pate,
Vow'd he'd not take a Wink of Sleep,
Without one dear departing Peep.
Will you distrust me, Chluë crys,
Inhuman Man and wipes her Eyes:
Take then your Spectacles, and view it:
Th' Ass is as whole, as when you drew it.
I see my Ass is whole, my Dear,
Quoth Don, as when I left it here;
But P***ue take him who clap'd the Saddle there.

149

An Ode out of Anacreon.

How feeble are my Limbs! how all
My Hoary Hairs begin to fall!
My withering Veins no longer beat,
With springing Blood, and lively Heat.
Perish'd is all that Comely Grace,
That Bloom, which flourish'd in my Face,
And Wrinkles now supply the Place.
And now the small remaining Measure
Of Life, is short, without the Pleasure.

This does repeated Groans create,
This Truth with Horror I relate,
And tremble at approaching Fate.

150

I know the Day will come, when I
Must hear my Doom, Prepare to Die.
'Tis Hell I fear, that gaping Pit:
How dreadful the Descent to it!
Who shoot that Gulf, must ne'er return,
But in Eternal Darkness mourn.

151

The 103d Psalm Paraphras'd.

A Thanksgiving after a Deliverance from Sickness and Trouble.

Jan. 1703,4.

[I.]

Glory, my Soul, and Blessing give
To God Alone, by whom you live;
To God, whose Mercy did impart
New Health and Vigour to my Heart.
Nor cease, my sprightly Blood, to shew
His Love, who taught you how to Flow;
Who rais'd me from Disease and Sin,
From Ills without, and Ills within.
Just had they plung'd me to the Grave,
But These he Cur'd, and Those Forgave.

152

His Melting Pity, Tender Grace,
Like a bright Diadem's Embrace,
Blaz'd round my Head, and Lighten'd in my Face.
Thou, Lord, art infinitely Good,
Thou, like an Eagle's, hast renew'd
My Youth; and like an Eagle, I
Will mount, and tell thy Praises thro the Sky.

II.

Tell how nor Death, nor Hell's more dreadful Stings,
Can shake a Soul o'ershadow'd with thy Saving Wings.
Tell how Egyptian Lords in vain,
With Iron Hands presume to reign;
When for their Tyranny and Wrong,
Billows on crowding Billows throng,

153

And Whelm the Haughty Host in th' Erythrean Main.
This Moses saw, when on the farther Strand
He wav'd aloft the mighty Wand,
And th' Amaz'd Sea his Ancient Strength regain'd.
O Wonders of insuperable Height!
Above the Stretch of Reason! shewn
To Jacob's Moody Race alone:
Unfathomable Depth of Mercy Infinite!
So strong the Rivers of his Goodness flow!
So Swift his Love! His Wrath so Slow!
Which, if it chance to Swell, and rise
To meet our Crimes, which dare the Skies;
His Pity then begins to chide
His Rage, and Calm the Rapid Tide.
His Crushing Thunder, which might justly Slay,
Is only Shaken at Unmindful Clay.

154

And, to lay down so oft the Lifted Rod,
Speaks the Kind Father, and Forbearing God.

III.

As this Round Globe's inferiour Face,
Compar'd with yon' Ethereal Space,
Is but a Point to those Above:
So Infinite is Heav'nly Love
To a Religious Race.
Thy Mercy, Lord, from Sin has set us free,
As farthest East is from the Western Sea,
So distant are our Crimes from Us and Thee.
Tho' We, thro Weakness, ev'ry Hour
Like Idle, Heedless Children, fall,
Thou like a Father, sparest all
Who love Thy Goodness, and who fear Thy Pow'r.
Thou knowest whence we came;
How brittle Dust compos'd our Frame:

155

Like Vessels in the Potter's Hand,
Too Prone to break! too Weak to stand!

IV.

Can Nature's Dress appear more Gay,
Than in her Darling flow'ry May?
Yet must those short-liv'd Honours of the Field
To the rude North their Beauty yield;
Or to the cruel Scythe become a Prey.
Such are our Days, an empty Shade:
Death stalks behind us, to deride
Our noisie Vanity and Pride,
Which smil'd like Lillies, and like them decay'd.
Nothing is sure and permanent below,
Corruption reigns within us as we grow.
Thou only, Glorious Father, e're the World begun,

156

Wert, and shalt be for ever, when all/Worlds are done;
When Time's no more: Then shall thy Blessed Saints
Be rank'd among the Bright Inhabitants.
They with their Children's Children then shall see
A long Succession of Posterity;
Who practis'd what thy Prophets taught,
Sincere in Word, and pure in Thought.
They with Repenting Sinners, shall thy Mercies taste,
And Joys, which never can be told, and never can be past.

157

V.

High supereminent in Heav'n, the Throne
Of God is fix'd: He Reigns Alone.
All Things above us, and below, obey
His Just, his Good, his Universal Sway:
While the proud Lords of this round Mole hill here,
Like Emmets, in his Sight appear,
Mere Royal Worms, and Gilded Clay.
Praise him, ye holy Angels, which excel
In Strength, or Michael, or Ithuriel,
Or Gabriel; Blest Names! who fly
At his Command, from ev'ry Corner of the Sky.
Whose high Examples teach us to fulfil
His Word, and execute his Will.

158

His Name let ev'ry Creature bless,
All Things in Air, Earth, Sea, their Gratitude express:
And Thou, my Soul, thy Pious Offering bring
To God, the Wise, the Gracious King.
Who Life to Thee, and Being gave,
Who now has snatch'd Thee from the Grave,
And taught Thee whom to praise, and how to sing.

159

The 130th Psalm Paraphras'd.

[I.]

As a Poor Wretch, by Tempests tost,
His Vessel wreck'd, and Venture lost,
With feeble Arms contends in vain,
Against the Surges of the Main:
Then casting round him his despairing Eyes,
Sees nothing but High Seas, and Low'ring Skies,
The Billows rowl above, and plunge him as they rise:
So, like the Waves, my Crimes oppress me down;
So shall I sink, and so shall drown:
Unless my Voice reach thy Attentive Ears,
Unless, Great God, Thou free me from my Fears,
Whelm'd in th' Abyss of Sin, and drown'd in Tears.

160

II.

Lord! should'st Thou act a Judge's part,
And at thy Last Tribunal stand
With all thy Thunder in thy Hand,
To search the Secrets of the Heart:
(As Nothing's hid from thy All Seeing Eye)
Should'st Thou our Inmost Actions try,
Our Lurking Holes of Wicked Thoughts;
Our Frailties, and our wilful Faults:
Who cou'd the Scrutiny abide
Who cou'd be Sav'd? Who Justify'd?
But Thou art Mercy, Thou art prone to spare,
And shew a Tender Father's Care
Nor wilt our Evil Deeds expose;
But Wink at These, and Pardon Those.

161

For this thy Name each Day and Night we'll raise
With Heart and Voice; And, as we rightly shou'd,
Express our Reverence and Gratitude:
And never cease to Pray, and never cease to Praise.

III.

Not so in Camps the Centinel oppress'd
With Watching, and with Want of Rest,
Wears out, impatient, the long sleepless Night
In Wishes for the Morning Light:
As thy Salvation to obtain,
I watch, O Lord; nor watch in vain.
To thy Try'd Mercy, and Repeated Grace,
Bold on the Wings of Faith I fly,
And on Thy Promises rely
Made to Thy Chosen Race.

162

VI.

O Jacob's Race, no more Despair,
But trust in God with Faith and Pray'r.
His Bounteous Mercy will impart
Remission to thy Sins, and Comfort to thy Heart.
Yet think not that his Mercy is confin'd
To Jacob's Seed alone of all Mankind.
Where'er his True Believers dwell,
They are his Portion, his lov'd Israel.
Those and You he shall Redeem,
And tho' our Crimes would drain the Fountain dry,
Yet still that unexhausted Stream
Flows, and will flow for ever with a fresh Supply.

163

The 148th Psalm Paraphras'd.

[I.]

Ye Blest Inhabitants, who dwell
Above th' expanded Starry Space;
Ye Beings of Celestial Race,
Begin the Noble Song, and God's Just Praises tell.
Those Blessed Powers I mean, whose Sacred Lays
Are ever dedicated to His Praise.
Who His Eternal Majesty proclaim,
And never cease to glorifie His Name.
Praise him, ye Lamps of Heav'n, ye glittering Stars;
And You, O Sun and Moon, unweary'd Travellers:
Wherever round the World you go,
Whatever Clime You visit here below,
His worthy Praises sing, His Noble Wonders show.

164

II.

Cease not Ye Heav'n of Heav'ns; nor Thou,
O Heav'nly Ocean beside,
Where never Winds did in their ratling Coaches ride,
Or discompose thy Watry Brow:
Where never raging Storms did roar;
Where never Mariners did cut their Way,
Except the Blessed Mariners, They,
Who thro' this Sea are wasted to their Heav'nly Shore.
Praise him, ye Seas; and as you rowl along
Tune all your Waters with a Grateful Song.
Never, O never silent be;
But let Posterity his Wonders hear,
His Acts to late Posterity declare,

165

How at his FIAT th' undigested Heap
From Chaos Womb began to leap.
For ever keep my Law, said He,
Firm and Unshaken, stand in perfect Unity,
Nor Fate, nor Time, shall break th' unchangeable Decree.

III.

Let Earth, and all her Num'rous Issue prove,
As full of Gratitude and Love,
As those Celestial Creatures are Above.
Whether they Sheep or Lions be,
Which Bleat on Fruitful Pasture Lands,
Lions and Sheep shall in his praise agree
Or howl o'er Libya's Burning Sands:
Praise him, ye Fishes, which the Ocean sweep,
With Great Leviathan of monstrous Size,
Who takes his Pastime in the Deep,
And Spouts against the Skies.

166

IV.

Nor shall the Liquid World alone declare
His Praise, but all the Regions of the Air
Where Thunders rowl, and Lightnings shine,
Shall in the Universal Chorus joyn.
The rattling Hail, and Fleecy Snow,
And Winds which from each Corner blow
When with their Breath rough Storms they raise
To execute his Word below,
Shall speak his Wonders, and exalt his Praise.
Let joyful Echo's ev'ry Valley fill,
And ev'ry Mountain, ev'ry Hill:
Till the glad Sound does to the Trees repair,
Till Lebanon's Tall Cedars hear:
Till the wild Beasts, which round the Forest rove

167

Become Serene and Tame,
Taught by the Vocal Grove,
In smoother Strains to praise their Makers Name.
Praise him ye Birds of an unweary'd Wing.
Whether you in the Woods delight to sing,
Or fill the Air with an harmonious Lay,
To God your grateful Notes and Harmony repay.

V.

Nor, you O Kings and Princes, cease to sing:
Ye Great Vice-Gods of this Terrestrial Ball,
Do You the humble Tribute bring
To God the Universal King,
The Father, and acknowledg'd Lord of All.
Him let all Nations and all People praise,
From whence the Sun begins his Morning Race,
Till down he drives his Chariot in the Western Seas.

168

Him let all Human kind adore;
The Blooming Youth, and Lovely Maid,
And Hoary Age, by Time decay'd,
And helpless Infancy express his Power.
Thus his dear Saints shall spend their Night and Day;
Thus shall his Darling Israel praise and pray,
And sing an everlasting Halleluiah.

169

Descensio Sancti Spiritûs.

Consedêre Senes, visæ descendere linguæ,
Quassa strepunt tecti mœnia, saxa gemunt.
Quid tonuisse Aquilam magni Jovis arma ferentem
Miramur? cùm jam Sancta Columba tonat.

The Sacred Twelve with rev'rend Silence meet,
Devoutly waiting for the Paraclete.
Lo! from the Clouds an unknown Glory broke,
And Fiery Tongues God's Approbation spoke,
The Shaken Raftures were amaz'd to see
And Trembling Stones confess'd the Deity.

170

No more, Great God, shall Fiction boast her Jove:
This argues for Thy Government above;
An Eagle bore his Thunder, Thine the Dove.

171

On the ceasing of the Oracles upon the Birth of our Blessed Saviour.

When from Almighty Wrath the Saviour fled,
To Sacrifice his Meritorious Head;
To live an Exile from his Ancient Throne,
And suffer for Offences, not his Own:
False Deities ador'd the Child, and fell
Down to their Primitive Damnation, Hell.
The Delphick Priestess was no more inspir'd,
Phœbus stood Silent, and in Mists retir'd.
More strong than Thunder were this Infant's Nods,
That strikes the Lofty Temples, These the Gods.

172

To his Friend on the Following Poem.

At length our English Tongue is happy made,
And our Wit's grown industrious as our Trade,
The Reverend Prophet now with Joy may see
The utmost of his Wish fulfill'd in Thee.
All Foreign Wit in English Dress display'd
Without the Help of any Foreign Aid.
Whatever Ancient Greece, or Rome could boast,
Is now transplanted to the British Coast.
Now all their bright Perfections scatter'd shine
In Various Poems, but unite in Thine.
So the Sun yields a double Heat and Light,
When in a Glass his scatter'd Beams unite.

Mæon's Great Son no longer shall confine
To his fam'd Verse the Force of Heat Divine.

173

Our God-like Milton has as nobly wrote,
And sings as boldly as his Angels fought.
Judicious Dryden may with Virgil claim
Of Just, yet Daring Flights, the prudent Fame.
Waller in Verse as tender as his Love,
Like soft Catullus, does our Passions move.
The Boundless Fancy of the Lyrick Song
To Horace, and to Cowley does belong.
Bion and Congreve shall in Mournful Strains
Lament untimely Fate to Weeping Swains.
Brave Cutar, like Tyrteus, shall engage
The Hero's Courage, and the Poet's Rage.
Oldham and Juvenal in keenest Rhimes
Shall lash the Follies of degen'rate Times.

Whither does Fancy hurry me along?
To You, my Friend, this Province does belong.

174

Your Copious Wit alone can Theirs express.
And only Yours can suit du equal Dress.
Your flowing Numbers can alone dispense
The Warmest Fancy with the Coolest Sense
Your Heat of Youth can Tower a Milton's Flight,
And Judgment can, like Virgil, steer it right.
Oh may some Genius, like your self arise
Whose Wit and Learning may the World surprize!
As You have given each tuneful Bard his Due,
May he confer the same Reward on You!

W. Worts.

175

To his Friend on the following Poem

Others their Praise may gratefully bestow,
And pay that Debt, which they to Merit owe;
But I'm indebted on a double score,
Much for your Verse, but for your Friendship more.
And who an Equal Recompence can tell
For one who sings, and one who loves so well
To praise your Verse, is what the most will do;
I would do something more in praising You.
And yet the Task's so great to praise a Friend,
That I much rather would your Verse commend.
I would indeed: but something in your Lines
So Strange, so Dazling, so Peculiar shines;
That loud-tongu'd Praise must here be at a stand,
And silent Wonder only must commend.

W. Dove.

176

Of POETRY.

1. Its Antiquity. 2. Its Progress. 3. Its Improvement.

A POEM

Sure when the Maker in his Heav'nly Breast
Design'd a Creature to command the rest,
Of all th'

Antiquity of Poetry

Erected Progeny of Clay
His Noblest Labour was his First Essay.
There shone th' Eternal Brightness, and a Mind
Proportion'd for the Father of Mankind.
The Vigor of Omnipotence was seen
In his high Actions, and Imperial Mien.

177

Inrich'd with Arts, unstudy'd and untaught,
With loftiness of Soul, and dignity of Thought
To Rule the World, and what he Rul'd to Sing,
And be at once the Poet and the King.
Whether his Knowledge with his breath he drew,
And saw the Depth of Nature at a View;
Or, new descending from th' Angelick race,
Retain'd some tincture of his Native Place.

Fine was the Matter of the curious Frame,
Which lodg'd his

The Soul, according to the Platonists. So Virgil: Auraï simplicis ig, nem.

Fiery Guest, and like the same
Nor was a less Resemblance in his Sense,
His Thoughts were lofty, just his Eloquence.
Whene're He spoke, from his Seraphick Tongue
Ten Thousand comely Graces,-ever young,
With new Calliopes and Clio's sprung.
No shackling Rhyme chain'd the free Poet's mind,

178

Majestick was His Style, and unconfin'd.
Vast was each Sentence, and each wondrous strain
Sprung forth, unlabour'd, from His fruitful Brain.

But when He yielded to deluding Charms,
Th' Harmonious Goddess shun'd His empty Arms.
The Muse no more his sacred Breast inspir'd,
But to the Skies, her Ancient Seat, retir'd.
Yet here and there Celestial Seeds She threw,
And rain'd melodious Blessings as She flew.
Which some receiv'd, whom Gracious Heav'n design'd
For high Employments, and their Clay refin'd.
Who, of a Species more sublime, can tame
The rushing God, and stem the rapid Flame.
When in their breasts th' impetuous Numen rowls,
And with uncommon heaves swells their Diviner Souls.

179

Thus the

Moses.

Companion of the Godhead sung,
And wrote upon those Reeds from whence he Sprung.
He, first of Poets, told how Infant Light,
Unknown before, dawn'd from the Womb of Night.
How Sin and Shame th' Unhappy Couple knew,
And thro' affrighted Eden, more affrighted, flew.
How God advanc'd his Darling Abrom's fame,
In the sure Promise of his lengthen'd Name.
On Horeb's Top, or Sinah's flaming Hill
Familiar Heav'n reveal'd his Sacred Will.
Unshaken then Seth's stony Column stood,
Surviving the Destruction of the Flood.
His Father's Fall was letter'd on the Stone,
Thence Arts, Inventions, Sciences were Known.

180

Thence Divine Moses, with exalted thought,
In Hebrew Lines the Worlds Beginning wrote.

The Gift of Verse descended to the Jews,

The Progress of Poetry.

Inspir'd with something nobler than a Muse.
Here Deborah in fiery rapture sings,
The Rout of Armies, and the Fall of Kings.
Thy Torrent, Kison, shall for ever flow,
Which trampled o'er the Dead, and swept away the Foe.

With Songs of Triumph, and the Maker's praise,
With Sounding Numbers, and united Lays,
The Seed of Judah to the Battle flew,
And Orders of Destroying Angels drew

181

To their Victorious side: Who marching round
Their Foes, touch'd Myriads at the signal Sound,
By Harmony they fell, and dy'd without a Wound.
So strong is Verse Divine, when we Proclaim
Thy Power, Eternal Light, and Sing thy Name!

Nor does it here alone it's Magick show,
But works in Hell, and binds the Fiends below.
So powerful is the Muse! When David plaid,
The Frantick Dæmon heard him, and obey'd.
No Noise, no Hiss: the dumb Apostate lay
Sunk in soft silence, and dissolv'd away.

Nor was this Miracle of Verse confin'd

Orpheus.

To Jews alone: For in a Heathen mind
Some strokes appear: Thus Orpheus was inspir'd,
Inchanting Syrens at his Song retir'd.

182

To Rocks and Seas he the curst Maids pursu'd,
And their strong Charms, by stronger Charms subdu'd.

But Greece was honour'd with a Greater Name,

Homer.

Homer is Greece's Glory and her Shame.
How could Learn'd Athens with contempt refuse,
Th' immortal labours of so vast a Muse?
Thee, Colophon, his angry Ghost upbraids,
While his loud Numbers charm th' Infernal Shades.
Ungrateful Cities! Which could vainly strive
For the Dead Homer, whom they scorn'd Alive.
So strangely wretched is the Poet's Doom!
To Wither here, and Flourish in the Tomb.

Tho' Virgil rising under happier Stars,

Virgil.

Saw Rome succeed in Learning as in Wars.

183

When Pollio, like a asmiling Planet, shone,
And Cæsar darted on him, like the Sun.
Nor did Mecænas, gain a less repute,
When Tuneful Flaccus touch'd the Roman Lute.

But when, Mecænas, will Thy Star appear
In our low Orb, and gild the British Sphere?
Say, art Thou come, and, to deceive our Eyes
Dissembled under DORSET's fair Disguise?
If so; go on, Great Sackvile, to regard
The Poet, and th' imploring Muse reward.
So to Thy Fame a Pyramid shall rise,
Nor shall the Poet fix thee in the Skies.
For if a Verse Eternity can claim,
Thy Own are able to preserve thy Name.
This Province all is Thine, o'er which in vain
Octavius hover'd long, and sought to Reign.
This Sun prevail'd upon his Eagle's sight,

184

Glar'd in their Royal Eyes, and stop'd their flight.
Let him his Title to such Glory bring,
You give as freely, and more nobly sing.
Reason will judge, when both their Claims produce,
He shall his Empire boast, and Thou the Muse.
Horace and He are in Thy Nature joyn'd,
The Patron's Bounty with the Poet's Mind.

O Light of England, and her highest Grace!
Thou best and greatest of thy Ancient Race!
Descend, when I invoke thy Name, to shine
(For 'tis thy Praise) on each unworthy Line.
While to the World, unprejudic'd, I tell
The noblest Poets, and who most excel
Thee with the Foremost thro' the Globe I send,
Far as the British Arms or Memory extend.

185

But 'twould be vain, and tedious to reherse
The meaner Croud, undignify'd for Verse.
On barren ground who drag th' unwilling Plough,
And feel the Sweat of Brain as well as Brow.
A Crew so vile, which, soon as read, displease,
May Slumber in forgetfulness and ease,
Till fresher Dulness wakes their sleeping Memories.

Some stuff'd in Garrets dream for wicked Rhyme,
Where nothing but their Lodging is sublime.
Observe their twenty faces, how they strain
To void forth Nonsense from their costive Brain.
Who (when they've murder'd so much costly time,
Beat the vext Anvil with continual chime,
And labour'd hard to hammer statutable Rhyme)

186

Create a BRITISH PRINCE; as hard a task,
As would a Cowley or a Milton ask,
To build a Poem of the vastest price,
A DAVIDEIS, or LOST PARADISE.
So tho' a Beauty of Imperial Mien
May labour with a Heroe, or a Queen,
The Dowdie's Offspring, of the freckled strain,
Shall cause like Travail, and as great a Pain.

Such to the Rabble may appear inspir'd,
By Coxcombs envy'd, and by Fools admir'd,
I pity Madmen who attempt to fly,
And raise their Airy Babel to the Sky.
Who, arm'd with Gabble, to create a Name,
Design a Beauty, and a Monster frame.
Not so the Seat of Phœbus role, which lay
In Ruins buried, and a long Decay.
To Britany the Temple was convey'd,

187

By Natures utmost force, and more than Human Aid.
Built from the Basis by a noble Few,
The stately Fabrick in perfection view.
While Nature gazes on the polish'd piece,
The Work of amny rowling Centuries.

For joyn'd with Art She labour'd long to raise
An English Poet, meriting the Bays.
How vain a Toil! Since Authors first were known
For Greek and Latin Tongues, but scorn'd their Own.

As Moors of old, near Guinea's precious Shore,
For glittering Brass exchang'd their shining Oar.
Involving Darkness did our Language shrowd,
Nor could we view the Goddess thro' the Cloud.

188

Sunk in a Sea of Ignorance we lay,
Till Chaucer rose, and pointed out the Day.

Chaucer.

A joking Bard, whose antiquated Muse
In mouldy words could Solid sense produce.
Our English Enuius He, who claim'd his part
In wealthy Nature, tho' unskil'd in Art.
The sparkling Diamond on his Dunghil shines,
And golden fragments glitter in his Lines.
Which

Spencer.

Spencer gather'd, for his Learning known,
And by successful gleanings made his Own.
So careful Bees, on a fair Summer's Day,
Hum o'er the Flowers, and suck the sweets away.
O had thy Poet, Britany, rely'd
On native Strength, and Foreign Aid deny'd!
Had not wild Fairies blasted his Design,
Mæonides and Virgil had been Thine!
Their Finish'd Poems He exactly view'd,
But Chaucer's steps religiously pursu'd.

189

He cull'd, and pick'd, and thought it greater praise
T'adore his Master, than improve his Phrase.
'Twas counted Sin to deviate from his Page;
So sacred was th' Authority of Age!
The Coyn must sure for currant Sterling pass;
Stamp'd with old Chaucer's Venerable Face.
But Johnson found it of a gross Alloy,

Ben. Johnson.

Melted it down, and flung the Dross away
He dug pure Silver from a Roman Mine,
And prest his Sacred Image on the Coyn.
We all rejoyc'd to see the pillag'd Oar,
Our Tongue inrich'd, which was so poor before.
Fear not, Learn'd Poet, our impartial blame,
Such Thefts as these add Lustre to thy Name.
Whether thy labour'd Comedies betray
The Sweat of Terence, in thy Glorious way,
Or Catliine plots better in thy Play.

190

Whether his Crimes more excellently shine,
Whether we hear the Consul's Voice Divine,
And doubt which merits most, Rome's Cicero, or Thine.
All yield, consenting to sustain the Yoke,
And learn the Language which the Victor spoke.
So Macedon's Imperial Hero threw
His wings abroad, and conquer'd as he flew.
Great Johnson's Deeds stand Parallel with His,
Were Noble Thefts, Successful Pyracies.

Souls of a Heroe's, or a Poet's Frame
Are fill'd with larger particles of flame.
Scorning confinement, for more Lands they groan,
And stretch beyond the Limits of their Own.

191

Fletcher, whose Wit, like some luxuriant Vine,

Fletcher, and Beaumont.

Profusely wanton'd in each golden Line.
Who, prodigal of Sense, by Beaumont's care,
Was prun'd so wisely, and became so fair.
Could from his copious Brain new Humours bring,
A bragging Bessus, or inconstant King.
Could Laughter thence, here melting pity raise
In his Amyntors, and Aspasia's.
But Rome and Athens must the Plots produce
With France, the Handmaid of the English Muse.

Ev'n Shakespear sweated in his narrow Isle,

Shakespear.

And Subject Italy obey'd his Stile.
Boccace and Cinthio must a tribute pay,
T'inrich his Scenes, and furnish out a Play.
Tho' Art ne're taught him how to write by Rules,

192

Or borrow Learning from Athenian Schools:
Yet He, with Plautus, could instruct and please,
And what requir'd long toil, perform with ease.
By inborn strength so Theseus bent the Pine,
Which cost the Robber many Years Design.

See Plutarch's Life of Theseus.

Tho' sometimes rude, unpolish'd and undrest
His Sentence flows, more careless than the rest.
Yet, when his Muse, complying with his will,
Deigns with informing heat his Breast to fill,
Then hear him thunder in the Pompous strain
Of Æschylus, or sooth in Ovid's vein.
I feel a Pity working in my Eyes,
When Desdemona by Othello dyes.
When I view Brutus in his Dress appear,
I know not how to call him too severe.
His rigid Vertue there attones for all,
And makes a Sacrifice of Cæsar's Fall.

193

Nature work'd Wonders then; when Shakespear dy'd

Cowley.

Her Cowley rose, drest in her gaudy Pride.
So from great Ruins a new Life she calls,
And Builds an

Ovid was born the same year in which Cicero dy'd.

Ovid when a Tully Falls.

With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings,
And David's Toils in David's numbers Sings?
Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves,
His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves.
Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear,
Hermits may read them to a Virgin's Ear.
Unstoln Promethean Fire informs his Song,
Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong.
His Wit, unfathom'd, has a fresh Supply,
Is always flowing out, but never Dry.

194

Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought,
Unjustly is imputed for a Fault.
A Spirit, that is unconfin'd and free,
Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea.
Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain
Presuming Xerxes shall pretend to Reign,
And on the flitting Air impose his pond'rous Chain.

Hail English Swan? for You alone could dare
With well pois'd Pinions tempt th' unbounded Air:
And to your Lute Pindaric Numbers call,
Nor fear the Danger of a threatned Fall.
O had You liv'd to Waller's Reverend Age,
Better'd your Measures, and reform'd your Page!

195

Then Britain's Isle might raise her Trophies high,
And Solid Rome, or Witty Greece outvy.
The Rhine, the Tyber, and Parisian Sein,
When e're they pay their Tribute to the Main,
Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse,
Than gentle Cowley's never dying Verse.
The Thames should sweep his briny way before,
And with his Name salute each distant Shore.

Then You, like Glorious Milton, had been known

Milton.

To Lands which Conquest has insur'd our Own.
Milton! whose Muse Kisses th'embroider'd Skies,
While Earth below grows little, as She Flies.
Thro' trackless Air she bends her winding Flight,
Far as the Confines of retreating Light.
Tells the findg'd Moor, how scepter'd Death began
His Lengthning Empire o'er offending Man.

196

Unteaches conquer'd Nations to Rebel,
By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell.

Now Seraphs crown'd with Helmets I behold,
Helmets of Substance more refin'd than Gold:
The Skies with an united Lustre shine,
And Face to Face th'Immortal Armies joyn.
God's plated Son, Majestically gay,
Urges his Chariot thro' the Chrystal-Way
Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders, as he Flies,
Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his Eyes.
O'er Heav'ns wide Arch the routed Squadrons Rore,
And transfix'd Angels groan upon the Diamond-Floor.
Then, wheeling from Olympus Snowy top,
Thro' the scorch'd Air the giddy Leaders drop

197

Down to th' Abyss of their allotted Hell,
And gaze on the lost Skies from whence they Fell.

I see the Fiend, who tumbled from his Sphere
Once by the Victor God, begins to fear
New Lightning, and a Second Thunderer.
I hear him Yell, and argue with the Skies,
Was't not enough, Relentless Power! he cries,
Despair of better state, and loss of Light
Irreparable? Was not loathsom Night
And ever-during Dark sufficient Pain,
But Man must Triumph, by our Fall to Reign,
And Register the Fate which we Sustain?
Hence Hell is doubly Ours: Almighty Name
Hence, after Thine, we feel the Poet's Flame
And in Immortal Song renew Reviving shame.

198

O Soul Seraphick, teach us how we may
Thy Praise adapted to thy Worth display,
For who can Merit more? or who enough can Pay?
Earth was unworthy Your aspiring View,
Sublimer Objects were reserv'd for You.
Thence Nothing mean obtrudes on Your Design,
Your Style is equal to Your Theme Divine,
All Heavenly great, and more than Masculine.
Tho' neither Vernal Bloom, nor Summer's Rose
Their op'ning Beauties could to Thee disclose.
Tho' Nature's curious Characters, which we
Exactly view, were all eras'd to Thee.
Yet Heav'n stood Witness to Thy piercing sight,
Below was Darkness, but Above was Light:
Thy Soul was Brightness all; nor would it stay
In nether Night, and such a want of Day.

199

But wing'd aloft from sordid Earth retires
To upper Glory, and its kindred-Fires:
Like an unhooded Hawk, who, loose to Prey,
With open Eyes pursues th' Ethereal Way.
There, Happy Soul, assume thy destin'd Place,
And in yon Sphere begin thy glorious Race:
Or, if amongst the Laurel'd Heads there be
A Mansion in the Skies reserv'd for Thee,
There Ruler of thy Orb aloft appear,
And rowl with Homer in the brightest Sphere;
To whom Calliope has joyn'd thy Name,
And recompens'd thy Fortunes with his Fame.

Tho' She (forgive our freedom) sometimes Flows
In Lines too Rugged, and akin to Prose.
Verse with a lively smoothness should be Wrote,
When room is granted to the Speech and Thought.

200

Like some fair Planet, the Majestick Song
Should gently move, and sparkle as it rowls along.
Like Waller's Muse, who tho' inchain'd by Rhime,
Taught wondring Poets to keep even Chime.
His Praise inflames my breast, and should be shown
In Numbers sweet and Courtly as his Own.
Who no unmanly Turns of Thought pursues,
Rash Errours of an injudicious Muse.
Such Wit, like Lightning, for a while looks Gay,
Just gilds the Place, and vanishes away.
In one continu'd blaze He upwards sprung,
Like those Seraphick flames of which He Sung.
If, Cromwel, he laments thy Mighty Fall
Nature attending Weeps at the Great Funeral.

201

Or if his Muse with joyful Triumph brings
the Monarch to His Ancient Throne, or Sings
Batavians worsted on the Conquer'd Main,
Fleets flying, and advent'rous Opdam Slain,
Then Rome and Athens to his Song repair
With British Graces smiling on his Care,
Divinely charming in a Dress so Fair.
As Squadrons in well-Marshal'd order fill
The Flandrian Plains, and speak no vulgar Skill;
So Rank'd is every Line, each Sentence such,
No Word is wanting, and no Word's too much.
As Pearls in Gold with their own Lustre Shine,
The Substance precious, and the Work Divine:
So did his Words his Beauteous Thoughts in chase,
Both shone and sparkled with unborrow'd Grace,
A mighty Value in a little Space.

202

So the Venusian Clio sung of Old,
When lofty Acts in well-chose Phrase he told.
But Rome's aspiring Lyrick pleas'd us less,
Sung not so moving, tho' with more Success.
O Sacharissa, what could steel thy Breast,
To Rob Harmonious Waller of his Rest?
To send him Murm'ring thro' the Cypress-Grove,
In strains lamenting his neglected Love.
Th' attentive Forest did his Grief partake,
And Sympathizing Oakstheir knotted Branches shake.
Each Nymph, tho' Coy, to Pity would incline;
And every stubborn Heart was mov'd, but Thine.
Henceforth be Thou to future Ages known;
Like Niobe, a Monument of Stone.

Here could I dwell, like Bees on Flowry Dew,
And Waller's praise Eternally pursue,

203

Could I, like Him, in Harmony excel,
So sweetly strike the Lute, and Sing so Well.

But now the forward Muse converts her Eye
To see where Denham, and Roscommon fly,
Cautiously daring, and correctly High.
Both chief in Honour, and in Learning's Grace,
Of Ancient Spirit, and of Ancient Race.
Who, when withdrawn from Business, and Affairs,
Their Minds unloaded of tormenting Cares,
With soothing Verse deceiv'd the sliding Time,
And, unrewarded, Sung in Noble Rhyme.
Not like those Venal Bards, who Write for Pence,
Above the Vulgar were their Names and Sense.
The Critick judges what the Muse indites,
And Rules for Dryden, like a Dryden, Writes.
'Tis true their Lamps were of the smallest Size,
But like the

Epictatus

Stoicks, of prodigious Price.

204

Roscommon's Rules shall o'er our Isle be Read,
Nor Dye, till Poetry itself be Dead.
Fam'd Cooper's Hill shall, like Parnassus, stand,
And Denham reign, the Phœbus of the Land.

Among these sacred and immortal Names,

Oldham.

A Youth glares out, and his just Honour claims;
See circling Flames, in stead of Laurel, play
Around his Head, and Sun the brighten'd Way.
But misty Clouds of unexpected Night,
Cast their black Mantle o'er th' immoderate Light.
Here, pious Muse, lament a While; 'tis just
We pay some Tribute to his sacred Dust.
O'er his fresh Marble strow the fading Rose
And Lilly, for his Youth resembled those.
The brooding Sun took care to dress him Gay,
In all the Trappings of the flowry May.

205

He set him out unsufferably bright,
And sow'd in every part his beamy Light
Th' unfinish'd Poet budded forth too soon,
For what the Morning warm'd, was scorch'd at Noon.

His careless Lines plain Nature's Rules obey,
Like Satyrs Rough, but not Deform'd as they.
His Sense undrest, like Adam, free from Blame,
Without his Cloathing, and without his Shame.
True Wit requires no Ornaments of skill,
A Beauty naked, is a Beauty still.

Warm'd with just Rage he lash'd the Romish Crimes,
In rugged Satyr and ill-sounding Rhymes.
All Italy felt his imbitter'd Tongue,
And trembled less when sharp Lucilius Stung.

206

Here let us pass in Silence, nor accuse
Th' extravagance of his Unhallow'd Muse.
In Jordan's stream she wash'd the tainted Sore,
And rose more Beauteous than She was before.

Then Fancy curb'd began to Cool her Rage,
And Sparks of Judgment glimmer'd in his Page,
When the wild Fury did his Breast inspire,
She rav'd, and set the Little World on Fire.
Thus Lee by Reason strove not to controul

Lee.

That powerful heat which o'er-inform'd his Soul.
He took his swing, and Nature's bounds surpast,
Stretch'd her, and bent her, till she broke at last.
I scorn to Flatter, or the Dead defame;
But who will call a Blaze a Lambent Flame?

Terrour and Pity are allow'd to be,
The moving parts of Tragic Poetry.

207

If Pity sooths us, Otway claims our Praise.

Otway.

If Terrour strikes, then Lee deserves the Bays.
We grant a Genius shines in Jaffeir's Part,
And Roman Brutus speaks a Master's Art.
But still we often Mourn to see their Phrase
An Earthly Vapour, or a Mounting Blaze.
A rising Meteor never was design'd,
T'amaze the sober part of Human kind.
Were I to write for Fame, I would not chuse
A Prostitute and Mercenary Muse.
Which for poor Gains must in rich Trappings go,
Emptily Gay, magnificently Low,
Like Ancient Rome's Religion, Sacrifice and Show.
Things fashion'd for amusement and surprize,
Ne'er move the Head, tho' they divert the Eyes.
The Mouthing Actors well-dissembled Rage,
May please the Young Sir Foplings on the Stage.

208

But, disingag'd, the swelling Phrase I find
Like Spencer's Giant sunk away in Wind.
It grates judicious Readers when they meet
Nothing but jingling Verse, and even Feet.
Such false, such counterfeited Wings as these,
Forsake th' unguided Boy, and plunge him in the Seas.
Lee aim'd to rise above great Dryden's Height,
But lofty Dryden keeps a steddy Elight.

Dryden.

Like Dædalus, he times with prudent Care
His well-wax'd Wings, and Waves in Middle Air.
The Native Spark, which first advanc'd his Name,
By Industry he kindled to a Flame.
The proper Phrase of our exalted Tongue
To such Perfection from his Numbers sprung.
His Tropes continu'd, and his Figures fine,
All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine.

209

His Images so strong and lively be,
I hear not Words alon but Substance see
Adapted Speech, and just Expressions move
Our various Passions, Pity, Rage and Love.
I weep to hear fond Anthony complain
In Shakespear's Fancy, but in Virgil's Strain.

Tho' for the Comick, others we prefer,

See Preface to Aurengzebe.

Himself the Judge; nor do's his Judgment Err.
But Comedy, 'tis Thought, can never claim
The sounding Title of a Poem's Name.
For Raillery, and what creates a Smile.
Betrays no lofty Genius, nor a Style.
That Heav'nly Heat refuses to be seen
In a Town-Character and Comick Mien.

210

If we woold do him right, we must produce
The Sophoclean Buskin; when his Muse
With her loud Accents fills the List'ning Ear,
And Peals applauding shake the Theater.

They fondly seek, Great Name, to blast thy Praise,
Who think that Foreign: Thanks produc'd thy
Is he oblig'd to France, who draws from thence
By English Energy, their Captive Sense?
Tho' Edward and fam'd Henry Warr'd in vain,
Subduing what they could not long retain:
Yet now beyond our Arms the Muse prevails,
And Poets Conquer where the Hero falls.

211

This does superiour excellence betray;
O could I Write in thy Immortal Way!
If Art be Nature's Scholar, and can make.
Such vast improvements, Nature must forsake
Her Ancient Style; and in some grand Design
She must her Own Originals decline,
And for the Noblest Copies follow Thine.
Pardon this just transition to thy Praise,
Which Young Thalia sung in Rural Lays.

As Sleep to weary Drovers on the Plain
As a sweet River to a thirsty Swain,
Such Tityrus's charming Number show,
Please like the River, like the River flow.
When his first Years in mighty Order ran,
And cradled Infancy bespoke the Man,

212

Around his Lips the Waxen Artists hung,
And drop'd ambrosial Dew upon his Tongue.
Then from his Mouth harmonious Numbers broke,
More sweet than Honey from a hollow Oke.
Pleasant as streams which from a Mountain Glide,
Yet lofty as the Top from whence they slide.
Long He possest th' Hereditary Plains,
Admir'd by all the Herdsmen and the Swains.
Till he resign'd his Flock, opprest with cares,
Weaken'd by num'rous Woes, and grey with Years.
Yet still, like Ætna's Mount, he kept his Fire,
And look'd like beauteous Roses on a Brier.
He smil'd, like Phœbus in a Stormy Morn,
And sung, like Philomel against a Thorn.

213

Here Syren of sweet Poesy, receive
That little praise my unkown Muse can give,
Thou shalt immortal be, no Censure fear
Tho' angry B***more in Heroicks jeer.

A Bard, who seems to challenge Virgil's Flame,
And would be next in Majesty and Name.
With lofty Maro he at first may please;
The Righteous Briton rises by degrees.
But once on Wing, thro' secret Paths he rows,
And leaves his Guide, or follows him too close,
The Mantuan Swan keeps a soft gentle Flight,
Is always Tow'ring, but still Plays in Sight.
Calm and Serene his Verse; his active Song
Runs smooth as Thames's River, and as strong
Like his own Neptune he the Waves confines,
While Bl---re rumbles, like the King of Winds.

214

His flat Descriptions, void of Manly Strength,
Jade out our Patience with excessive length.
While Readers, Yawning o'er his Arthurs, see
Whole Pages spun on one poor Simile.
We grant he labours with no want of Brains,
Or Fire, or Spirit; but He spares the Pains,
One happy Thought, or two, may at a Heat
Be struck, but Time and Study must compleat
A Verse, sublimely Good, and justly Great.
It call'd for an Omnipotence to raise
The World's Imperial Poem in Six Days,
But Man, that offspring of corrupting Clay,
Subject to Err, and Subject to Decay:
In Hopes, Desires, Will, Power, a numerous Train,
Uncertain, Fickle, Impotent and Vain:
Must tire the Heav'nly Muse with endless Prayer,
And call the smiling Angels to his care.

215

Must sleep less Nights, Vulcanian Labours prove,
Like Cyclops, forging Thunder for a Jove.
With Flame begin thy Glorious Thoughts and Style,
Then Cool, and bring them to the smoothing File.
If You design to make Your Prince appear
As perfect as Humanity can bear.
Whom Vertues at th' expence of Danger please,
Deaf to the Syrens of alluring ease.
No Terrours Thee, Achilles, could invade,
Nor Thee, Ulysses, any Charms persuade.
This must be done, if Poets would be Read,
Who seek to emulate the Sacred Dead.

Thus in bright Numbers and well polish'd Strains
Virgilian Addison describes Campaigns.

216

Whose Verse, like a proportion'd Man, we find,
Not of the Gyant, nor the Pigmy kind.
Such Symmetry appears o'er all the Song,
Lofty with justness, and with Caution strong.

This Congreve follows in his Deathless Line,
And the Tenth Hand is put to the Design.
The Happy boldness of his Finish'd Toil
Claims more than Shakespear's Wit, or Johnson's Oil.
Sing on, Harmonious Swan, in weeping strains,
And tell Pastora's Death to mournful Swains.
Or with more pleasing Charms, with softer Airs
Sweeten our Passions, and delude our Cares.
Or let thy Satyr grin with half a Smile,
And jeer in Easy Etherege's Style.
Let Manly Wycherly chalk out the Way,
And Art direct, where Nature goes astray.

217

'Tis not for Thee to Write of Conqu'ring Kings,
The Noise, of Arms will break thy Am'rous Strings.
The Teian Muse invites Thee from above
To lay Thy Trumpet down, and sing of Love,
Let MONTAGUE describe Boyn's swelling Flood
And purple Streams scented with Hostile Blood.
O Heavenly Patron of the needy Muse
Whose powerful Name can nobler heat infuse,
When You Nassau's bright Action's dar'd to see,
You was the Eagle, and Apollo He.
But when He read You, and Your Valne knew,
He was the Eagle, and Apollo You.
Both spoke the Bird in her Æthereal height,
The Majesty was His, and Thine the Flight.
Both did Apollo in His Glory shew,
The Silver Harp was Thine, and His the Bow,

218

So may Tierian Clio cease to fear,
When Honour deigns to sing, and Majesty to hear!
So may she favour'd live, and always please
Our Dorset's, and Judicious Normandy's!

Nor does the Coronet alone defend
The Muses Cause The Miter is Her Friend,
Can we forget how Damon's lofty Tongue
Shook the glad Mountains? how the Valleys rung
When Rochester's Seraphick Shepherd Sung.
How Mars and Pallas wept to see the Day
When Athens by a Plague dispeopled lay
What Learning perish'd, and what Lives it cost!
Sung with more Spirit than all Athens lost.
Nor can the Miter now conceal the Bays,
For still we view the Sacred Poet's praise.

219

So tho' Ertaanus becomes a Star
Exalted to the Skies, and shines afar,
Below he loses nothing but his Name,
Still faithful to his Banks, his Streams the same.

But smile, my Muse, once more upon my Song,
Let Creech be numbred with the Sacred Throng:
Whose daring Muse could with Manilius fly,
And, like an Atlas, shoulder up the Sky.
He's mounted, where no vulgar Eye can trace
His Wondrous footsteps and mysterious race.
See, how He walks above in mighty strains,
And wanders o'er the wide Ethereal Plains!
He sings what Harmony the Spheres obey,
In Verse more tuneful, and more sweet than they.

'Tis cause of Triumph, when Rome's Genius shines
In nervous English, and well-worded Lines.

220

Two Famous

Lucretius and Manilius

Latins our bright Tongue adorn,
And a new

Mr. Dryden's Virgil.

Virgil is in England born.
An Æneid to translate, and make a new,
Are Tasks of equal Labour to pursue.

For tho' th' Invention of a Godlike Mind
Excels the Works of Nature, and Mankind;
Yet a well languag'd Version will require
An equal Genius, and as strong a Fire.
These claim at once our Study and our Praise,
Fam'd for the Dignity of Sense and Phrase.
These gainful to the Stationer, shall stand
At Paul's or Cornhill, Fleetstreet or the Strand.
Shall wander far and near, and cross the Seas,
An Ornament to Foreign Libraries.

Hail; Glorious Titles! who have been my Theme!
O could I write so well as I esteem!

221

From her low Nest my humble Soul shou'd rise
As a young Phœnix out of Ashes flies.
Above what France or Italy can shew,
The Celebrated Tasso, or Boileau.

Come You, where'er you be, who seek to find
Something to pleasure, and instruct your Mind:
If, when retir'd from Bus'ness, or from Men,
You love the Labour'd Travels of the Pen:
Imploy the Minutes of your vacant Time
On Cowley, or on Dryden's useful Rhyme:
Or whom besides of all the Tribe you chuse,
The Tragick, Lyrick, or Heroick Muse:
For they, if well observ'd, will strictly shew
In Charming Numbers, what is false, what true,
And teach more good than Hobbs or Lock can do.

Hail, ye Poetick Dead, who wander now
In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow.

222

Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate,
Ye blest Partakers of a happier State
Whether Intomb'd with English Kings you sleep,
Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep:
There, on each Dawning of the tender Day,
May Tuneful Birds their pious Off'rings pay!
There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume
The hallow'd Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb.

While You, who live, no frowning Tempest fear,
Sing on; let Montague and Dorset hear.
In Stately Verse let William's Praise be told,
WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold.
No more of Richelieu's Worth: Forget not, Fame,
To change Augustus for Great William's Name.
Who, tho' like Homer's Jupiter, he sate,
Musing on something eminently great
And ballanc'd in his Mind the World's important Fate;

223

Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears
The loud sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years.
Whether this Praise to Stepny's Muse belong
Or Prior claim it for Pindarick Song.
The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd;
And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd.
The double Vertue of Nassovian Fire
At once the Soldier and the Bard inspite.
The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung
A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung,
When Mars has Acted, or when Phœbus Sung.

O cou'd my Muse reach Milton's tow'ring Flight,
Or stretch her Wings to the Mœonian Height!
Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse
His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse.
The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame,
And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name.

224

But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb,
Not weary'd with his Praise, but overcome.
Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can trace
The Matchless Glories of his Princely Race?
What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise?
No Land but Britain, must pretend to shine
With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line.
So may this Island a new Delos prove,
Joyn

The Duke of Gloucester. Here the Author laments he prov'd so bad a Prophet.

Young Apollo to the Cretan Jove!
What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of future Fame!
How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly Flame!
How swiftly Gloster in his Bud began!
How the Green Hero blossoms into Man
Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honours Charms,
To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms:
See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War!
Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar.

225

What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy They
Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day!
Edwards and Harry's to his Eyes appear
In Warlike form, and shake the glitt'ring Spear.
At Agincourt so terrible they stood,
So when Pictavian Fields were dy'd with Blood.
The Royal Youth with Emulation glows,
And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes.
Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky,
Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly.
O'er England's Hopes their flaming Swords they hold,
And wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old.
Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep,
But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep.
Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread,
Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed,
Defend the Sacred Youth's Imperial Head.

226

After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate,
The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait.
The Streams of Thamisis, exulting, Ring,
When fair Augusta's lofty Clio's Sing
Granta and Rhedycina's Tuneful Throng
Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song.

Live, Heav'nly Youth, beyond invidious Time,
Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme.
Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure,
Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure.
But on thy Fame no envious spots shall prey,
Till English Sense and Valour shall decay.
Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow,
Or Cam or Isis shall forget to Flow.

227

A POEM.

Occasion'd by the late Victories obtain'd over the French and Bavarians by the Forces of the Allies, under the Command of his Grace the Duke of MARLBOROUGH.

------ Victoria nulla
Clarior, aut Hominum votis optatior unquam
Contigit. ------
Claudian.

Scarce had we time allow'd our Thanks to yield,
For bloody Schellenberg's Victorious Field,
When Heav'n, resolving ANNA's Arms to bless,
Our Joys continu'd with a new Success.
Conquests on Conquests crowded in so fast;
The First were Brave, but Godlike were the Last.

228

The former Glories, which Fame lately sung,
When Donawert thro' German Vallies rung,
In dying Sounds now languish'd on her Tongue.

What Muse, delighted in Wars loud Alarms,
Will pay an Iliad to the British Arms?
Who will erect a Temple? Who will raise
An Altar, sacred to the General's Praise?
Honours, like These, were by Old Romans paid,
To the vain Shadows of the useless Dead.
Cæsarean Souls, from Fun'ral Piles, above
Thus soar'd, on Eagles, to their Fabled Jove.
The Roman Bird may now more justly fly,
Bear back the well-us'd Thunder to the Sky,
And, whilst Alive, the Hero Deify.

Should some kind Muse, with a Pierian rage,
Inflame my Breast, and consecrate my Page,
Or would propitious Churchill deign to shine
On my low Thought, and brighten every Line:

229

Not Egypt's Pyramid should mine surpass,
Like Marble polish'd, and more strong than Brass:
The well built Monument of lasting Rhyme,
Should scorn the Impotence of Fire and Time.

Hast, Goddess, then, for conqu'ring Garlands go
To bind th'immortal Brows of MARLBOROUGH.
To Granic Banks, or where Hydaspes shore
On his last Elephant stout Porus bore,
(To grace the Honours of this Day) repair,
And snatch Pellœan Ivy springing there.
Let Rubicon her Julian Palms resign,
Nor spare Nassovian Laurels on the Boyne.
For these Danubius, and her Rivers call;
Insatiate Triumph! to demand them All.

Nor should we Justice, due to Valour, pay,
If less were offer'd for that Glorious Day;
When Albion's Queen, with one deciding Stroke,
The Germans rescu'd from the Gallick Yoke.

230

She sent a Hero to release their Fears,
And brake th' Inchantment of twice Thirty Years,
She loos'd the Charms of the Borbonian Dream,
And ravel'd Richlieu's Universal Scheme.

For now was France swoln to so vast a size,
That with heap'd Provinces she brav'd the Skies.
And, looking Evil, stretch'd at monstrous length
Her bulky Body of prodigious strength.
Like that huge Serpent, in wild Libya nurst,
Abhorr'd by Heav'n, by Earth, his Parent, curst.
Which Monarch Lions of their Thrones displac'd,
While a tame Terrour their rough Brows disgrac'd
Which could the force of Regulus employ,
And, single, ask whole Legions to destroy.
Pil'd on himself, in hundred Folds he stood,
And then, projected o'er the Neighb'ring Flood,
Some from the farthest Banks the Monste rdrew,
And some, confiding to the River, flew.

231

The Sun, amaz'd, withdrew his trembling Light,
And Clouds flew back at the portentous sight.

Such was the Haughty Gaull His Reach so long,
His windings various, and his Venom strong.
With double strength for all events prepar'd,
No Arms he wanted, and no Arts he spar'd.
Phœbus beheld his Reign, wher'ere he rowl'd,
O'er Rocks of Diamond, and o'er Mines of Gold.
These to his Crown ravish'd Iberia gave,
Destructive Trophies of the Indian Grave!
His Power and Wealth to forreign States prescrib'd,
With This he threaten'd, and with That he brib'd.
And to disguise the Cheat, he would Exclaim
On Saints, on Angels, and th' Eternal Name.
But none were found so slavish and unjust,
To take his Presents, or his Oaths to trust,

232

Except Bavaria's Duke: Ah! fondly blind,
Of credulous, and mercenary Mind.
Are Princes bought so cheap? Is Honour sold,
Like Merchandise, at the poor price of Gold?
Think you French Gifts are true? Is Lewis grown
Besotted lately, and no better known?

Say, does thy folly drive thee, or thy Fate,
To tempt Great ANNA's wrath, and England's hate?
Can Thee, nor Conscience bind, nor Kindness move?
No Ties of Duty? And no Charms of Love?
Deaf to safe Counsel, and each tender Call,
And blind to Cologn's late instructive Fall.

Yet we must do him Justice, and confess
His Courage signal, nor his Conduct less.
Who skill'd in Stratagem, in Battle brave,
Could Fighting conquer, or Retreating save.
ULM felt his subtil Arts, and Ratisbon saw
Her Town submitted to Bavarian Law.

233

Then from the Gallick Shore a furious Blast
Urg'd on the wild Combustion, as it past.
In rowling Flames now frighted Suabia burns,
And Psullendorf her Fate in Ashes mourns.
Then to Franconian Walls the gathering Blaze
Begins to travel: Austria with Amaze
Sees its luxuriant March: Vienna soon
(Which had so oft eclips'd the Turkish Moon)
Th' Alarum took; and fear'd the Christian more
Than Solyman, or Mahomet before.
So Pride and Perjury can Empires rend,
This grants no Equal, and that spares no Friend.

To whom for Succour shall th' Afflicted go?
Shall Cæsar's Successor precarious grow?
Shall Leopold on his own Force rely?
'Twere vain to fight; and 'tis as base to fly.

234

This rouz'd the Reverend Genius of the West,
Who long in Secret, from his lab'ring Breast,
Deep Sighs and Groans, not human, had exprest.
Where'er he look'd, Death and Confusion reign'd,
Old Mother Earth of her rude Sons complain'd,
Who her kind Bosom with their Blood distain'd.
Rivers, discolour'd, to the Ocean bore
Europe's Disgrace, in Streams of Christian Gore,
A Joy to Turks, and each Barbarian Shore.
Who can our Ruin and Distraction tell?
Here Polish, there Hungarian Lords rebel.
On this side Savoy is by France annoy'd,
On that the Empire, only not destroy'd.

Here Grief and Pity from the Genius drew
Tears, such as mourning Angels Eyes bedew.
His Hands to Heav'n up lifting, and his Head
Low bowing, thus the hoary Guardian pray'd.

235

O Thou supream Director of Affairs,
In Heav'n and Earth, attend thy Suppliant's Pray'rs!
Creator! Thunderer! Redeemer! hear;
If e'er my Services have been sincere.
If e'er with Joy I hasten'd to fulfil
Thy just Commands, and execute thy Will,

Thou dost the jarring Elements refrain,
And bind them fast with thy Eternal Chain.
Insulting Seas their ancient Duty know,
Keep within Limits, and no farther flow.
But Man, incroaching on his Neighbour's Right,
Breeds dire Dissention, and perpetual Spight.
What thousands by the greedy Sword have dy'd;
A Sacrifice to Treason, or to Pride?
Discord usurps my Europæan Charge,
Lives absolute below, and rules at large.

236

How long shall Saints beneath thy Altar pray,
For swift Revenge? How long wilt thou delay
Legions of Angels are at thy Command;
But thou art Greater in a weaker Hand.
Say what Diviner Mortal wilt thou chuse
To act thy Vengeance, and thy Power to use?
Pity the poor Remains of Human Kind;
Thou art all Eye; O, seem no longer blind!
No more be pleas'd to wink at Man's Offence,
But thunder, and Absolve thy Providence.

His Prayers tow'rd Heaven, like pointed Arrows, flew,
And from the Heart of God Compassion drew.
Besides young Raphael on his Wings had born,
(Each dewy Eve, and each returning Morn,)
The warmest Breathings of a Soul serene,
And purest Wishes of an English QUEEN:

237

Th' Almighty Mind saw, and was griev'd to see;
(As far as Grief can touch the Deity)
His Arm, extended, held a Lightning Storm,
Not such as Clouds from clashing Vapours form,
But such as Heav'nly Wrath is us'd to throw
On human Crimes, and Perjuries below.
When his loud Horses, through the clearest Sky,
His rattling Chariot draw, and Thunder, as they fly.
Then shaking Heav'n around; Yes, we will Rise,
Said God, nor longer our just Wrath disguise:
No more shall impious, unreflecting Clay
Upbraid our fix'd Resolves, and wise Delay.
Through the thick Veil of Flesh can Mortals spy,
The secret Paths of dark Futurity?
No; tho' the Lords of Earth presume to think
Their Actions just, because we please to Wink.
Vain Glow-Worms of Mankind? Poor, scepter'd Dust!

238

Are we not God? And can We be unjust?
The time is come, which shall our Vengeance show,
And a weak Hand, unseen, shall give the Blow
Bleinheim will come, Danubius will convince
Thy Vanity; it will, Borbonian Prince?
Now to the Stars thy tow'ring Babel rear;
But for Confusion, and a Fall, prepare.

He said, and calling an unhappy Fate,
(For two of different Natures round him wait;
This rob'd in silver Rays, all milky White;
That more deform'd and fowler to the Sight,
Than blackest Scenes of the dishonest Night.)
Begone, said God, to France, false Angel, go,
Where Princes wait the Monarch's Nod below,
Fly; we permit Thee to deceive and blind,
With Visionary Glory, his Ambitious Mind.

239

As soon as spoke, the Spirit takes its Flight,
Chasing away the Stars propitious Light;
And with his sooty Form improves the horrid Night.
At the Versalian Dome he stopp'd, and took
The Shape of Mazarine's dissembling Look.
Unseen, at last the slumbring King he found,
In vain with wakeful Guards encompass'd round:
To banish from his Thoughts intruding Care,
And frightful Fancies, which his Conscience tear.
With soothing Words, well practis'd in Deceit,
He gilded thus the Venerable Cheat.

Sleep'st thou vast Soul of the Borbonian Line?
Thou Labour of projecting Mazarine!
Do Princes, who sustain a Nation's Weight,
Thus aim to Rise, and study to be Great?

240

Thus dost Thou Fame persue? Whose ominous Birth
Presag'd new Empire to th' astonish'd Earth.
Young smiling Angels blest thy Infant Bed,
And Lambent Glory shone round the World's promis'd Head.
Thy springing Fortunes Heav'n reserv'd for Me,
To polish and improve the Prodigy.
With Blood of Hereticks I quench'd the Flame
Which shook the steddy Fabrick of thy Fame.
By Me it stood: I taught the Gallick Shore
To eccho the curst Hugonot no more.
What then I did, e'er Fate had cut my Thread,
Believe my Ghost contriving with the Dead.

For thee I left Those happy Plains above,
To testify my Duty and my Love,
And on thy Triumphs wait—Believe the Call
Of Heav'n and Mazarine; 'tis destin'd All

241

What I relate; and God with sure Success,
Thy Fleet will Favour, and thy Armies Bless.
Prepare thy Navy, ev'ry Sail advance,
For so must stuborn Albion bow to France.
Angels attend thy Flags; behold, the Sea
No longer doubts who shall her Sov'reign be.
Behold thy Squadron hoisting for the Shore
O'er shatter'd Planks, thro' Waves of British Gore.
Nor let thy Marshals linger on the Rhine,
On the Danubian Banks prepare to join
With Succour, thy Bavarian Friend, and Mine.
What? Dost thou fear? Who can thy Troops oppose?
Can tardy Germans or dull Holland Foes?
Can giddy England wish a conqu'ring Field,
In Councils heady, and in Arms unskill'd?
In vain for new Plantagenets they look;
Of Edwards, Harrys, and of God forsook.

242

Think'st thou that Heav'n designs his high Command,
And Reins of Empire for a Woman's Hand?
A feeble Queen? Away, ungenerous Thought!
Art Thou My Lewis, and no better taught?
Still dost thou snore supine? Up, Glory cries;
If e'er the Charms of Empire mov'd thee, Rise!
Now, now, ascend thy Universal Throne!
For Heav'n has said it, and the World's thy Own.

At this the Monarch started from his Bed:
Sleep left his Eyes, and the Delusion fled.
Stay, Heav'nly Vision!—Thrice in vain he spoke,
For into Air the lying Fantome broke.
Yet still amus'd, and to Belief inclin'd
Of Glories, promis'd to his grasping Mind,
He smil'd: Imagin'd Scenes of Triumph spread
Youth thro' his Limbs; and the beguiling Shade,

243

Like Homer's Pallas, had inlarg'd his Size;
Reviving Nature, with renew'd Supplies,
Sprung thro' his wither'd Veins, and sparkled in his Eyes.
Now Italy, now Holland he devours,
Now the Britannick, and the German Powers.
In one Campaign he now pretends to sweep
What Baden in hard Fields was us'd to reap;
And Eugene's Latian Harvests pile on his triumphant Heap.

A Council call'd, what in his Dream he heard,
The King relates; How Mazarine appear'd.
Some, not too credulous, advise to use
His Ancient Fraud, and with known Arts amuse.
Others devoted to the Vision's Call,
Think it no Dream, but Revelation all.
Villars, Marsin, Villeroy, and Tallard move
For Battle: This the Monarch does approve.

244

Little he thought our Valour dar'd to roam,
Beyond our pleasant Fields and Native Home.
That on far Banks we would our Standards bear,
And wave our Colours in a German Air.
Had he forgot, what ancient Poets told,
How Scipio punish'd Perjury of Old?
Tho Fabius, willing to prolong his stay,
Pleads his once cautious, fortunate Delay.
Yet Victory whose Wings are us'd to fly,
Nor always hover in a Middle Sky,
Bears the young Hero, to the Puniek Shores,
Removes the War, and Italy restores.

Mean time the Duke, who for two long Campaigns
Had gain'd dry Conquests on the Flandrian Plains,
Now with swift Marches had the Neckar past:
Winds follow'd him, and scarce o'er-took at last.

245

Tallar'd looks around, astonish'd; Where he cries,
Where were the Mouths of Fame? Where Argus Eyes?
Those hundred Eyes, with which my Master sees
All Princes Counsels, were they blind to These?
O Fame, with list'ning Ears thou once wert hung;
Why were they deaf? Why silent ev'ry Tongue?
Is England SECRET grown? And then a Sigh,
Presaging, whisper'd that his Fall was nigh.
He eat his valiant Heart to see the Prey
He thought his own, so bravely snatch'd away.
With Doubts bewildred, angrily he stood,
And swell'd in vain: As in some Libyan Wood,
When a fell Tyger has a Bull in Chase,
A Lyon rushes, and retards his pace;
To nobler Teeth forc'd to resign the Prize;
He spurns the yellow Sand, and rends the Skies.

246

He growls, retiring with a feeble Rage,
Asham'd to fly, yet fearing to engage.

Now had the Moon twice wain'd; the fiery Sun
His crooked Race had thro' the Lion run,
While the Duke's Army, fortify'd to bear
The sultry Fury of the barking Star,
Five hundred Miles had with unwearied Feet
Measur'd, and cop'd with a whole Summer's Heat.
Tho' Thirst and Hunger call, yet none complain
Of the spoil'd Vineyard, or the pillag'd Grain.
Such Peace in Arms they to their Leader owe;
By His Example o'er sleep Hills they go,
And cross wide Rivers swifter than they flow.

As Bees, united in a Cluster, flock,
Tho separate People, from a hollow Rock;
So round him divers-speaking Nations came;
Their Language various, their Consent the same.

247

The Faithful Prussian, and the Hardy Dane,
The Valiant Hessian, with a smaller Train
Of Courages, to make the Wonderful Campaign.

And now behold two ready Armies meet,
Which, horrible to speak: in Thunder greet.
Be kind, ye Angels, who protect the State
Of Europe, and on Britain's Fortunes wait!
Spare not o'er MARLBOROUGH's important Head
Your Swords to brandish, and your Wings to spread:
For whom we pray, and tire the Power Above
With frequent Wishes for the Man We love;
For whom the tender Darling of his Breast
Sighs all the Day, and weeps the Stars to rest.
Who Fights abroad, while ANNA Prays at home,
And moves with Passion the Windsorian Dome:

248

For if she sighs, the Statues seem to groan;
And, at her Tears, hard Marbles sweat their own:
Concern and Greatness in her Looks are seen,
The Loving Mother, and Defending QUEEN.
Go, Muse, to ANNA, who thy Voice will hear,
Go, bid Her dry up ev'ry balmy Tear:
Tell how Her Arms all Europe have restor'd;
Tell how Her Pray'rs were stronger than the Sword.
Then to the Hero's lov'd Cornelia fly,
Relate the Schellenbergian Victory.
But speak no farther, lest the dreadful Name
Of pointed Cannon fright the lovely Dame.
Yet say, What Man thro' the thick Squadrons broke,
Smear'd with brave Dust and honourable Smoke;
Say how He Flames; as when some Town's on fire,
A lighted Beacon warns the Neighb'ring Shire.

249

The giddy Rout, this way and that way run,
Uncertain where to fly, or what to shun.
So fled the false Elector; conscious grown
His Neighbour's Fate preluded to his Own.
He throws around him a distracted Look:
Behind him follows the Victorious DUKE;
So close pursu'd, he would repent his Pride;
And bends, and wavers to the better side.
Then quickly changing his inconstant Mind,
He yeilds, like Osiers, to the Northern Wind.
When Tallard, strengthen'd with a num'rous Force
Of fresh Battalions, and of Houshold Horse,
Comes pouring like a Torrent; such a Host
Deserv'd our Swords; the best which France could boast.
He thought this Summer, like the last, would yeild
A plenteous Harvest, and an equal Field:

250

He dreamt new Laurels growing on his Brow,
And that chain'd Fortune was oblig'd to bow.

Now the two Armies were in Battle rang'd,
And Death for Death, with mutual Shot exchang'd.
The Sun had told Eights Hours, and just began
To number out the Ninth to weary Man:
While Heav'n, to weigh whose Valour must prevail,
Hung o'er the Warriours Heads the doubtful Scale;
Till a kind Angel came, and at the Throne
Of God, approaching, threw a Royal Groan.
Till pious Sighs, drawn deep from ANNA's Breast,
Our Fate decided, and the Ballance press'd.

Then EUGENE thrice repuls'd, with double might
Rebounded, like Antœus, to the Fight;
Reviving, as lopp'd Elms are us'd to grow
With second Youth, and flourish from the Blow.

251

The Fourth Attack to his Remembrance brought,
How he at CARPI and LUZARA fought.
How, nigh the Banks of Padus swelling Flood,
He dy'd Ausonian Fields with Gallick Blood.
Then Fame appear'd, and with her gilded Dart
Began to pierce the brave Italian's Heart;
Then might you see him, like a Lion, spring
With nimble Rage, on the Bavarian Wing,
Stung with new Praise, impatient of Delay;
Not Groves of Pikes, not Showers of Fire could stay
His Latian Fortunes: Now th' Elector flies,
And to the hollow Vales for refuge cries:
Then, with the Marshal, to the Woods retreats,
To hide that Shame which every Tree repeats.

Nor were we hindmost in the Course of Fame,
Nor with less Zeal pursu'd the Noble Game.

252

Our Left, as far as England's Sons could do,
Copy'd their Great Original in View:
Who, with his Sword, where thickest Troops ingage,
Leaves bloody Footsteps of his manly Rage.
Then for new Glory does Occasion seek,
Rallies the Routed, and Recruits the Weak.
Watchful as Eagles, when a Danger's nigh,
As quick to see it, and as swift to fly:
As brave to dare, still constant in Success;
Great in his Presence, nor in Absence less.
As Leda's Son, conceal'd from mortal Sight,
Still shines in Consort with Fraternal Light;
So in his Brother is the DUKE the same,
And Fortune flies if she hear CHURCHILL's Name.

253

Go, Muse, and hail him; From BLEINHEIM he comes;
Hark! how the heartning Trumpets and the Drums
Sound him Victorious! see! pale Generals yeild
Their Thousands to the Genius of the Field.
Gowram is there, and from his heap of Spoils,
Looks down, and smiles on thy officious Toils.
To him resign up thy Parnassian Care;
In Mars and Thee, he has the largest Share:
Scarce can we know in which he does excel,
So bravely will he Fight, and Sing so well.
Should kind Bellona so much leisure give,
(If in his Verse they could obtain to live)
Heroes contented would receive their Doom,
And march unmourn'd, and joyful to the Tomb.

Now go, where Death, upon the smoky Plain,
Grins, eminent o'er Mountains of the Slain;

254

There sure, and only there, may WOOD be found,
With Blood and Carcasses incompass'd round:
WOOd us'd to Danger, but unus'd to fear,
Equal as Justice, and as Truth sincere.
No braver Man e'er drew an English Sword,
None truer to his Country, and his Word.

Could I but promise my Poetick Page,
Would reach the Heroes of a future Age,
Palmes, Wilkins, Ingoldsby, and North should shine,
With Webb and Orkney, in my deathless Line.

But the DUKE calls: What Dangers does he court!
War has been gamesom yet, and seem'd to sport;
For now broke loose from all her brazen Chains,
O'er rising Mountains, and o'er subject Plains.
The Fury strides abroad, and Abitrary reigns.

255

Fear in the Front, her sure Fore-runner, goes,
And grisly Death behind whole Squadrons mows:
Twice Fifteen Hundred gallant Youths, as brave
As France could boast, (which might a Nation save
From gaping Ruin, nor have mist Success;
Had Holy ANNA's Piety been less,
Or less the Hero's Valour.) These in vain
Of their despair'd and hapless Fate complain.
QUEEN ANN, we cry, QUEEN ANN, the Vales resound;
To Heav'n loud Peals ascend, and Æther wound.
Terribly loud our Acclamations drove
The frighted Foes below, and Clouds above.
Here Angels throw Distraction, as they fled,
There dart new Beams upon the General's Head:
Who now, collected in himself, was seen;
His Laurels, amidst all the Thunder, Green.

256

Where shall the routed Horse Protection find,
Before them Water, and the Fire behind?
Between two Elements amaz'd they stood,
Till headlong push'd, they flounce and plunge tho rapid Flood.
Tallard alone, of all his Strength forsook,
Bows to the Greater Genius of the DUKE.
Surprizing Horrour in the rest appears,
Nor can the bravest Heart conceal his Fears;
Nor can they thus their sudden Fate prevent,
By trusting to a milder Element.
For bright Asariel, (who, by Heaven's Decree,
Can bind the Floods, or set their Torrents free;
At whose Command the Surges of the Deep,
Awaken'd, bellow, or retire to sleep;
Thus to Danubius spoke; Erect thy Head,
Thou Ancient River, from thy sedgy Bed.

257

See! where the florid boast of Gallick Pride
Disturbs thy Waters, and insults thy Tide
Call all thy Springs and Fountains to thy Aid,
Lest meaner Rivers thy weak force upbraid:
With thy whole strength surround thy destin'd Prey,
And imitate old Kishon's sweepy way.
Vain all their graceful Looks! nor shall the sight
Of dazling Arms prevail, nor valour fright:
If they attempt with feeble Hands to row,
Swell o'er their Heads, and plunge them deep below!
No mourning Friends their Bodies shall inter,
Be thou their Winding sheet, and Sepulcher.

Danubius heard, and with Impetuous rore
Collecting strength, lash'd the resounding shore.
The Warry War begins: With boiling wroth
He urges forward his Victorious Froth
The proud Gensd Arms, who hop'd their Lives to save,
And find protection from the fleeting Wave;
Deluded thus, in wild confusion swim,

258

And with vain blows afflict the passive Stream.
The River then, discharging on his Foes,
Mud, Sand, and Stones, his whole Artillery throws
From his vex'd bottom; some with violent strokes
He head long bears; some with hurl'd Gravel chokes:
With idle Swords some think to ward the blow,
Of billows breaking on their Heads below;
Others, despairing, rowl their ghastly Eyes
Tow'rds highest Heav'n and blame the cruel Skies.

Mean time the generous Horse of Warlike strain,
Unus'd to trample on the Liquid Plain,
Fearfully neighs; the Silver foam around
Snorting against the Banks, the Banks resound.
Till vainly fretting in his martial Breast,
A Mountain-Wave o'erwhelms the Noble Beast.
He and his Rider drown; the following weight
Of slain oppress them, and ensure their Fate.
For our quick shot, pour'd from the River's brink
Sends Crowds below; they now by hundreds sink;

259

While frequent Carcasses, and Foam, and Blood,
(A horrid mixture) fattens all the Flood.

Wives for their Husbands, Mothers for their Sons,
At home lament in never-ceasing Moans;
The tender Virgins for their Lovers weep,
Who under Hills of noisy Waters sleep,
No Earth their Bones preserves; no Urns their Ashes keep.
In troubled Mud they perish and consume,
And heaps of Billows are their flowing Tomb.

Hear, O Bavarian Licus, as you swell
Danubius, say how thy false Master fell.
Bear it to Dravus, let Tibiscus hear,
And sound it in the Transilvanian's Ear:
Tell him, whose Squadrons, trusting to the Wave,
Their fancied Friend, obtain'd a real Grave.
Tell him, that Princes, who on France rely,
Thus seek their Ruin, who for Refuge fly.

260

But if the World by Tyranny opprest,
Begins to Groan, and heave its throbbing Breast;
If the sad Sound reach ANNA's pitying Ear,
Be still, ye Nations, and forget to fear.
If Empires, mourn, Her MARLBOROUGH is sent,
To stop their Tears; and calm the Continent.
If the wrong'd Austrian to Her Standard run,
She saves the Father, and enthrones the Son.
If we below Storm some important Fort,
She scales the Skies above, and shakes the Heav'nly Court.
Where'er the Wretched for Her Succour call,
The Equall Mother is alike to All;
Not raw in ills, nor ignorant of Grief,
She spreads Her Wings abroad, and sends Relief;
Her Colours fly, where they ne'er flew before,
Fierce Quarrels to decide, and Right restore.
If, when repairing to Imperial Aid,
The Bloody Cross of England is display'd,

261

On the Moselle, the Danube, or the Rhine,
Descending Angels bless the sacred Sign,
And happy Omens give, as once to Constantine;
When proud Maxentius with his Hellish Crew,
The new born Christian into Tyber threw.

Now weary Death's Commission was expir'd,
And the Pale Glutton with the DUKE, retir'd;
War's Trumpet to Retreat was softly blown,
When Fame began to rattle with her own:
From th' obscure Village of Bleinheim she came;
(Obscure of old but now a noted Name)
Then o'er high Hills, o'er Seas, o'er Earth she flew;
Her Voice grew louder, as her Motion grew.
As smother'd Flames in nightly embers sleep,
When wretched Man Morphean Fetters keep,
Till bursting forth the secret Robber preys
On Houses first, then Towns in Ruin lays,
While forward Winds assist the waken'd Blaze:

262

Or as when Eurus, or when Auster pent
In subterranean Caverns, strain for vent;
Till, with soft Whispers breaking into Birth,
They roar, inlarg'd, and shake the frighted Earth.
Such Rumour was; so shook the Skies around;
The vaulted Skies rebellow'd with the sound.
Then from their Toils below, the Guardian Host
With Sailing wings made for the Starry Coast:
And there recounted how obedient They
Discharg'd the Business of th' Important Day.
Heav'n with repeated Hallelujah's rung,
And Saints the Triumphs of God's Vengeance sung;
They sung the Arrows from his angry Bow,
Wet with the Blood of Tyranny below.
How, for their Prince's crime, his awful Might
Tumbles proud Empires from their Airy height.
How Kingdoms flourish where good Monarchs sway,
Who Rule, like ANNA, and like ANNA, Pray.

263

Surely the Father of all Power design'd
That softest Image of His Heavenly Mind,
To still the jarring World, and bless Mankind.
Ah happy Albion! cou'dst Thou justly prize
So great a Gift, and Favour of the Skies,
Nor Hell, not France should baffle a design
Form'd by a Senate, and a Queen, like Thine:
A Queen, who moves Heaven's Everlasting Throne,
To hear whose Voice fair Angels stop their own.
If future Victories thou mean'st to prove,
She speaks Below the Dialect Above.
Let all your Courage, all your Counsels fall
On proud Castile, and yet unhumbled Gaul;
Let not that Bane of Nations, Strife and Pride,
Or in your Senate or your Hearts reside.
Bethesda's Stream should now be calm and Cool,
Expect no second Angel at the Pool.
In the vext Spring no Vertue is conceal'd,
The Waters were but once disturb'd, and heal'd.

264

United Minds alone can France defeat,
Her Armies vanquish, and her Navy beat.

So shall Your Admirals by Sea prevail,
So shall conspiring Winds on every Sail,
Blow with a gentle and propitious Gale.
So Frightning Drake's, and Raleighs, shall be seen,
When Rooks, and Shovels plough the Watry Green
Alcides, blushing, shall behold them go
Beyond his Pillars, and his Toils out do.

So Glorious Duke, when in th' approaching Year
Thy Arms and Fortunes shall in France appear;
Plantagenets shall thy Attendants be,
And New Black Princes, shall arise in thee.
I see their Angels hover o'er thy Head,
And Ancient Vertue rising from the Dead.
Heav'n shall for Thee such Miracles produce,
And Fate confirms the Promise of the Muse.

FINIS.

265

ON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.

As Rome, her Consuls and Triumvirs past,
Became the Mistress of the World at last:
So Marlborough by smaller Steps began,
So through each Honour of an Army ran,
Till Time had finish'd the Heroick Man.
Whom Nature fashion'd with a double Care;
Here Courage sow'd, and manly Beauty there,
To conquer Kings, or win the conquering Fair.
Returning Summers hence fresh Triumphs bring,
Hence for his Brows new Groves of Laurel spring.

266

Campaigns are ended with substantial Praise,
And every Year breeds new Thanksgiving-Days:
Not for feign'd Conquests (a Pretence to bless)
Shadows of War, and Ecchoes of Success.

Nor Love of Camps alone ingross his Heart;
The Son of Thetis had his human Part.
Mars may unwounded thro' whole Squadrons fly,
But finds no Fence from Cytherea's Eye.
Ador'd in Courts, but to be fear'd in Arms,
The Hero frightens, and the Courtier charms.
Yet Ease and Pleasure he resigns to Fame,
His Mind unshaken stands the hottest Flame,
In Battle and in Cabinet the same.
He fears no Danger and no Labour spares,
But toils and sweats to ease Brittannia's Cares,
Like Atlas, wakeful as the Stars he bears.

267

Active his Soul, and like the Heavenly Sphere,
Unwearied, tho' revolving all the Year.
Such is the Prince, who WILLIAM's room supplies,
In Action fearless, and in Councel wise.
Consenting Nations with united Voice,
Applauded WILLIAM's Judgment in his Choice.

When Ammon's boasted Son expiring lay,
Disposing of the World's disputed Sway;
Let him, said he, succeed in Asia's Throne,
Who has no Equal, and can rule Alone.
His Captains justly of themselves despair,
And cautiously the parted Empire share.
So Belgium, anxious for her drooping Lord,
A Successor, a new Nassaw implor'd;

268

To lead her Troops, and take her injur'd Part,
One with the coolest Head, and warmest Heart.
Th' Heroic Prince with a Divine Foresight
Cry'd, Marlborough will do your Nation right,
For he is cool to think, and warm to fight.
Thus, glorious Duke, Great William did out-do
His former Triumphs, and, like Sampson, slew
More by his Death than Life, in chusing You.

269

EUGENIUS.

------ Totos infusa per artus
Major in exiguo regnabat corpore Virtus.

So Tydeus look'd, when, single, He oppos'd
The perjur'd Brother, with his Guards inclos'd;
When fifty Traytors by his Valour slain,
Their Length had measur'd on the Theban Plain;
Of Stature low, but of a Soul so high,
It tower'd from whence it came, and reach'd the Skie.
Heroic Spirits are of Heavenly Birth,
Gyants alone are Off-springs of the Earth:

270

Whose Figures may suprize, but are no odds
Oppos'd to Heaven, and Adversary-Gods.
Their Heighth exceeds the Level of Mankind,
But lesser Bodies share a larger Mind.
As in a Glass the crowding Sun-beams meet,
Small is the Point, but violent the Heat.

Such is the Man, whom Germany has lent
To bridle France, and curb the Continent.
To whom kind Heaven Valour and Prudence gave,
Cool, but not Dull, and without Rashness, Brave.
Stout like Achilles, like Ulysses wise,
Who seeks not Danger, nor from Danger flyes.
A Life of so much Moment and Import,
Should not be Chance's Trust, nor Fortune's Sport.

The Son of Atreus, whom beleaguer'd Troy
Did twice five Years in a long Siege employ,

271

Wish'd for ten Nestors to reduce the Place;
Hadst Thou, Great Man! liv'd in those Antique Days,
To lesser room he had his Wish confin'd,
Blest with ten Nestors in Thy Single Mind.

Go, Dauntless Prince, and stem the Gallick Rage,
Act in one Year the Business of an Age.
Tho' small the Span of Life, yet courteous Fate,
With greater Souls requites our shorter Date.
Tho' no new Instance in the World appears
Of Pylian Age, and Patriarchal Years;
Yet if our Time by Action number'd be,
H' has liv'd Three hundred, who has sought like Thee.

272

ON THE Electoral Prince OF HANOVER.

To pleasing Pastures the untry'd Lyon flies,
And makes the tim'rous Deer his Virgin Prize.
Till from the Herd some Princely Prey he draws,
And tempts the noble Brute with firmer Claws.
So Hanover bids early for Renown,
So learns to merit the Britannick Crown.

273

If Anna Childless should submit to Fate,
(But may that Day, that fatal Day, be late.)

To hear how valiant young Augustus fought,
When Fame in Blood with adverse Breast he sought;
(When Poets of his Acts at Scaldis tell)
Will make our future Sons turn Infidel.

His unus'd Sword when his first Valour drew,
From the false Prince, distinguishing the true;
He dar'd the Gallick Flames with steddy Eye,
As Parent Eagles their new Off-spring try,
By the Sun's Faith, and Judgment of the Sky.
None sure, but She who wears the Royal Robe,
So well deserves the Scepter and the Globe:
As He descending from the British Gem,
Exalted to th' Imperial Diadem.

274

If to a Conclave Modern Rome assign
The certain Help of Influence Divine,
God sure to this Succession gave Consent,
And breath'd upon th' Adopting Parliament.

275

AMPHION.

An Ode on the Death of Dr. Blow.

I.

Hark! How the doleful, Funeral Bell
Proclaims Amphion's Last Farewell.
His Dust resign'd to guilty Death,
But Heaven has claim'd his skilful Breath.
While Orpheus tunes the Starry Lyre,
The troubled Sphæres Amphion's Aid require.

II.

Ye Sons of the melodious Art,
Pay at his Tomb this grateful Part.
Sing how the Soul of Harmony is fled;
Lament in softest Moans,
In dying Sighs, expiring Groans;
Amphion Father of all Musick's dead.

276

III.

Who shall instruct the sacred Choir?
The Noble Organ who inspire?
In Languishment Eusebia lies,
She bows her Mitred Head and dyes.
Griev'd that her tuneful Darling is no more;
Till fill'd with equal Flame
Some Happier Youth, the fainting Dame
With Anthems, like his Own, to Life Restore.

IV.

Sleep, Dear Remains! till Musick call,
Till the Last Trumpet waken All.
To yon bright Realm, sweet Soul! repair,
Angelick Youths expect you there.
Timotheus and Cecilia wait,
To meet Thee at the Chrystal-Gate.
And, in Amends for what Thou didst below,
With Heavenly Airs repay

277

The Gratitude they owe,
And teach thy ravish'd Soul in their Seraphic Way.

V.

Adieu, Amphion! and pursue
Thy Journey with desiring Flight,
To the new Joys of blissful Light,
Which charm the Ear, and please the Sight.
Adieu, Amphion! long Adieu!

278

Out of Horace. Ode 3. B. 13.

O Fons Blandusiæ, Splendidior vitro.

I.

Blandusia , gentle, Sabin Spring!
The Clearness of whose Brooks below,
Out-vies the Chrystal, as they flow;
Worthy the Sacrifice we bring.
An Offering of the noblest Wine,
With rosy Garlands crown'd, is Thine.
For Thee to Morrow shall be slain
A Kid, which wantons on the Plain.
While his first Horns begin to sprout,
Prepar'd to call his Rival out.
In vain he meditates the Fight,
In vain his Blood does Love excite;

279

With which To-Morrow's Rising-Sun,
Shall see thy Rivers crimson run.

II.

The fiery Dog with raging Heat
On Thee, chast Nymph! does vainly beat:
For thy refreshing Streams below
And Shade above, defy the Blow.
To thee the straying Cattle run,
And Noon-tide Rays of Summer shun.
Thou dost their burning Thirst asswage;
The weary Ox, from Labour free,
And loose from Plough, repairs to Thee,
To save him from the Lyon's Rage.

III.

If I attempt to sing the Oak,
Which over-shades the hollow Rock,
From whence thy prattling Waters flow,
It will Eternity bestow;

280

Thou in my Verse shalt ever live,
As much as Poets Verse can give
To Pharian Nilus, or the Starry Po.

OF VAIN WISHES.

[_]

From the Latin of a Young Gentleman of Eaton.

By Error led, Unwary Minds pursue
Imagin'd Pleasure, and Neglect the True;
Things far remote from solid Good desire,
And what's Destructive, to themselves require.
They gain their Wish, but curse the false Embrace,
And find a Cloud in Royal Juno's Place.
The busie World's inquisitive to know;
To what strange Spring their Happiness they owe,
Which like Nile's secret Head, unknown does flow.

281

Some Court, like Midas, Gold's alluring Charms,
Some, like Pelides, Honour seek in Arms.
Unhappy both, who both their Wish enjoy'd,
By glittering Gold, and shining Arms destroy'd.

Others, that Wealth's the chiefest Good, maintain,
And perish in the mad Pursuit of Gain.
Others, ambitious of a lasting Name,
With certain Danger hunt uncertain Fame.
Nor less their Frenzy, who affect a Crown,
To save with Smiles, and murder with a Frown.
Wise by Experience, they too late will know
The painful Pageantry of Scepter'd Woe.
The Purple o'er their Shoulders may be spread,
And sparkling Diadems adorn their Head.

282

But all within is Fear, and anxious Care,
Which the vex'd Heart, like greedy Vultures, tear.
Then will they curse their Wishes, sad Extreams,
Their empty Fancies, and beguiling Dreams.
As a poor Wretch, whom a long Fast has curst
With gnawing Hunger, and tormenting Thirst,
Rich in his Sleep, riots on Sumptuous Meals,
Toils at the Bowl, and flowing Bacchus swills:
But, waken'd from his fancied Feast, he mourns,
His Hunger tortures, and his Thirst returns.
Such He, whose Paradise in Empire lies;
The gaudy Opera deludes his Eyes,
Till the Scene shuts, and the false Vision flies.

But lest for Substance you mistake the Shape,
By fondly flying to the painted Grape:
Unmask the Things, their real In-side view,
Which, if (when naked) they can charm, pursue.

283

If not, transfer your Love, to Heaven repair,
Who always listens to a modest Prayer.
A healthy Body and contented Mind,
A Dove-like Innocence, with Prudence joyn'd,
A pure, but honest, active Ease implore;
Take what kind Heaven bestows, and ask no more.
Confine your Will to Things within your Power,
Nor boldly Hope, nor dread your latter Hour.
Gold, Honour, Empire, for a time amaze,
And flash, like Lightning, with a transient Blaze;
But Nobler Vertue, like the Vestal Fire,
Burns with a chaster Flame, and never can Expire.

FINIS.