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

Wearied with vain Pursuits, and humble grown,
Sad in the Country, and too poor for Town,
O how long, in some soft, silent, Seat,
To taste calm Quiet, in serene Retreat;
Where Books, and Ease, and Time for serious Thought,
May make Wit Wisdom ere I'm good for nought!

Walpole, to thee, the Muse, afflicted, flies,
And, from the Deep, like Shipwreck'd Jonah, cries.
Thou! the Right-hand of Fortune! form'd to give!
Let me not die, before I've learn'd to live.

I, not for lordly Post, or Pension, plead,
(Scarce can a Hope, so modest, not succeed.)
St. James's Wilderness, the Park's fair Isle,
Wou'd crown my Wish, and Care's long Hand beguile.
On that delightful, and sequester'd, spot,
Fitted for me, as Zoar was for Lot!
I'd full Content and Satisfaction find,
And cultivate the Garden of my Mind.
There, like St. Evremond, I'd grow a Sage,
And War with Nonsense, Vice, and Folly wage:

There, cabin'd safe, in Solitude and Peace,
Think who's at Helm, nor fear the Storm's Increase.

What princely Pleasure, in that envied Scene,
To hold high Empire o'er the peopled Green!
Each rosy Morn the rising Sun to wait,
And walk, with him, around my Orb, in State!
My subject Ducks shou'd watch my gracious Will,
And passive Geese bequeath me ev'ry Quill.
To each, in order, traversing my Land,
I'd toss due Blessings, with impartial Hand.
Birds shou'd by Love, and Beasts by Fear obey;
But all pay Homage in th' Imperial Way.
Yet no tyrannick Pow'r shou'd pinch their Right,
Nor bold Rebellion wing their Wills for Flight.

Still I'd adorn my State with something new,
Prune its wild Prospects, and enlarge its View;
Mazes of knotty Politicks invent,
And, in each open Quarter, plant Content.
Then, when dispos'd for solitary Thought,
Inspir'd by Leisure, and by Duty taught,
I'd run thro' Nature, and the Causes find,
Which lift some single Souls above Mankind;
Which, thro' descending Ages, lengthen Fame,
And mark a Tully's, or a Walpole's Name.

Kindling, at this, to a sublimer Fire,
My grateful Heart might teach me to aspire;
Smit with my Country's Love, might Truth pursue,
And charm an unborn Race, by painting You.

Exhaustless Store my subject Isle contains,
For apt Allusions to adorn my Strains.
In narrow Compass, what not there compriz'd?
Britannia's Sea-girt Land epitomiz'd!
From crowded Scenes of great Augusta rent,
As our blest Kingdom from the Continent!
A Colony of feather'd People! where
(If we, with great, may smaller Things compare)
I, like a Bishop, wou'd o'ersee my Cure,
Or govern, like a King, in Miniature!

When my few Friends to visit me shou'd please,
How sweet to walk betwixt embow'ring Trees!
Or, soft-reclining in a short Repose,
Pluck the surrounding Fruitage as it grows!
I, to these Friends, instructive—but not vain,
Wou'd, like St. John in Patmos, Truth explain;

Teach them, that Happiness in Silence reigns,
And builds her bow'ry Seats, on peaceful Plains;
While they tell News of Mischiefs hourly known,
And every Word, they speak, confirms my own.

But should my Patron deign to leave the Court,
And humbly to my Hermitage resort,
Ambitious, I my self wou'd waft him o'er,
And hail his Presence on my happy Shore.
There might he, safe, unbend his active Mind,
Or form, perhaps, some Scheme to bless Mankind.
Then wou'd the golden Age be mine again,
And Charles's shou'd be lost in George's Reign.

How pleas'd is Fancy! how do Dreams delight?
And ah! what pity mine shou'd prove a Bite!

Hear me, thou Atlas of our leaning State,—
Consent, at least, to make one Poet great:
On thee, the Muses then shall fix their Eye,
And, for thy Glory, whole Parnassus vie.
To guard our Hopes has been the Hero's Pride!
'Tis good to have the Poets on thy Side.
I, for return, will yearly Homage pay,
And hail the Rising of thy natal Day.
Nor only this,—but, now and then, afford
A Fish, or Fowl, to dignify thy Board.

'Tis done!—I hear the happy Mandate giv'n,—
“Let Mitchell have his poor poetic Heav'n,
“And, to support his Government, we grant
“Twice fifty Pounds per Annum—All I want!
Boy, fill the Bowl;—'tis decent to be glad;—
Homer, on less Occasion, had run mad.

J. M.

Monsieur de St. Evremond was preferr'd to the Government of Duck-Island by King Charles II. and had a considerable yearly Pension allow'd him.