Three poems the first, Sacred to the Immortal Memory of the late King; the second, On the happy Succession, and Coronation of His present Majesty; and a third Humbly Inscrib'd to the Queen [by Laurence Eusden] |
 |
A POEM, On the happy Succession, and Coronation of His present MAJESTY. |
 | Three poems |  |
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A POEM, On the happy Succession, and Coronation of His present MAJESTY.
------ Strepitus fastidit inanes,
Inque Animis Hominum Pompâ meliore triumphat.
Claud.
Inque Animis Hominum Pompâ meliore triumphat.
Claud.
As when learn'd Sages Optic Arts display,
And from the darken'd Room exclude the Day,
Thro' the pierc'd Oak th'insinuating Light,
If Phœbus shines not, gives a ghastly Sight;
Men, Tow'rs, and Temples, are, inverted, seen,
A rude, un-colour'd, gloomy, loveless Scene!
But should the Sun again adorn the Sky,
Glasses, twice-convex, to the Chasm apply,
And straight a wond'rous Landscape charms the View:
Such Lights! such Shades not Poussin ever drew!
Gay Nature's Paint!—each Image, beauteous, falls,
And Trees, erect, wave green along the whiten'd Walls.
And from the darken'd Room exclude the Day,
Thro' the pierc'd Oak th'insinuating Light,
If Phœbus shines not, gives a ghastly Sight;
Men, Tow'rs, and Temples, are, inverted, seen,
A rude, un-colour'd, gloomy, loveless Scene!
But should the Sun again adorn the Sky,
Glasses, twice-convex, to the Chasm apply,
And straight a wond'rous Landscape charms the View:
Such Lights! such Shades not Poussin ever drew!
Gay Nature's Paint!—each Image, beauteous, falls,
And Trees, erect, wave green along the whiten'd Walls.
So when great BRUNSWIC yielded to his Fate,
O'er-cast, and chearless was Britannia's State;
Her Cheeks to lose their bloomy Hue begun,
And all her Roses vanish'd with her Sun:
'Till a new BRUNSWIC, with an equal Ray,
Re-call'd at once her Beauties, and the Day:
Firm, and un-chang'd, the Spires, and Turrets stand!
Religion, joyn'd with Liberty's fair Hand,
In Triumph walk, and bless, with wonted Smiles, the Land!
O'er-cast, and chearless was Britannia's State;
Her Cheeks to lose their bloomy Hue begun,
And all her Roses vanish'd with her Sun:
'Till a new BRUNSWIC, with an equal Ray,
Re-call'd at once her Beauties, and the Day:
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Religion, joyn'd with Liberty's fair Hand,
In Triumph walk, and bless, with wonted Smiles, the Land!
Hail, mighty Monarch! whose Desert alone
Would, without Birth-right, raise Thee to a Throne!
Thy Virtues shine peculiarly nice,
Un-gloom'd with a Confinity to Vice.
What Strains shall equal to thy Glories rise,
First of the World, and Borderer on the Skies!
How exquisitely Great, who can'st inspire
Such Joys, that Albion mourns no more thy Sire!
Thy Sire! a Prince, she lov'd to that degree,
She almost trespass'd on the Deity!
Imperial Weight He bore with so much Ease!
Who, but Thy self, would not despair to please?
A dull, fat, thoughtless Heir, un-heeded, springs
From a long, slothful Line of restive Kings;
And Thrones, inur'd to a Tyrannic Race,
Think a new Tyrant not a new Disgrace;
Tho' by the Change the State no Bliss receives,
And Nero dies in vain, if Otho lives:
But when a Stemm, with fruitful Branches crown'd,
Has flourish'd, in each various Branch renown'd,
Still ever seen, (if they survive, or fall,)
All Heroes, and their Country's Fathers All;
His great Fore-runners when the Last out-shone,
Who could a brighter hope, or ev'n as bright a Son?
Old Rome with Tears the younger Scipio view'd,
Who not in Fame her African renew'd.
Avant, degenerate Grafts, or spurious Breed!
'Tis a GEORGE only can a GEORGE succeed!
The Shafts of Death the Pelian Art have found,
They bring at once the Balm, that give the Wound.
Would, without Birth-right, raise Thee to a Throne!
Thy Virtues shine peculiarly nice,
Un-gloom'd with a Confinity to Vice.
What Strains shall equal to thy Glories rise,
First of the World, and Borderer on the Skies!
How exquisitely Great, who can'st inspire
Such Joys, that Albion mourns no more thy Sire!
Thy Sire! a Prince, she lov'd to that degree,
She almost trespass'd on the Deity!
Imperial Weight He bore with so much Ease!
Who, but Thy self, would not despair to please?
A dull, fat, thoughtless Heir, un-heeded, springs
From a long, slothful Line of restive Kings;
And Thrones, inur'd to a Tyrannic Race,
Think a new Tyrant not a new Disgrace;
Tho' by the Change the State no Bliss receives,
And Nero dies in vain, if Otho lives:
But when a Stemm, with fruitful Branches crown'd,
Has flourish'd, in each various Branch renown'd,
Still ever seen, (if they survive, or fall,)
All Heroes, and their Country's Fathers All;
His great Fore-runners when the Last out-shone,
Who could a brighter hope, or ev'n as bright a Son?
Old Rome with Tears the younger Scipio view'd,
Who not in Fame her African renew'd.
Avant, degenerate Grafts, or spurious Breed!
'Tis a GEORGE only can a GEORGE succeed!
The Shafts of Death the Pelian Art have found,
They bring at once the Balm, that give the Wound.
The Muse, that late on drooping Pinions hung,
Her Voice neglected, and her Lyre un-strung,
Chear'd with sweet Prospects, spreads sublime her Wings,
Tow'rs in bold Flights, and, flush'd with Rapture, Sings.
Thus Memnon's Statue, when the Sun declines,
Weeps, and in melancholy Murmurs pines;
But, soon as touch'd with the next early Ray,
The vocal Marble hails the new-born Day:
Titan's warm, rising Beams its Breast inflame,
And glad, melodious Sounds th'inspiring God proclaim!
Her Voice neglected, and her Lyre un-strung,
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Tow'rs in bold Flights, and, flush'd with Rapture, Sings.
Thus Memnon's Statue, when the Sun declines,
Weeps, and in melancholy Murmurs pines;
But, soon as touch'd with the next early Ray,
The vocal Marble hails the new-born Day:
Titan's warm, rising Beams its Breast inflame,
And glad, melodious Sounds th'inspiring God proclaim!
The second Cæsar mildly sway'd his Rome,
Sooth'd all the Nine, and taught all Arts to bloom;
Thence sprung the Glories of the Roman Name,
That roul for ever in a Tide of Fame:
Britain! un-envious view th'Italian Plains!
See Rome's blest Times restor'd!—Thy own AUGUSTUS reigns!
With an AUGUSTUS may new Virgils rise,
And sing the Favourite of conspiring Skies!
To Albion Thou (if Poets can presage)
Shalt give another, sweeter, Classic Age!
Sooth'd all the Nine, and taught all Arts to bloom;
Thence sprung the Glories of the Roman Name,
That roul for ever in a Tide of Fame:
Britain! un-envious view th'Italian Plains!
See Rome's blest Times restor'd!—Thy own AUGUSTUS reigns!
With an AUGUSTUS may new Virgils rise,
And sing the Favourite of conspiring Skies!
To Albion Thou (if Poets can presage)
Shalt give another, sweeter, Classic Age!
'Ere yet thy tender Eyes the Light sustain'd,
Thy future Greatness heav'nly Signs ordain'd:
Kind Constellations, sympathizing, shed
Their choicest Influence on thy native Bed.
The Lyre all-strung with many a silver Ray,
Mark'd o'er Hibernia, and o'er Arts thy Sway.
Cassiopé, with the fair Gnossian, shone,
That show'd a Royal Chair, and This a Crown.
The Lion rampant rose for Albion's Aid,
And th'Eagle, spread, Germania's Arms display'd.
Andromeda stretch'd out her Hands, unbound,
And Perseus, bright, a new-born Perseus own'd.
Astræa shone a-while to grace thy Birth,
Then to thy Sire again descended swift on Earth.
Thus Jove's Lyæus was confess'd by Signs;
Cythæron flourish'd with un-planted Vines:
Thus of Alcides the World Presage took,
When stagnant Lerna roul'd, and frighted Nemëe shook!
Thy future Greatness heav'nly Signs ordain'd:
Kind Constellations, sympathizing, shed
Their choicest Influence on thy native Bed.
The Lyre all-strung with many a silver Ray,
Mark'd o'er Hibernia, and o'er Arts thy Sway.
Cassiopé, with the fair Gnossian, shone,
That show'd a Royal Chair, and This a Crown.
The Lion rampant rose for Albion's Aid,
And th'Eagle, spread, Germania's Arms display'd.
Andromeda stretch'd out her Hands, unbound,
And Perseus, bright, a new-born Perseus own'd.
Astræa shone a-while to grace thy Birth,
Then to thy Sire again descended swift on Earth.
Thus Jove's Lyæus was confess'd by Signs;
Cythæron flourish'd with un-planted Vines:
Thus of Alcides the World Presage took,
When stagnant Lerna roul'd, and frighted Nemëe shook!
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With springing Years all Arts, and Graces spring,
And the Boy fashion early for the King.
Thy Bosome by thy Sire was richly fraught,
Not his own Hector Priam better taught;
Imbu'd thy Soul with Probity, and Truth,
And strung thy Nerves with Toil, like Sparta's Youth.
With Rome, and Athens, Thee sometimes He fires,
Sometimes with Wonders of Thy Race inspires;
In a long Series of bright Acts proceeds,
From AZO, down to ERNEST's hardy Deeds:
Deeds! whence a new ELECTOR He became,
Rais'd not by Fortune, but by Virtue's Fame:
Rais'd by th'Almighty's secret, fav'ring Hand,
Which Hell's fierce Agents, 'round, strove vainly to withstand!
And the Boy fashion early for the King.
Thy Bosome by thy Sire was richly fraught,
Not his own Hector Priam better taught;
Imbu'd thy Soul with Probity, and Truth,
And strung thy Nerves with Toil, like Sparta's Youth.
With Rome, and Athens, Thee sometimes He fires,
Sometimes with Wonders of Thy Race inspires;
In a long Series of bright Acts proceeds,
From AZO, down to ERNEST's hardy Deeds:
Deeds! whence a new ELECTOR He became,
Rais'd not by Fortune, but by Virtue's Fame:
Rais'd by th'Almighty's secret, fav'ring Hand,
Which Hell's fierce Agents, 'round, strove vainly to withstand!
By Mars renown'd, thy Youth's first Sallies shine,
Display the Heroe, and confess thy Line.
The Banks of Scheld thy Arms shall ever sound,
And Oudenarde the grateful Shout re-bound!
Her Artisans shall bid their Rescuer bloom,
And all thy Glories weave in an immortal Loom!
There shall thy Sword descend in dreadful Gleams,
And die the Tap'stry with en-crimson'd Streams!
There shall the grazing Ball rise, and declare,
Where Fate commands to kill, and where to spare:
Thou, all-besmear'd with comely Dust, and Sweat,
Griev'd at each Pause, that checks the Victor's Heat,
Shalt from thy falling Steed, un-wounded, slide,
With Albion's Genius plum'd, and Fortune by thy Side!
Could Claudian, or Papinius breathe again,
How would they flow in a luxuriant Strain?
They would their Consuls, and their Fights discard,
To sing the glorious Field of Oudenarde?
Then to Britannia swift had been convey'd
The Wonders, that her future King display'd;
For Leda's panting Sons, with crested Flames,
Had bath'd their gory Steeds in smiling Thames,
As once they proudly bath'd in Tiber's Flood,
To greater Paulus when great Perses bow'd:
Rocks with loud Io's, un-provok'd, had rung,
And from the Ground spontaneous Laurels sprung.
Display the Heroe, and confess thy Line.
The Banks of Scheld thy Arms shall ever sound,
And Oudenarde the grateful Shout re-bound!
Her Artisans shall bid their Rescuer bloom,
And all thy Glories weave in an immortal Loom!
There shall thy Sword descend in dreadful Gleams,
And die the Tap'stry with en-crimson'd Streams!
There shall the grazing Ball rise, and declare,
Where Fate commands to kill, and where to spare:
Thou, all-besmear'd with comely Dust, and Sweat,
Griev'd at each Pause, that checks the Victor's Heat,
Shalt from thy falling Steed, un-wounded, slide,
With Albion's Genius plum'd, and Fortune by thy Side!
Could Claudian, or Papinius breathe again,
How would they flow in a luxuriant Strain?
They would their Consuls, and their Fights discard,
To sing the glorious Field of Oudenarde?
Then to Britannia swift had been convey'd
The Wonders, that her future King display'd;
For Leda's panting Sons, with crested Flames,
Had bath'd their gory Steeds in smiling Thames,
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To greater Paulus when great Perses bow'd:
Rocks with loud Io's, un-provok'd, had rung,
And from the Ground spontaneous Laurels sprung.
Wallia's late, dauntless Prince!—who could not see
The third brave Edward's Son, reviv'd in Thee?
Thanks to kind Heav'n for not a Fate the same,
Since in thy ev'ry Act, as white thy Fame!
As white, as Galba's, 'ere a Throne he gain'd,
But not, like Galba's, with a Throne distain'd!
Nor Thou, tho' crown'd, can'st, with Vespasian, shine
Diviner, who before wert all-divine!
No Exaltation knows thy Virtue's Scene;
Be the Prince ever in the Monarch seen!
One only Change!—that Change how happy still!
Thy Pow'r to bless, enlarg'd, can more indulge thy Will.
The third brave Edward's Son, reviv'd in Thee?
Thanks to kind Heav'n for not a Fate the same,
Since in thy ev'ry Act, as white thy Fame!
As white, as Galba's, 'ere a Throne he gain'd,
But not, like Galba's, with a Throne distain'd!
Nor Thou, tho' crown'd, can'st, with Vespasian, shine
Diviner, who before wert all-divine!
No Exaltation knows thy Virtue's Scene;
Be the Prince ever in the Monarch seen!
One only Change!—that Change how happy still!
Thy Pow'r to bless, enlarg'd, can more indulge thy Will.
O! with what Peals, what universal Cries
Thy Praise rings 'round the World, and echoes thro' the Skies!
What deaf'ning Sounds first hail'd Thee to a Crown!
Thy Albion frantic grew with Ecstasies un-known!
Such Shouts were heard, (if ever such before!)
When Rome to Greece deign'd Freedom to restore!
Deliver'd Nations joyn'd in loud Acclaims;
And, un-regarded, left th'Olympic Games:
Ev'n by their Joys Birds their Destruction found,
And, stun'd aloft in Air, drop'd breathless on the Ground.
Thy Praise rings 'round the World, and echoes thro' the Skies!
What deaf'ning Sounds first hail'd Thee to a Crown!
Thy Albion frantic grew with Ecstasies un-known!
Such Shouts were heard, (if ever such before!)
When Rome to Greece deign'd Freedom to restore!
Deliver'd Nations joyn'd in loud Acclaims;
And, un-regarded, left th'Olympic Games:
Ev'n by their Joys Birds their Destruction found,
And, stun'd aloft in Air, drop'd breathless on the Ground.
See! see! Religion, in Deportment sweet,
Bright without Glare, and beautifully neat,
Hastes to embrace Thee with pure, native Charms,
And finds a nursing Sire within thy open'd Arms!
No more she fears her Rights, and Domes a Prey
To a deluded Youth, and Papal Sway:
No more shall Albion bigot-Chains enthral,
Nor her Sons Victims to dire Jesuits fall.
Once Ægypt's Lands with Plagues distinguish'd were,
But happy Pharoah knew no Jesuits there!
There had those Saints of Darkness stood prepar'd,
God might his num'rous Vengeances have spar'd;
Well had they play'd the Machi'vilian Part,
And show'd, compendious Ruin was their Art,
While they taught Pharoah, with his Host, t'expire
At once in sulph'rous Clouds, and Hurricanes of Fire.
Bright without Glare, and beautifully neat,
Hastes to embrace Thee with pure, native Charms,
And finds a nursing Sire within thy open'd Arms!
No more she fears her Rights, and Domes a Prey
To a deluded Youth, and Papal Sway:
No more shall Albion bigot-Chains enthral,
Nor her Sons Victims to dire Jesuits fall.
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But happy Pharoah knew no Jesuits there!
There had those Saints of Darkness stood prepar'd,
God might his num'rous Vengeances have spar'd;
Well had they play'd the Machi'vilian Part,
And show'd, compendious Ruin was their Art,
While they taught Pharoah, with his Host, t'expire
At once in sulph'rous Clouds, and Hurricanes of Fire.
Great Potentate! whom Nations 'round shall know
The kindest Friend, or the severest Foe!
May Tow'rs, and Arms the Tyrant's Safe-guard prove;
Thy firmest Bulwarks be thy People's Love!
Think still true Greatness not a Meteor-Blaze,
And scorn Satiety of virtuous Praise!
Hence, not to Albion's Good alone confin'd,
Thy Soul takes in the Welfare of Mankind:
Volga un-curls his Waves at thy Commands,
And Taïo courts thy Smiles with golden Sands:
Kingdoms, howe'er dis-joyn'd, thy Influence share,
And a World's Commerce is a BRUNSWIC's Care.
The kindest Friend, or the severest Foe!
May Tow'rs, and Arms the Tyrant's Safe-guard prove;
Thy firmest Bulwarks be thy People's Love!
Think still true Greatness not a Meteor-Blaze,
And scorn Satiety of virtuous Praise!
Hence, not to Albion's Good alone confin'd,
Thy Soul takes in the Welfare of Mankind:
Volga un-curls his Waves at thy Commands,
And Taïo courts thy Smiles with golden Sands:
Kingdoms, howe'er dis-joyn'd, thy Influence share,
And a World's Commerce is a BRUNSWIC's Care.
Let the fond, flatter'd Prince at distance stray,
And waste with pamper'd Cardinals the Day!
Enjoy in Latium a fantastic Reign!
No forlorn Wretches tempt him o'er the Main!
Shimei but Kidron past, and Shimei then was slain!
And waste with pamper'd Cardinals the Day!
Enjoy in Latium a fantastic Reign!
No forlorn Wretches tempt him o'er the Main!
Shimei but Kidron past, and Shimei then was slain!
Listen!—Thy Cambridge Thee attempts to sing!
Thee, once her fav'rite Duke! Thee, now her fav'rite King!
Ah! check'd by Sorrows, she attempts in vain;
Lost is her Voice, and languid is her Strain!
When wilt Thou, present, her learn'd Mansions bless,
Chear each pal'd Grove, and gild each gloom'd Recess?
When shall she sudden, with a sweet Surprize,
Turn from thy beamy Face her dazl'd Eyes,
And hear Thee bid thy Sire's, and Thy Lycæum rise?
Thee, once her fav'rite Duke! Thee, now her fav'rite King!
Ah! check'd by Sorrows, she attempts in vain;
Lost is her Voice, and languid is her Strain!
When wilt Thou, present, her learn'd Mansions bless,
Chear each pal'd Grove, and gild each gloom'd Recess?
When shall she sudden, with a sweet Surprize,
Turn from thy beamy Face her dazl'd Eyes,
And hear Thee bid thy Sire's, and Thy Lycæum rise?
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Be still the same! still Glory's Paths pursue!
Improve the noble Plan, Thy Father drew!
He, He alone could Europe's Peace design,
Alone to perfect Europe's Peace is Thine!
Thus the Jessëan Monarch, in his Thought,
Of the first Temple the bright Model wrought;
Then stor'd Materials, gorgeous to behold,
Cedars, and Gems, and massy Bars of Gold!
The good, old King could go no farther on;
Heav'n had decreed that Glory to his Son:
A Dome, un-rival'd, claim'd th'un-rival'd Solomon!
Improve the noble Plan, Thy Father drew!
He, He alone could Europe's Peace design,
Alone to perfect Europe's Peace is Thine!
Thus the Jessëan Monarch, in his Thought,
Of the first Temple the bright Model wrought;
Then stor'd Materials, gorgeous to behold,
Cedars, and Gems, and massy Bars of Gold!
The good, old King could go no farther on;
Heav'n had decreed that Glory to his Son:
A Dome, un-rival'd, claim'd th'un-rival'd Solomon!
Here would the wearied Muse conclude her Song,
But, all around, sees a delightful Throng!
Thee, Walpole, Thee, bright with un-clouded Fame,
Joyous She hails once more, and hails Thee still the same!
If 'tis a Fault, still greatly to design,
Still in the Patriot-Cause the First to shine,
That Fault is glorious, and that Fault is Thine!
Close stands the gen'rous Townshend, near ally'd;
Nearer, by Toils for Albion's Safety, ty'd!
A Name! to all the Muses ever dear,
Who all the Muses condescends to hear!
Like Fame a Grafton, and Newcastle share;
Arts, and Britannia claim their mutual Care.
Again Mæcenas is in Dorset view'd,
And all the Sire shines in the Son re-new'd.
Thy Virtues, Greenwich, doubly bright are own'd,
Nor less in Councils, than in Fields renown'd.
If Sense, good Nature, Arts, thy Soul can fire,
Look up, and Devon silently admire!
Here, King, un-brib'd, un-rival'd, guides the Laws!
There, Love and Wonder, 'round, a Rutland draws!
Thy Judge with Pleasure, Lancaster, behold!
Scarce honour'd more, by Monarchs judg'd of old!
No wonder, Grantham seeks Britannia's Good;
His ev'ry Vein swells with Nassovian Blood!
Godolphin seems in ev'ry Act to grace
His own bright Saxon Line, and glorious Marlb'rough's Race!
In Hartford's Breast un-number'd Virtues meet,
The Heroe, and the Patriot to compleat:
Who can a greater Happiness desire?
All Hartford love, as Hartford All admire.
Fain would Hibernia Carteret call her own,
But Albion only lends her fav'rite Son.
Muse! to a Compton's Name attempt no Lays,
Where Senates strive in vain enough to praise.
Fam'd for Politeness, Gallia's Court shall yield
To the politer Turns of Chesterfield:
He talks, with native Ease, more poignant Wit,
Than e'er, by Study, her lov'd Boileau writ.
Lo! from the Banks of the cool, Northern Were,
Darts out a Light to glad the Southern Sphere!
In War, in Peace accomplish'd is thy Fame!
Who would not Scarb'rough know, without his Name?
Herbert in Merit, and in ev'ry Grace
Equals the Glories of his glorious Race:
A Race! no Stranger to Pierian Strains;
Donne sung a Herbert, Juliers, on thy Plains!
For un-stain'd Honour, and exalted Sense,
For a perpetual Flow of Eloquence,
Finch, with his Patriot-Brothers, well may seem
To Bards a noble, sweet, exhaustless Theme!
But ah! thy eager Praises, Muse, refrain!
Dang'rous the Glarings of a faithful Strain:
Thou might'st with Pleasure sing, what they would hear with Pain!
To Harvey Nature prodigal has been;
Adorn'd without, but more adorn'd within!
In him at once delightfully we trace
Apollo's Wit, with fair Apollo's Face.
In Oxenden, with British Graces, bloom
Athenian Brightness, and the Flow'rs of Rome:
Thy Honours never can the World surprize,
Since still Desert shall o'er thy Honours rise.
O Berkley! youngest of that shining Name,
Yet long a Fav'rite to the Voice of Fame!
'Tis from Thy-self alone thy Merit springs,
Tho' thy great Lineage rose in Dania's Kings.
Proud looks the Muse!—nor let the Muse offend,
If She with Pride a Hobart boasts her Friend!
Hail Patriot! with all Arts divinely fraught!
Late in my Verse, but early in my Thought!
Not Homer, such in Form, his Nireus drew,
Nor Virgil's Heroe half thy Virtues knew.
Thy Character no fairer can improve;
Be still thy Country's, still thy Monarch's Love.
But, all around, sees a delightful Throng!
Thee, Walpole, Thee, bright with un-clouded Fame,
Joyous She hails once more, and hails Thee still the same!
If 'tis a Fault, still greatly to design,
Still in the Patriot-Cause the First to shine,
That Fault is glorious, and that Fault is Thine!
Close stands the gen'rous Townshend, near ally'd;
Nearer, by Toils for Albion's Safety, ty'd!
A Name! to all the Muses ever dear,
Who all the Muses condescends to hear!
Like Fame a Grafton, and Newcastle share;
Arts, and Britannia claim their mutual Care.
Again Mæcenas is in Dorset view'd,
And all the Sire shines in the Son re-new'd.
Thy Virtues, Greenwich, doubly bright are own'd,
Nor less in Councils, than in Fields renown'd.
If Sense, good Nature, Arts, thy Soul can fire,
Look up, and Devon silently admire!
Here, King, un-brib'd, un-rival'd, guides the Laws!
There, Love and Wonder, 'round, a Rutland draws!
Thy Judge with Pleasure, Lancaster, behold!
Scarce honour'd more, by Monarchs judg'd of old!
No wonder, Grantham seeks Britannia's Good;
His ev'ry Vein swells with Nassovian Blood!
16
His own bright Saxon Line, and glorious Marlb'rough's Race!
In Hartford's Breast un-number'd Virtues meet,
The Heroe, and the Patriot to compleat:
Who can a greater Happiness desire?
All Hartford love, as Hartford All admire.
Fain would Hibernia Carteret call her own,
But Albion only lends her fav'rite Son.
Muse! to a Compton's Name attempt no Lays,
Where Senates strive in vain enough to praise.
Fam'd for Politeness, Gallia's Court shall yield
To the politer Turns of Chesterfield:
He talks, with native Ease, more poignant Wit,
Than e'er, by Study, her lov'd Boileau writ.
Lo! from the Banks of the cool, Northern Were,
Darts out a Light to glad the Southern Sphere!
In War, in Peace accomplish'd is thy Fame!
Who would not Scarb'rough know, without his Name?
Herbert in Merit, and in ev'ry Grace
Equals the Glories of his glorious Race:
A Race! no Stranger to Pierian Strains;
Donne sung a Herbert, Juliers, on thy Plains!
For un-stain'd Honour, and exalted Sense,
For a perpetual Flow of Eloquence,
Finch, with his Patriot-Brothers, well may seem
To Bards a noble, sweet, exhaustless Theme!
But ah! thy eager Praises, Muse, refrain!
Dang'rous the Glarings of a faithful Strain:
Thou might'st with Pleasure sing, what they would hear with Pain!
To Harvey Nature prodigal has been;
Adorn'd without, but more adorn'd within!
In him at once delightfully we trace
Apollo's Wit, with fair Apollo's Face.
In Oxenden, with British Graces, bloom
Athenian Brightness, and the Flow'rs of Rome:
Thy Honours never can the World surprize,
Since still Desert shall o'er thy Honours rise.
17
Yet long a Fav'rite to the Voice of Fame!
'Tis from Thy-self alone thy Merit springs,
Tho' thy great Lineage rose in Dania's Kings.
Proud looks the Muse!—nor let the Muse offend,
If She with Pride a Hobart boasts her Friend!
Hail Patriot! with all Arts divinely fraught!
Late in my Verse, but early in my Thought!
Not Homer, such in Form, his Nireus drew,
Nor Virgil's Heroe half thy Virtues knew.
Thy Character no fairer can improve;
Be still thy Country's, still thy Monarch's Love.
Un-number'd, glorious Themes I should pursue,
But my Strength fails, as op'ning Scenes I view,
And scarce can Breath suffice to bid my King Adieu!
But my Strength fails, as op'ning Scenes I view,
And scarce can Breath suffice to bid my King Adieu!
By Thee, thy Father's Death not glads his Foes;
So Philip fell, so Alexander rose!
By Thee, blest Albion, Albion still remains,
And no new Ruler feels from alter'd Reins.
Tir'd Atlas thus fresh Hercules reliev'd,
And Nature, un-confus'd, no Change perceiv'd:
Un-shaken Spheres in their first Orbits run,
And the same Planets danc'd, harmonious, 'round the Sun!
So Philip fell, so Alexander rose!
By Thee, blest Albion, Albion still remains,
And no new Ruler feels from alter'd Reins.
Tir'd Atlas thus fresh Hercules reliev'd,
And Nature, un-confus'd, no Change perceiv'd:
Un-shaken Spheres in their first Orbits run,
And the same Planets danc'd, harmonious, 'round the Sun!
| Three poems | |