University of Virginia Library

1.

Born near Avona's winding Stream
I touch the trembling Lyre,
No vulgar Thoughts, no vulgar Theme
Shall the bold Muse inspire.
'Tis Immortality's her Aim;
Sublime she mounts the Skies,
She climbs the steep Ascent to Fame,
Nor ever shall want Force to rise,
While she supports her Flight with Stanhope's Name.
What tho' Majestick Milton stands alone
Inimitably great!
Bow low, ye Bards, at his exalted Throne,
And lay your Labours at his Feet;
Capacious Soul! whose boundless Thoughts survey
Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Sea;
Lo! where th' embattel'd Gods appear,
The Mountains from their Seats they tear,
And shake th' Empyreal Heav'ns with impious War.
Yet, nor shall Milton's Ghost repine
At all the Honours we bestow
On Addison's deserving Brow,
By whom convinc'd, we own his Work divine,
Whose skilful Pen has done his Merit right,
And set the Jewel in a fairer Light.
Enliven'd by his bright Essay
Each flow'ry Scene appears more gay,
New Beauties spring in Eden's fertile Groves,
And by his Culture Paradise improves.
Garth by Apollo doubly bless'd
Is by the God entire possess'd,
Age unwilling to depart
Begs Life from his prevailing Skill:
Youth reviving from his Art,
Borrows its Charms, and Pow'r to kill.
But when the Patriot's injur'd Fame,
His Country's Honour, or his Friends
A more extensive Bounty claim,
With Joy the ready Muse attends,
Immortal Honours she bestows,
A Gift the Muse alone can give,
She crowns the glorious Victor's Brows,
And bids expiring Virtue live.
Nymphs yet unborn shall melt with am'rous Flames
That Congreve's Lays inspire;
And Philips warm the gentle Swains
To Love and soft Desire.
Ah! shun, ye Fair, the dang'rous Sounds,
Alas! each moving Accent wounds,
The Sparks conceal'd revive again
The God restor'd, resumes his Reign,
In killing Joys and pleasing Pain.
Thus does each Bard in diff'rent Garb appear,
Each Muse has her peculiar Air,
And in Propriety of Dress becomes more fair;
To each impartial Providence
Well-chosen Gifts bestows,
He varies his Munificence,
And in divided Streams the heav'nly Blessing flows.

2.

If we look back on Ages past and gone,
When infant Time his Race begun,
The distant View still lessens to our Sight,
Obscur'd in Clouds, and veil'd in Shades of Night.
The Muse alone can the dark Scenes display,
Enlarge the Prospect, and disclose the Day.
'Tis she the Records of Times past explores,
And the dead Hero to new Life restores,
To the Brave Man who for his Country died,
Erects a lasting Pyramid,
Supports his Dignity and Fame,
When mould'ring Pillars drop his Name.
In full Proportion leads her Warrior forth,
Discovers his neglected Worth,
Brightens his Deeds, by envious Rust o'ercast,
T'improve the present Age, and vindicate the past.
Did not the Muse our crying Wrongs repeat,
Ages to come no more shou'd know
Of Lewis by Oppression great
Than we of Nimrod now,
The Meteor should but blaze and die,
Depriv'd of the Reward of endless Infamy.
Ev'n that Brave Chief, who set the Nations free,
The greatest Name the World can boast,
Without the Muse's Aid shall be
Sunk in the Tide of Time, and in Oblivion lost.
The Sculptor's Hand may make the Marble live,
Or the bold Pencil trace
The Wonders of that lovely Face,
Where ev'ry Charm, and ev'ry Grace,
That Man can wish, or Heav'n can give,
In happy Union join'd, confess
The Hero born to conquer, and to bless.
Yet vain, alas! is ev'ry Art,
Till the great Work the Muse compleat,
And everlasting Fame impart,
That soars aloft, above the Reach of Fate.
Hail happy Bard! on whom the Gods bestow
A Genius equal to the vast Design,
Whose Thoughts sublime, in easy Numbers flow,
While Marlbro's Virtues animate each Line.
How shall our trembling Souls survey
The Horrors of each bloody Day?
The wreaking Carnage of the Plain
Incumber'd with the mighty Slain,
The strange Variety of Death,
And the sad Murmurs of departing Breath?
Scamander's Streams shall yield to Danube's Flood,
To the dark Bosom of the Deep pursu'd
By fiercer Flames, and stain'd with nobler Blood.
The Gods shall arm on either side,
Th' important Quarrel to decide:
The grand Event embroil the Realms above,
And Faction revel in the Court of Jove;
While Heav'n, and Earth, and Sea and Air,
Shall feel the mighty Shock and Labour of the War.

3.

Virtue conceal'd obscurely dies,
Lost in the mean Disguise
Of abject Sloth, depress'd, unknown.
Rough in its native Bed the unwrought Diamond lies,
Till Chance, or Art, reveal its Worth,
And call its latent Glories forth;
But when its radiant Charms are view'd,
Becomes the Idol of the Croud,
And adds new Lustre to the Monarch's Crown.
What British Harp can lie unstrung,
When Stanhope's Fame demands a Song?
Upwards, ye Muses, take your wanton Flight,
Tune ev'ry Lyre to Stanhope's Praise,
Exert your most triumphant Lays,
Nor suffer such Heroick Deeds to sink in endless Night.
The golden Tagus shall forget to flow,
And Ebro leave its Channel dry,
E'er Stanhope's Name to Time shall bow,
And lost in dark Oblivion lie.
Where shall the Muse begin her airy Flight?
Where first direct her dubious Way?
Lost in Variety of Light,
And dazled in Excess of Day.
Wisdom, and Valour, Probity, and Truth,
At once upon the labouring Fancy throng,
The Conduct of old Age, the Fire of Youth,
United in one Breast perplex the Poet's Song.
Those Virtues which dispers'd and rare
The Gods too thriftily bestow'd,
And scatter'd to amuse the Croud,
When former Heroes were their Care,
T'exert at once their Pow'r divine
In thee, Brave Chief, collected shine.
So from each lovely blooming Face
Th' ambitious Artist stole a Grace,
When in one finish'd Piece he strove
To paint th' all-glorious Queen of Love.
Thy provident unbiass'd Mind
Knowing in Arts of Peace, and War,
With indefatigable Care,
Labours the Good of Human Kind:
Erect in Dangers, modest in Success,
Corruption's everlasting Bane,
Where injur'd Merit finds Redress,
And worthless Villains wait in vain.
Tho' fawning Knaves besiege thy Gate,
And court the honest Man they hate;
Thy steady Virtue charges through,
Alike unerring to subdue,
As when on Almanara's Plain the scatter'd Squadrons flew.
Vain are th' Attacks of Force or Art,
Where Cæsar's Arm defends a Cato's Heart.
Oh! could thy gen'rous Soul dispense
Through this unrighteous Age its sacred Influence;
Could the base Crowd from thy Example learn
To trample on their impious Gifts with Scorn,
With Shame confounded to behold
A Nation for a Trifle sold,
Dejected Senates should no more
Their Champion's Absence mourn,
Contending Boroughs should thy Name return;
Thy bold Philippicks should restore
Britannia's Wealth, and Pow'r and Fame,
Nor Liberty be deem'd an empty Name,
While Tyrants trembled on a foreign Shore.
No swelling Titles, Pomp, and State,
The Trappings of a Magistrate,
Can dignify a Slave, or make a Traytor great.
For, careless of external Show,
Sage Nature dictates whom t'obey,
And we the ready Homage pay,
Which to superior Gifts we owe.
Merit like thine repuls'd an Empire gains,
And Virtue, tho' neglected, reigns.
The Wretch is indigent and poor,
Who brooding sits o'er his ill-gotten Store;
Trembling with Guilt, and haunted by his Sin,
He feels the rigid Judge within.
But they alone are bless'd, who wisely know
T'enjoy the little which the Gods bestow,
Proud of their glorious Wants, disdain
To barter Honesty for Gain;
No other Ill but Shame they fear,
And scorn to purchase Life too dear:
Profusely lavish of their Blood,
For their dear Friends or Country's Good,
If Britain conquer, can rejoice in Death,
And in triumphant Shouts resign their Breath.