Poems on Several Occasions By Henry Jones |
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On his Excellency the Earl of Chesterfield's
Arrival in Ireland.
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
On his Excellency the Earl of Chesterfield's Arrival in Ireland.
Amidst th'Applause which Art and Learning brings,
Listen, O Stanhope, to what Nature sings;
Tho' rude the Notes, yet noble is the Choice;
The Subject only can support the Voice.
Illustrious Guest! whose happy Wisdom's known
To Belgian Councils, as to Britain's Throne;
Whose Tongue inspir'd an unresolving State,
And fix'd Britannia's as Europa's Fate:
Fir'd with the Glories of thy splendid Name,
Thro' various Climates still pursu'd by Fame,
To thee a Muse, untaught in Latian Lays,
Or Grecian stile, her Voice obscure would raise;
Wrapt in the Theme sublime, would proudly soar,
And sound thy Welcome to her native Shore.
Thee even Factions with one Voice require,
And Heav'n and George indulge the strong Desire.
See bending Crowds with willing Hearts obey,
And grateful own the delegated Sway.
Tho' ne'er great Brunswick to Hibernia rise,
But shines afar, and gladdens other Skies;
His godlike Pow'r beneficent we view,
Effulgent, and reflected all from you.
Lo, thus the Silver Substitute of Day,
Supplies his Absence with a borrow'd Ray;
O'er the gay Globe, with gentle Beam presides;
Chears the wild Waste, and rules the teeming Tides
Whose heaving Bosom swells the public Store
With Wealth and Plenty from each distant Shore.
In Expectation flocks the tuneful Throng,
And glows to hail thee with a grateful Song:
As Birds, exulting on the eager Wing,
Salute the Dawnings of the gladsome Spring;
Their pouring Throats employ from Spray to Spray,
To greet the Sun, and bless the genial Day.
Each raptur'd Muse shall now resume her Lyre,
Swell the full Chords, and sweep the sounding Wire.
Sacred to thee the melting Strains shall flow;
To thee the Numbers, and the Strains they owe.
Listen, O Stanhope, to what Nature sings;
Tho' rude the Notes, yet noble is the Choice;
The Subject only can support the Voice.
Illustrious Guest! whose happy Wisdom's known
To Belgian Councils, as to Britain's Throne;
Whose Tongue inspir'd an unresolving State,
And fix'd Britannia's as Europa's Fate:
Fir'd with the Glories of thy splendid Name,
Thro' various Climates still pursu'd by Fame,
2
Or Grecian stile, her Voice obscure would raise;
Wrapt in the Theme sublime, would proudly soar,
And sound thy Welcome to her native Shore.
Thee even Factions with one Voice require,
And Heav'n and George indulge the strong Desire.
See bending Crowds with willing Hearts obey,
And grateful own the delegated Sway.
Tho' ne'er great Brunswick to Hibernia rise,
But shines afar, and gladdens other Skies;
His godlike Pow'r beneficent we view,
Effulgent, and reflected all from you.
Lo, thus the Silver Substitute of Day,
Supplies his Absence with a borrow'd Ray;
O'er the gay Globe, with gentle Beam presides;
Chears the wild Waste, and rules the teeming Tides
Whose heaving Bosom swells the public Store
With Wealth and Plenty from each distant Shore.
In Expectation flocks the tuneful Throng,
And glows to hail thee with a grateful Song:
As Birds, exulting on the eager Wing,
Salute the Dawnings of the gladsome Spring;
Their pouring Throats employ from Spray to Spray,
To greet the Sun, and bless the genial Day.
Each raptur'd Muse shall now resume her Lyre,
Swell the full Chords, and sweep the sounding Wire.
Sacred to thee the melting Strains shall flow;
To thee the Numbers, and the Strains they owe.
Thrice happy Genius, in whose Soul conspire
The Statesman's Wisdom, and the Poet's Fire;
O Friend to Arts! revive our drooping Isle,
And make those Arts by thy Indulgence smile:
Ev'n here, thy Presence shall their Strength restore,
Tho' Congreve, Steele, Roscommon, are no more;
Tho' Morrice, modest, hides his heav'nly Strains,
And Britain's Senate noble Boyle detains;
Tho' Swift be dumb; for Swift Ierne weeps,
The Pride, the Parent of his Country, sleeps:
His clouded Soul now darts no dazling Ray,
And faintly warms the animated Clay:
Not Rome's sad Ruins such Impressions leave,
As Reason bury'd in the Body's Grave:
His living Lines shall mix their sacred Fire
In Nature's Blaze, and with thy Works expire.
The Statesman's Wisdom, and the Poet's Fire;
3
And make those Arts by thy Indulgence smile:
Ev'n here, thy Presence shall their Strength restore,
Tho' Congreve, Steele, Roscommon, are no more;
Tho' Morrice, modest, hides his heav'nly Strains,
And Britain's Senate noble Boyle detains;
Tho' Swift be dumb; for Swift Ierne weeps,
The Pride, the Parent of his Country, sleeps:
His clouded Soul now darts no dazling Ray,
And faintly warms the animated Clay:
Not Rome's sad Ruins such Impressions leave,
As Reason bury'd in the Body's Grave:
His living Lines shall mix their sacred Fire
In Nature's Blaze, and with thy Works expire.
Nor you, great Sir, on these weak Numbers frown,
Which mourn a Swift, and sing thy just Renown:
Such Strains, alas! as my unletter'd Hand,
Trembling would reach thee on the crowded Strand:
But thronging Thousands intercept my Way,
And deaf'ning Io's drown my feeble Lay.
Yet, if a Moment from the Toils of State,
And all the Burthen of a Kingdom's Weight,
Some little Leisure to the Muse you lend,
(Each leisure Moment is the Muse's Friend)
Permit, my Lord, that my unpolish'd Lays,
May hope for Pardon, tho' they fail to please.
Which mourn a Swift, and sing thy just Renown:
Such Strains, alas! as my unletter'd Hand,
Trembling would reach thee on the crowded Strand:
But thronging Thousands intercept my Way,
And deaf'ning Io's drown my feeble Lay.
Yet, if a Moment from the Toils of State,
And all the Burthen of a Kingdom's Weight,
Some little Leisure to the Muse you lend,
(Each leisure Moment is the Muse's Friend)
Permit, my Lord, that my unpolish'd Lays,
May hope for Pardon, tho' they fail to please.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |