Occasional Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

------ En erit unquam
Ille Dies, mihi cum liceat tua dicere facta!
En erit, ut liceat totum mihi ferre per Orbem,
Sola Sophocleo tua Carmina digna Cothurno!
Virg.

To the gay Town where guilty Pleasure reigns,
The wise good Man prefers our humble Plains:
Neglected Honours on his Merit wait,
Here he retires when courted to be Great,
The World resigning for this calm Retreat.
His Soul with Wisdom's choicest Treasures fraught,
Here proves in practice each sublimer Thought,
And lives by Rules his happy Pen has taught.

Great Bard! how shall my worthless Muse aspire
To reach your Praise, without your sacred Fire?
From the judicious Critick's piercing Eyes,
To the best-natur'd Man secure she flies.

When panting Virtue her last Efforts made,
You brought your Clio to the Virgin's Aid;
Presumptuous Folly blush'd, and Vice withdrew,
To Vengeance yielding her abandon'd Crew.
'Tis true, confed'rate Wits their Forces join,
Parnassus labours in the Work divine:
Yet these we read with too impatient Eyes,
And hunt for you thro' ev'ry dark Disguise;
In vain your Modesty that Name conceals,
Which ev'ry Thought, which ev'ry Word reveals.

With like Success, bright Beauty's Goddess tries
To veil immortal Charms from mortal Eyes;
Her graceful Port, and her celestial Mien,
To her brave Son betray the Cyprian Queen;
Odours divine perfume her rosy Breast,
She glides along the Plain in Majesty confess'd.
Hard was the Task, and worthy your great Mind,
To please at once, and to reform Mankind:
Yet when you write, Truth charms with such Address,
Pleads Virtue's Cause with such becoming Grace,
His own fond Heart the guilty Wretch betrays,
He yields delighted, and convinc'd obeys:
You touch our Follies with so nice a Skill,
Nature and Habit prompt in vain to Ill.
Nor can it lessen the Spectator's Praise,
That from your friendly Hand he wears the Bays;

His great Design all Ages shall commend,
But more his happy Choice in such a Friend.
So the fair Queen of Night the World relieves,
Nor at the Sun's superiour Honour grieves,
Proud to reflect the Glories she receives.

When dark Oblivion is the Warrior's Lot,
His Merits censur'd, and his Wounds forgot;
When burnish'd Helms, and gilded Armour rust,
And each proud Trophy sinks in common Dust:
Fresh blooming Honours deck the Poet's Brows,
He shares the mighty Blessings he bestows,
His spreading Fame enlarges as it flows.
Had not your Muse in her immortal Strain
Describ'd the glorious Toils on Blenheim's Plain,
Ev'n Marlbro' might have fought, and Dormer bled in vain.

When Honour calls, and the just Cause inspires,
Britain's bold Sons to emulate their Sires;
Your Muse these great Examples shall supply,
Like that to conquer, or like this to die.

Contending Nations antient Homer claim,
And Mantua glories in her Maro's Name;
Our happier Soil the Prize shall yield to none,
Ardenna's Groves shall boast an Addison.
Ye—Silvan Powers, and all ye rural Gods,
That guard these peaceful Shades, and blest Abodes;
For your new Guest your choicest Gifts prepare,
Exceed his Wishes, and prevent his Pray'r;
Grant him Propitious, Freedom, Health, and Peace,
And as his Virtues, let his Stores increase.

His lavish Hand no Deity shall mourn,
The pious Bard shall make a just Return;
In lasting Verse eternal Altars raise,
And over-pay your Bounty with his Praise.

Tune ev'ry Reed, touch ev'ry String, ye Swains,
Welcome the Stranger to these happy Plains,
With Hymns of Joy in solemn Pomp attend
Apollo's Darling, and the Muses Friend.

Ye Nymphs that haunt the Streams and shady Groves,
Forget a while to mourn your absent Loves;
In Song and sportive Dance your Joy proclaim,
In yielding Blushes own your rising Flame,
Be kind, ye Nymphs, nor let him sigh in vain.

Each Land remote your curious Eye has view'd,
That Grecian Arts, or Roman Arms subdu'd;
Search'd ev'ry Region, ev'ry distant Soil,
With pleasing Labour, and instructive Toil:
Say then, accomplish'd Bard! What God inclin'd
To these our humble Plains your gen'rous Mind?
Nor would you deign in Latian Fields to dwell,
Which none know better, or describe so well.
In vain Ambrosial Fruits invite your Stay,
In vain the Myrtle Groves obstruct your Way,
And ductile Streams that round the Borders stray.
Your wiser Choice prefers this Spot of Earth,
Distinguish'd by th' immortal Shakespear's Birth;
Where thro' the Vales the fair Avona glides,
And nourishes the Glebe with fat'ning Tides;

Flora's rich Gifts deck all the verdant Soil,
And Plenty crowns the happy Farmer's Toil.
Here, on the painted Borders of the Flood,
The Babe was born; his Bed with Roses strow'd:
Here in an ancient venerable Dome,
Oppress'd with Grief, we view the Poet's Tomb.
Angels unseen watch o'er his hallow'd Urn,
And in soft Elegies complaining mourn:
While the bless'd Saint in loftier Strains above,
Reveals the Wonders of eternal Love.
The Heav'ns delighted in his tuneful Lays,
With silent Joy attend their Maker's Praise.
In Heav'n he sings; on Earth your Muse supplies
Th' important Loss, and heals our weeping Eyes.
Correctly great, she melts each flinty Heart,
With equal Genius, but superior Art.
Hail, happy Pair! ordain'd by turns to bless,
And save a sinking Nation in Distress.

By great Examples to reform the Croud,
Awake their Zeal, and warm their frozen Blood.
When Brutus strikes for Liberty and Laws,
Nor spares a Father in his Country's Cause;
Justice severe applauds the cruel Deed,
A Tyrant suffers, and the World is freed.
But, when we see the Godlike Cato bleed,
The Nation weeps; and from thy Fate, Oh Rome!
Learns to prevent her own impending Doom.
Where is the Wretch a worthless Life can prize,
When Senates are no more, and Cato dies?
Indulgent Sorrow, and a pleasing Pain,
Heaves in each Breast, and beats in ev'ry Vein.
Th' expiring Patriot animates the Crowd,
Bold they demand their ancient Rights aloud,
The dear-bought Purchase of their Fathers Blood.
Fair Liberty her Head Majestick rears,
Ten thousand Blessings in her Bosom bears;

Serene she smiles, revealing all her Charms,
And calls her Free-born Youth to glorious Arms.
Faction's repell'd, and grumbling, leaves her Prey,
Forlorn she sits, and dreads the fatal Day,
When Eastern Gales shall sweep her Hopes away.
Such ardent Zeal your Muse alone could raise,
Alone reward it with immortal Praise.
Ages to come shall celebrate your Fame,
And rescu'd Britain bless the Poet's Name.
So when the dreaded Pow'rs of Sparta fail'd,
Tyrtæus and Athenian Wit prevail'd.
Too weak the Laws by wise Lycurgus made,
And Rules severe without the Muses Aid:
He touch'd the trembling Strings, the Poet's Song
Reviv'd the Faint, and made the Feeble strong;

Recall'd the Living to the dusty Plain,
And to a better Life restor'd the Slain.
The Victor-Host amaz'd, with Horror view'd
Th' assembling Troops, and all the War renew'd;
To more than mortal Courage quit the Field,
And to their Foes th' unfinish'd Trophies yield.

The Letters which mark'd the Spectators writ by Mr. Addison.

Vid. Virg. Æneid. Lib. 1.

In the Saxon Times part of this County was called the Forest of Arden.

At Stratford upon Avon, where Shakespear was born, and buried.

The Wind that was to bring over the Hanover Succession.