Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

It has by pedants been insisted long
(For pedants will insist, or right or wrong)
“That modern times with ancient can't compare
“For active Virtue, or for Genius rare.”
They will pretend, “that Courage is no more;
“That Justice, Wisdom on no modern shore,
“Or godlike Fortitude presumes to tread.”
But chief they say “that Piety is fled.”
Why should I, vainly, tire the sacred Muse,
Examples of our valour to produce?
For sure no Briton warm'd with vital blood
Has yet forgot the great and glorious Hood;
Whose naval thunder, in just vengeance, hurl'd
The foes of Britain to the Stygian world.

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For Justice, Wisdom, Fortitude of mind,
What need the Muses more examples find?
Has it not long to all the world been known,
That each conspicuous shines on Britain's throne?
In the Third George, in whom we see combin'd,
Ah, mix'd but seldom in one godlike mind!
The private virtues and the ruling art,
The patriot's feelings and the hero's heart.
For Piety, to prove that we excel,
What need I more than two short stories tell?

'Tis said by Homer, (and there's none so bold,
I hope, will dare deny what Homer told)
When the bright goddess of the sportive eye
Rush'd from the heav'ns to save the Chief of Troy,
The great Æneas, her much honour'd boy!
Bold Diomed (for ancient virtue fam'd!)
With sacrilegious hand the goddess maim'd;
His thirsty falchion drank celestial blood,
And stain'd the field with an immortal flood.
In vain her silver skin his eye detains,
And the bright azure of her mantling veins;
In vain her eyes the tender languish shed;
In vain her panting bosom heaving spread;

178

In vain her ringlets flow'd with graceful ease;
Vain was she form'd to captivate and please;
Nor charms nor yet divinity could save.
Insensate ruffian! to his rage a slave!
Nor sex, nor sanctity his ire withstand;
He plung'd his sword within her lily hand.

But when of late the goddess deign'd to grace
Sophronia's wedding with her smiling face,
As in the car triumphant back she roll'd,
(Oh happy car, her heav'nly form to hold!)
And sought in Croydon's shade her calm retreat,
A practis'd robber chanc'd her way to meet.
On plunder bent, and eager to despoil,
The startled ruffian own'd the heav'nly smile.
The sprightly lustre of her sparkling eye,
The locks where thousand loves in ambush lie,
The soft smooth skin, as downy cygnets white,
The sanguine blush, than damask rose more bright,
The coral lips, whence sweets ambrosial stray,
The winning graces that around her play,
The smile celestial, and the mien divine;—
When all these charms upon the caitiff shine,
The proffer'd spoils his conscious hands reject,
O'er-aw'd and soften'd by divine respect.

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Then pedants say, are old or modern times
More fam'd for daring and for impious crimes?
The Queen of Love an ancient hero wounds,
That with her anguish heav'n's high roof resounds;
A modern plund'rer owns the sacred smile,
Trembling o'er-aw'd, nor even dares to spoil.