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Then levell’d quite, whilst yet alive,
Though vice by no superior joys The monarch and his slare;
Her heroes keeps in pay ; Not wait enlighten'd miuds to learn
Through pure disinterested love That lesson from the grave :
Of ruin they obey ! A George the Third would then be low
Strict their devotion to the wrong, As Lewis in renown,
Though tempted by no prize; Could he not boast of glory more
Hard their commandments, and their creed Than sparkles from a crown.
A magazine of lyes When human glory rises high
From fancy's forge: gay fancy smiles As human glory can ;
At reason plain, and cool; When, though the king is truly great,
Fancy, whose curious trade it is Still greater is the man;
To make the finest fool. The man is dead, where virtue fails;
Voltaire ! long life's the greatest curse And though the monarch proud
That mortals can receive, In grandeur shines, his gorgeous robe
When they imagine the chief end Is but a gaudy shroud.
Of living is to live;
That birth-day of their sorrow !
Nor crush them till-to morrow,
These are cold, northern thoughts, conceir'd Worms feast on viands rare,
Beneath an humble cot; Those little epicures have king's
Not mine, your genius, or your state, To grace their bill of fare:
No castle is my lotil, From kings what resignation due
But soon, quite level shall we lie; To that almighty will,
And, what pride most bemoans, Which thrones bestows, and, when they fail, Our parts, in rank so distant now, Can throne them higher still !
As level as our bones; Who truly great ? The good and brave,
Hear you that sound? Alarming sound! The masters of a mind The will divine to do resolv’d,
Prepare to meet your fate!
One, who writes FINIS to our works, To suffer it resign'd.
Is knocking at the gate; Madam ! if that may give it weight,
Far other works will soon be weighd;
Far other judges sit;
Far other crowns be lost or won,
Than fire ambitious wit :
Their wit far brightest will be pror'd,
Who sunk it in good sense ;
And veneration most profound
Of dread Omnipotence.
'Tis that alone unlocks the gate
Of blest eternity; Such thoughts will be your own.
O! mayst thou never, never lose
That more than golden key's!
Whate'er may seem too rough excuse,
Your good I have at heart : Should blame Voltaire the wise :
Since from my soul I wish you well; Fame's trumpet rattling in your ear,
As yet we must not part: Now, makes us disagree;
Shall you, and I, in love with life, When a far louder trumpet sounds,
Life's future schemes contrive, Voltaire will close with me :
The world in wonder not unjust, How shocking is that modesty,
That we are still alive? Which keeps some honest men
What have we left ? How mean in man From urging what their hearts suggest,
A shadow's shade to crave ! When brav'd by folly's pen
When life, so vain! is vainer still, Assaulting truths, of which in all
'Tis time to take your leave : Is sown the sacred seed !
Happier, than happiest life, is death, Our constitution's orthodox,
Who falling in the field And closes with our creed :
Of conflict with his rebel will,
Writes vici, on his shield;
!! Letter to lord Lyttelton And labour to be lost!
13 Alluding to Prussia.
So falling man, immortal heir
Madam ! self-will inflicts your pains : Of an eternal prize;
Self-will's the deadly foe Undaunted at the gloomy grave,
Which deepens all the dismal shades, Descends into the skies.
And points the shafts of woe: O! how disorder'd our machine,
Your debt to nature fully paid, When contradictions mix !
Now virtue claims her due : When Nature strikes no less than twelve,
But virtue's cause I need not plead, And folly points at six !
'Tis safe; I write to you: To mend the moments of your heart,
You know, that virtue's basis lies How great is my delight
In ever judging right; Gently to wind your morals op,
And wiping errour's clouds away, And set your hand aright!
Which dim the inental sight : That hand, which spread your wisdom wide
Why mourn the dead? you wrong the grave, To poison distant lands:
From storm that safe resort ; Repent, recant; the tainted age
We are still tossing out at sea, Your antidote demands;
Our admiral in port.
Was death denied, this world, a scene
How dismal and forlorn !
To death we owe, that 't is to man
A blessing to be born;
When every other blessing fails, Men's praise your vanity pursues ;
Or sapp'd by slow decay, "Tis well, pursue it still; But let it be of men deceas'd,
Or, storm'd by sudden blasts of fate,
Is swiftly whirld away; And you 'll resign the will ;
How happy! that no storm, or time, And how superior they to those
Of death can rob the just ! At whose applause you aim;
None pluck from their unaching heads How very far superior they
Soft pillows in the dust! In number, and in name!
Well pleas'd to bear Heaven's darkest frown,
Your utmost power employ;
'Tis noble chemistry to turn POSTSCRIPT.
Necessity to joy. Thus have I written, when to write
Whate'er the colour of my fate, No mortal should presume;
My fate shall be my choice : Or only write, what none can blame,
Determin'd am I, whilst I breathe, Hic jacet—for his tomb :
To praise and to rejoice; The public frowns, and censures loud
What ample cause! triumphant hope ! My puerile employ ;
O rich eternity! Though just the censure, if you smile,
I start not at a world in fames, The scandal I enjoy ;
Charm'd with one glimpse of thee: But sing no more—no more I sing
And thou! its great inhabitant ! Or reassume the lyre,
How glorious dost thou shine! Unless vouchsaf'd an humble part
And dart through sorrow, danger, death, Where Raphael leads the choir:
A beam of joy divine ! What myriads swell the concert loud !
The void of joy (with some concern Their golden harps resound
The truth severe I tell) High, as the footstool of the throne,
Is an impenitent in guilt, And deep, as Hell profound :
A fool or infidel! Hell (horrid contrast !) chord and song
Weigh this, ye pupils of Voltaire ! Of raptur'd angels drowns
From joyless murmur free; In self-will's peal of blasphemies,
Or, let us know, which character And hideous burst of groans ;
Shall crown you of the three. But drowns them not to me; I hear
Resign, resign: this lesson none Harmonious thunders roll
Too deeply can instill ; (In language low of men to speak)
A crown has been resign'd by more, From echoing pole to pole!
Than have resign'd the will; Whilst this grand chorus shakes the skies Though will resign'd the meanest makes “ Above, beneath the Sun,
Superior in renown, Through boundless age, by men, by gods,
And richer in celestial eyes, Jehovah's will be done !.”
Than he who wears a crown ; 'Tis done in Heaven ; whence headlong hurl'd Hence, in the bosom cold of age, Self-will with Satan fell;
It kindled a strange aim And must from Earth be banish'd too,
To shine in song; and bid me boast Or Earth's another Hell ;
The grandeur of my theme :
But oh! how far presumption falls
Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot Its lofty theme below!
The Sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot. Our thoughts in life's December freeze,
I sing—but ah! my theme I need not tell, And numbers cease to flow.
See every eye with conscious sorrow swell : First ! greatest! best! grant what I wrote
Who now to verse would raise his humble voice, For others, ne'er may rise
Can only show his duty, not his choice. To brand the writer! thou alone
How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain ! Canst make our wisdom wise ;
We languish, and to speak is to complain.
Let us look back, (for who too oft can view And how unwise ! how deep in guilt!
That most illustrious scene, for ever new!) How infamous the fault!
See all the seasons shine on Anna's throne, “A teacher thron'd in pomp of words,
And pay a constant tribute, not their own. Indeed, beneath the taught!”
Her summer's heats nor fruits alone bestow,
They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe; Means most infallible to make
And when black storms confess the distant Sun, The world an infidel;
Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won. And, with instructions most divine,
Revolving pleasures in their turns appear, To pare a path to Hell;
And triumphs are the product of the year. O! for a clean and ardent heart,
To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease, 0! for a soul on fire,
And glorious victory is lost in peace. Thy praise, begun on Earth, to sound
Whence this profusion on our favour'd isle ? Where angels string the lyre ;
Did partial fortune on our virtue smile ? How cold is man! to him how hard
Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand, (Hard, what most easy seeins)
Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land? “ To set a just esteem on that,
Ungrateful Britain ! quit thy groundless claim, Which yet he-most esteems!”
Thy queen and thy good fortune are the same.
Kear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky i What shall we say, when boundless bliss
'Tis Anna reigns! the Gallic squadrons fly. Is offer'd to mankind,
We spread our canvass to the southern shore; And to that offer when a race
'Tis Anna reigns! the South resigns her store, Of rationals is blind ?
Her virtue smooths the tumult of the main, Of human nature ne'er too high
And swells the field with monntains of the slain. Are our ideas wrought;
Argyll and Churchill but the glory share, Of human merit ne'er too low
While millions lie subdued by Amna's prayer. Depress'd the daring thought.
How great her zeal! how fervent her desire !
Not set returns of pleasure or of pride,
Not want of rest, or the Sun's parting ray,
But finish'd duty, limited the day. HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes THRONE.
Smil'd in her thoughts, and soften'd all her dreams!
Her royal couch descending angels spread, INSCRIBED TO JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ. SECRETARY TO And join'd their wings a shelter o'er her head. THEIR EXCELLENCIES THE LORDS JUSTICES.
Though Europe's wealth and glory claim'd a part,
Religion's cause reign'd mistress of her beart: --Gaudia Curis.
Hor. She saw, and griev'd to see, the mean estate
Of those who round the hallow'd altar wait;
Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand,
And fill with genjal seed his lavish hand ;
What strikes my sight? does proud Augusta rise
Know, sir, the great esteem and honour due, Drown'd in a brighter blaze it disappears, I chose that moment to profess to you,
Who dry'd the widow's and the orphan's tears? When sadness reign'd, when fortune, so severe, Who stoop'd from high to succour the distrest, Had warm'd our bosoms to be most sincere,
And reconcile the wounded heart to rest? And when no motives could have foree to raise Great in ber goodness, well could we perceive, A serious value, and provoke my praise,
Whoever sought, it was a queen that gave. But such as rise above, and far transeend
Misfortune lost her name, her guiltless frown Whaterer glories with this world shall end, But made another debtor to the crown ;
ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN ANNE...THE INSTALMENT.
507 And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore, Now in some foreign court he may sit down, Became our title to the regal store.
And quit without a blush the British crown.
Ye numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd, Nor thivk, great sir, now first, at this late hour,
To us, far back in time, I joy to trace
In the more scenes your genius was display'd,
The greater debt was on Britannia laid: Heroes returning from the field we crown, They all conspir'd this mighty inan to raise, And deify tho haughty victor's frown.
And your new subjects proudly share the praise.
All share ; but may not we have leave to boast
This antient nurse of arts, indulg'd by fate
On'gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat ;
Has through the world ber loyalty proclaim'd;
And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!) Shall rise a fountain of eterval joy.
Her blood and treasure to support the throne !
And freedom with his dying band retain'da
No wonder then her various ranks agree
In all the fervencies of zeal for thee.
What though thy birth a distant kingdom boast,
And seas divide thee from the British coast ? To distant realms did every accent fly,
The crown's impatient to enclose thy head :
Our strict obedience through the world shall tell
Thus end maturest honours of the crown !
THE RIGHT HON. SIR ROBERT WALPOLE,
Quæsitam Merit.s. HOR.
Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise !
Which hovering o'er. your purple wings display, No groans unlock th' inexorable tomb !
Lur'd by the pomp of this distinguish'd day, Why then this fond indulgence of our woe ! Stoup, and attend: by one, the knee be bound; What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow ! One, throw the mantle's crimson folds around; Yes, this advantage; from our deep distress By that, the sword on bis proud thigh be plac'd; We learn how much in George the gods can bless. This, clasp the diamond-girdle round his waist ; Had a less glorious princess left the throne, His breast, with rays, let just Godolphin spread; But half the hero had at first been shown :
Wise Burleigh plant the plumage on his head ; An Anna falling all the king employs,
And Edward own, since first he fix'd the race,
None press'd fair glory with a swifter pace.
When fate would call some mighty genius forth
Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne ! Or aid some favourite king's illustrious toil,
His blood, from virtue's celebrated source,
Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day,
XXIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE CARTER.
If peace still smiles, by this shall commerce steer | His genius ardent, yet his judgment clear, A finish'd course, in triumph round the sphere; His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere, And, gathering tribute from each distant shore, His counsel guides, his temper cheers our isle, In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour. And, smiling, gives three kingdoms cause to smile.»
If war's ordain'd, this star shall dart its beams Joy then to Britain, blest with such a son, Through that black cloud which rising from the To Walpole joy, by whom the prize is won;. Thames,
Who nobly-conscious meets the smiles of fate ; With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is sent True greatness lies in daring to be great. To claim the seas, and awe the continent.
Let dastard souls, or affectation, ruo This shall direct it where the bolt to throw, To shades, nor wear bright honours fairly won ; A star for us, a comet to the foe.
Such men prefer, misled by false applause, At this the Muse shall kindle, and aspire : The pride of modesty to virtue's cause. My breast, О Walpole, glows with grateful fire. Honours, which make the face of virtue fair, The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee, 'T is great to merit, and 't is wise to wear; Refresh the dry domains of poesy.
'T is holding up the prize to public view, My fortune shows, when arts are Walpole's care, Confirms grown virtue, and inflames the new ; What slender worth forbids us to despair :
Heightens the lustre of our age and clime, Be this thy partial smile from censure free; And sheds rich seeds of worth for future time. 'Twas meant for merit, though it fell on me. Proud chiefs alone, in fields of slaughter fam'de
Since Brunswick's smile has authoris'd my Muse, Of old, this azure bloom of glory claim'd, Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views. As when stern Ajax pour'd a purple flood, False praises are the whoredoms of the pen, The violet rose, fair daughter of his blood. Which prostitute fair fame to worthless men : Now rival wisdom dares the wreath divide, This profanation of celestial fire
And both Minervas rise in equal pride; Makes fools despise, what wise men should ad- Proclaiming loud, a monarch fills the throne, mire.
Who shines illustrious not in wars alone, Let those I praise to distant times be known,
Let fame look lovely in Britannia's eyes; Not by their author's merit, but their own. They coldly court desert, who fame despise. If others think the task is hard, to weed
For what's ambition, but fair virtue's sail? From verse rank flattery's vivacious seed,
And what applause, but her propitious gale? And rooted deep ; one means must set them free, When swellid with that, she fleets before the wind Patron! and patriot ! let them sing of thee. To glorious aims, as to the port design'd;
While vulgar trees ignobler honours wear, When chain'd, without it, to the labouring car, Nor those retain, when winter chills the year; She toils ! she pants! nor gains the flying shore, The generous Orange, favourite of the Sun, From her sublime pursuits, or turn'd aside With vigorous charms can through the seasons By blasts of envy, or by fortune's tide: run;
For one that has succeeded ten are lost, Defies the storm with her tenacions green;
Of equal talents, ere they make the coast. And fowers and fruits in rival pomp are seen :
Then let renown to worth divine incite, Where blossoms fall, still fairer blossoms spring; With all her beams, but throw those beams aright And midst their sweets the feather'd puets sing. Then merit droops, and genius downward tends,
On Walpole, thus, may pleas'd Britannia view When godlike glory, like our land, descends. At once her ornament and profit too;
Custom the garter long confin'd to few, The fruit of service, and the bloom of faine, And gave to birth, exalted virtue's due: Matur'd, and gilded by the royal beam.
Walpole has thrown the proud enclosure down; He, when the nipping blasts of envy rise,
And high desert embraces fair renown. Its guilt con pity, and its rage despise;
Though rival'd, let the peerage siniling see Lets fall no honours, but, securely great,
(Smiling, in justice to their own degree,) Unfaded holds the colour of his fate :
This proud reward by majesty bestow'd No winter knows, though ruffling factions press; On worth like that whence first the peerage flow'd, By wisdom deeply rooted in success;
From frowns of fate Britannia's bliss'd to guard, One glory shed, a brighter is display'd';
Let subjects merit, and let kings reward.
And kings most like them, by rewarding well. In deep eternity to lanch thy name !
Though strong the tvanging nerve, and drawn Thy name in view, no rights of verse I plead,
aright, But wbat chaste Truth indites, old Time shall read. Short is the winged arrow's upward fight;
“ Behold! a man of ancient faith and blood, But if an eagle it transfix on high, Which, soon, beat high for arts, and public good; Lodg’d in the wound, it soars into the sky. Whose glory great, but natural appears,
Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays, The genuine growth of services and years; And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise ; No sudden exhalation drawn on high,
Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame, And fondly gilt by partial majesty :
Not listed by my genius, but my theme. One hearing greatest toils with greatest ease,
No more: for in this dread suspense of fate, One born to serve us, and yet born to please : Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate Whom, while our rights in equal scales he lays, Weigh peace and war, now Europe's eyes are The prince may trust, and yet the people praise;
Brunswick of kings the terrous or defence !