thro' grace, "With open arms their enemies embrace:" Who give a nod when broken hearts repine; "The thinnest food on which a wretch can dine:" Or, if they serve you, serve you disinclin'd, And, in their height of kindness, are unkind. Such courtiers were, and such again may be, Walpole! when men forget to copy thee. Here cease, my muse! the catalogue is writ; Nor one more candidate for fame admit, Tho' disappointed thousands justly blame Thy partial pen, and boast an equal claim: Be this their comfort, fools, omitted here, May furnish laughter for another year. Then let Crispino, who was ne'er refused The justice yet of being well abus'd, With patience wait; and be content to reign The pink of puppies in some future strain. Some future strain, in which the muse shall tell How science dwindles, and how volumes swell. How commentators each dark passage shun, And hold their farthing candle to the sun. How tortur'd texts to speak our sense are made, And every vice is to the scripture laid. How misers squeeze a young voluptuous peer; His sins to Lucifer not half so dear. How Verres is less qualified to steal With sword and pistol, than with wax and seal. How lawyers' fees to such excess are run, That clients are redress'd till they're undone. How one man's anguish is another's sport; And ev'n denials cost us dear at court. How man eternally false judgments makes, And all his joys and sorrows are mistakes. This swarm of themes that settles on my pen, Which I, like summer flies, shake off again, Let others sing; to whom my weak essay But sounds a prelude, and points out their prey: That duty done, I hasten to complete My own design; for Tonson's at the gate. The love of fame in its effect survey'd, The muse has sung; be now the cause display'd: Since so diffusive, and so wide its sway, What is this power, whom all mankind obey? Shot from above, by heaven's indulgence, came This generous ardour, this unconquer'd flame, To warm, to raise, to deify, mankind, Still burning brightest in the noblest mind. By large-soul'd men, for thirst of fame renown'd, Wise laws were fram'd, and sacred arts were found; Desire of praise first broke the patriot's rest, And made a bulwark of the warrior's breast; It bids Argyll in fields and senate shine. What more can prove its origin divine? But, oh! this passion planted in the soul, On eagle's wings to mount her to the pole, The flaming minister of virtue meant, Set up false gods, and wrong'd her high descent. Ambition, hence, exerts a doubtful force, Of blots, and beauties, an alternate source; Hence Gildon rails, that raven of the pit, Who thrives upon the carcasses of wit; And in art-loving Scarborough is seen How kind a pattern Pollio might have been. Pursuit of fame with pedants fills our schools, And into coxcombs burnishes our fools; Pursuit of fame makes solid learning bright, And Newton lifts above a mortal height; That key of nature, by whose wit she clears Her long, long secrets of five thousand years. Would you then fully comprehend the whole, Why, and in what degrees, pride sways the soul? (For though in all, not equally, she reigns,) Awake to knowledge, and attend my strains. Ye doctors! hear the doctrine I disclose, As true, as if't were writ in dullest prose; As if a letter'd dunce had said, "'Tis right," And imprimatur usher'd it to light. Ambition, in the truly noble mind, With sister virtue is for ever join'd; As in fam'd Lucrece, who, with equal dread, From guilt, and shame, by her last conduct, fled: Her virtue long rebell'd in firm disdain, And the sword pointed at her heart in vain; But, when the slave was threaten'd to be laid Dead by her side, her love of fame obey'd. In meaner minds ambition works alone; But with such art puts virtue's aspect on, That not more like in feature and in mien, (19)The god and mortal in the comic scene. False Julius, ambush'd in this fair disguise, Soon made the Roman liberties his prize. No mask in basest minds ambition wears, But in full light pricks up her ass's ears: All I have sung are instances of this, And prove my theme unfolded not amiss. Ye vain! desist from your erroneous strife; Be wise, and quit the false sublime of life, The true ambition there alone resides, Where justice vindicates, and wisdom guides; Where inward dignity joins outward state; Our purpose good, as our achievement great; Where public blessings public praise attend; Where glory is our motive, not our end. Wouldst thou be fam'd? Have those high deeds in view Brave men would act, though scandal should ensue. Behold a prince! whom no swoln thoughts inflame; No pride of thrones, no fever after fame! But when the welfare of mankind inspires, And death in view to dear-bought glory fires, Proud conquests then, then regal pomps delight; Then crowns, then triumphs, sparkle in his sight; Tumult and noise are dear, which with them bring His people's blessings to their ardent king: But, when those great heroic motives cease, His swelling soul subsides to native peace; From tedious grandeur's faded charms withdraws, A sudden foe to splendour and applause; Greatly deferring his arrears of fame, Till men and angels jointly shout his name. O pride celestial! which can pride disdain; O blest ambition! which can ne'er be vain. From one fam'd Alpine hill, which props the sky, In whose deep womb unfathom'd waters lie, Here burst the Rhone, and sounding Po; there shine, In infant rills, the Danube and the Rhine; From the rich store one fruitful urn supplies, Whole kingdoms smile, a thousand harvests rise. In Brunswick such a source the muse adores, Which public blessings thro' half Europe pours. When his heart burns with such a godlike aim, Angels and George are rivals for the fame; George! who in foes can soft affections raise, And charm envenom'd satire into praise. (20)Nor human rage alone his power perceives, But the mad winds, and the tumultuous waves. Ev'n storms (death's fiercest ministers!) forbear, And, in their own wild empire, learn to spare. Thus, nature's self, supporting man's decree, Styles Britain's sovereign, sovereign of the sea. While sea and air, great Brunswick! shook our state, And sported with a king's and kingdom's fate, Depriv'd of what she lov'd, and press'd by fear Of ever losing what she held most dear, How did Britannia, like (21)Achilles, weep, And tell her sorrows to the kindred deep! Hang o'er the floods, and, in devotion warm, Strive, for thee, with the surge, and fight the storm What felt thy Walpole, pilot of the realm! Our Palinurus(22) slept not at the helm; His eye ne'er clos'd; long since inur'd to wake, And out-watch every star for Brunswick's sake: By thwarting passions tost, by cares opprest, He found the tempest pictur'd in his breast: But, now, what joys that gloom of heart dispel, No powers of language—but his own, can tell: His own, which nature and the graces form, At will, to raise, or hush, the civil storm.



OCEAN: AN ODE

occasioned by His Majesty's Royal Encouragement of the Sea Service.

To Which is Prefixed an Ode to the King; and a Discourse on Ode.

I think myself obliged to recommend to you a consideration of the greatest importance; and I should look upon it as a great happiness, if, at the beginning of my reign, I could see the foundation laid of so great and necessary a work, as the increase and encouragement of our seamen in general; that they may be invited, rather than compelled by force and violence, to enter into the service of their country, as oft as occasion shall require it: a consideration worthy the representatives of a people great and flourishing in trade and navigation. This leads me to mention to you the case of Greenwich Hospital, that care may be taken, by some addition to that fund, to render comfortable and effectual that charitable provision, for the support and maintenance of our seamen, worn out, and become decrepit by age and infirmities, in the service of their country.

[Speech, Jan. 27, 1727-8.]



To the King.—1728.

Old ocean's praise Demands my lays; A truly British theme I sing; A theme so great, I dare complete, And join with ocean, ocean's king.

The Roman ode Majestic flow'd: Its stream divinely clear, and strong; In sense, and sound, Thebes roll'd profound; The torrent roar'd and foam'd along.

Let Thebes, nor Rome, So fam'd, presume To triumph o'er a northern isle; Late time shall know The north can glow, If dread Augustus deign to smile.

The naval crown Is all his own! Our fleet, if war, or commerce, call, His will performs Through waves and storms, And rides in triumph round the ball.

No former race, With strong embrace, This theme to ravish durst aspire; With virgin charms My soul it warms, And melts melodious on my lyre.

My lays I file With cautious toil; Ye graces! turn the glowing lines; On anvils neat Your strokes repeat; At every stroke the work refines!

How music charms! How metre warms! Parent of actions, good and brave! How vice it tames! And worth inflames! And holds proud empire o'er the grave!

Jove mark'd for man A scanty span, But lent him wings to fly his doom; Wit scorns the grave; To wit he gave The life of gods! immortal bloom!

Since years will fly, And pleasures die, Day after day, as years advance; Since, while life lasts, Joy suffers blasts From frowning fate, and fickle chance;

Nor life is long; But soon we throng, Like autumn leaves, death's pallid shore; We make, at least, Of bad the best, If in life's phantom, fame, we soar.

Our strains divide The laurel's pride; With those we lift to life, to live; By fame enroll'd With heroes bold, And share the blessings which we give.

What hero's praise Can fire my lays, Like his, with whom my lay begun? "Justice sincere, And courage clear, Rise the two columns of his throne.

"How form'd for sway! Who look, obey; They read the monarch in his port: Their love and awe Supply the law; And his own lustre makes the court:"

On yonder height, What golden light Triumphant shines? and shines alone? Unrivall'd blaze! The nations gaze! 'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.

Our monarch, there, Rear'd high in air, Should tempests rise, disdains to bend; Like British oak, Derides the stroke; His blooming honours far extend!

Beneath them lies, With lifted eyes, Fair Albion, like an amorous maid; While interest wings Bold foreign kings To fly, like eagles, to his shade.

At his proud foot The sea, pour'd out, Immortal nourishment supplies; Thence wealth and state, And power and fate, Which Europe reads in George's eyes.

From what we view, We take the clue, Which leads from great to greater thing Men doubt no more, But gods adore, When such resemblance shines in kings.



On Lyric Poetry.

How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged; and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration for success in it.

To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pass, that bad poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon earth. But poetry in its own nature is certainly

Non hos quaesitum munus in usus.

—VIRG.

He that has an idea of perfection in the work he undertakes may fail in it; he that has not, must: and yet he will be vain. For every little degree of beauty, how short or improper soever, will be looked on fondly by him; because it is all pure gains, and more than he promised to himself; and because he has no test, or standard in his judgment, with which to chastise his opinion of it.

Now this idea of perfection is, in poetry, more refined than in other kinds of writing; and because more refined, therefore more difficult; and because more difficult, therefore more rarely attained; and the non-attainment of it is, as I have said, the source of our vanity. Hence the poetic clan are more obnoxious to vanity than others. And from vanity consequently flows that great sensibility of disrespect, that quick resentment, that tinder of the mind that kindles at every spark, and justly marks them out for the genus irritabile among mankind. And from this combustible temper, this serious anger for no very serious things, things looked on by most as foreign to the important points of life, as consequentially flows that inheritance of ridicule, which devolves on them, from generation to generation. As soon as they become authors, they become like Ben Jonson's angry boy, and learn the art of quarrel.

Concordes animae—dum nocte prementur; Heu! quantum inter se bellum, si lumina vitae Attigerint, quantas acies stragemque ciebunt! Qui Juvenes! quantas ostentant, aspice, vires. Ne, pueri! ne tanta animis assuescite bella. Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo, Sidereo flagrans clypeo, et coelestibus armis, Projice tela manu, sanguis meus! Nec te ullae facies, non terruit ipse Typhoeus Arduus, arma tenens; non te Messapus et Ufens, Contemtorque Deum Mezentius.

VIRG.

But to return. He that has this idea of perfection in the work he undertakes, however successful he is, will yet be modest; because to rise up to that idea, which he proposed for his model, is almost, if not absolutely, impossible.

These two observations account for what may seem as strange, as it is infallibly true; I mean, they show us why good writers have the lowest, and bad writers the highest, opinion of their own performances. They who have only a partial idea of this perfection, as their portion of ignorance or knowledge of it is greater or less, have proportionable degrees of modesty or conceit.

Nor, though natural good understanding makes a tolerably just judgment in things of this nature, will the reader judge the worse, for forming to himself a notion of what he ought to expect from the piece he has in hand, before he begins his perusal of it.

The ode, as it is the eldest kind of poetry, so it is more spiritous, and more remote from prose, than any other, in sense, sound, expression, and conduct. Its thoughts should be uncommon, sublime, and moral; its numbers full, easy, and most harmonious; its expression pure, strong, delicate, yet unaffected; and of a curious felicity beyond other poems; its conduct should be rapturous, somewhat abrupt, and immethodical to a vulgar eye. That apparent order, and connexion, which gives form and life to some compositions, takes away the very soul of this. Fire, elevation, and select thought, are indispensable; an humble, tame, and vulgar ode is the most pitiful error a pen can commit.

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum.

And as its subjects are sublime, its writer's genius should be so too; otherwise it becomes the meanest thing in writing, viz. an involuntary burlesque.

It is the genuine character, and true merit of the ode, a little to startle some apprehensions. Men of cold complexions are very apt to mistake a want of vigour in their imaginations, for a delicacy of taste in their judgments; and, like persons of a tender sight, they look on bright objects, in their natural lustre, as too glaring; what is most delightful to a stronger eye, is painful to them. Thus Pindar, who has as much logic at the bottom as Aristotle or Euclid, to some critics has appeared as mad; and must appear so to all who enjoy no portion of his own divine spirit. Dwarf understandings, measuring others by their own standard, are apt to think they see a monster, when they see a man.

And indeed it seems to be the amends which nature makes to those whom she has not blessed with an elevation of mind, to indulge them in the comfortable mistake, that all is wrong, which falls not within the narrow limits of their own comprehensions and relish.

Judgment, indeed, that masculine power of the mind, in ode, as in all compositions, should bear the supreme sway; and a beautiful imagination, as its mistress, should be subdued to its dominion. Hence, and hence only, can proceed the fairest offspring of the human mind.

But then in ode, there is this difference from other kinds of poetry; that, there, the imagination, like a very beautiful mistress, is indulged in the appearance of domineering; though the judgment, like an artful lover, in reality carries its point; and the less it is suspected of it, it shows the more masterly conduct, and deserves the greater commendation.

It holds true in this province of writing, as in war, "The more danger; the more honour." It must be very enterprising: it must, in Shakespeare's style, have hairbreadth 'scapes; and often tread the very brink of error: nor can it ever deserve the applause of the real judge, unless it renders itself obnoxious to the misapprehensions of the contrary.

Such is Casimire's strain among the moderns, whose lively wit, and happy fire, is an honour to them. And Buchanan might justly be much admired, if any thing more than the sweetness of his numbers, and the purity of his diction, were his own: his original, from which I have taken my motto, through all the disadvantages of a northern prose translation, is still admirable; and, Cowley says, as preferable in beauty to Buchanan, as Judaea is to Scotland.

Pindar, Anacreon, Sappho, and Horace, are the great masters of lyric poetry among Heathen writers. Pindar's muse, like Sacharissa, is a stately, imperious, and accomplished beauty; equally disdaining the use of art, and the fear of any rival; so intoxicating that it was the highest commendation that could be given an ancient, that he was not afraid to taste of her charms;

Pindarici fontis qui non expalluit haustus;

a danger which Horace declares he durst not run.

Anacreon's Muse is like Amoret, most sweet, natural, and delicate; all over flowers, graces, and charms; inspiring complacency, not awe; and she seems to have good nature enough to admit a rival, which she cannot find.

Sappho's Muse, like Lady ——, is passionately tender, and glowing; like oil set on fire, she is soft, and warm, in excess. Sappho has left us a few fragments only; time has swallowed the rest; but that little which remains, like the remaining jewel of Cleopatra, after the other was dissolved at her banquet, may be esteemed (as was that jewel) a sufficient ornament for the goddess of beauty herself.

Horace's Muse (like one I shall not presume to name) is correct, solid, and moral; she joins all the sweetness and majesty, all the sense and the fire of the former, in the justest proportions and degrees; superadding a felicity of dress entirely her own. She moreover is distinguishable by this particularity, that she abounds in hidden graces, and secret charms, which none but the discerning can discover; nor are any capable of doing full justice, in their opinion to her excellencies, without giving the world, at the same time, an incontestable proof of refinement in their own understandings.

But, after all, to the honour of our own country I must add, that I think Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day inferior to no composition of this kind. Its chief beauty consists in adapting the numbers most happily to the variety of the occasion. Those by which he has chosen to express majesty, (viz.)

Assumes the God, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres,

are chosen in the following ode, because the subject of it is great.

For the more harmony likewise, I chose the frequent return of rhyme; which laid me under great difficulties. But difficulties overcome give grace and pleasure. Nor can I account for the pleasure of rhyme in general (of which the moderns are too fond) but from this truth.

But then the writer must take care that the difficulty is overcome. That is, he must make rhyme consistent with as perfect sense, and expression, as could be expected if he was free from that shackle. Otherwise, it gives neither grace to the work, nor pleasure to the reader, nor, consequently, reputation to the poet.

To sum the whole: ode should be peculiar, but not strained; moral, but not flat; natural, but not obvious; delicate, but not affected; noble, but not ambitious; full, but not obscure; fiery, but not mad; thick, but not loaded in its numbers, which should be most harmonious, without the least sacrifice of expression, or of sense. Above all, in this, as in every work of genius, somewhat of an original spirit should be, at least attempted; otherwise the poet, whose character disclaims mediocrity, makes a secondary praise his ultimate ambition; which has something of a contradiction in it. Originals only have true life, and differ as much from the best imitations, as men from the most animated pictures of them. Nor is what I say at all inconsistent with a due deference for the great standards of antiquity; nay, that very deference is an argument for it, for doubtless their example is on my side in this matter. And we should rather imitate their example in the general motives, and fundamental methods of their working, than in their works themselves. This is a distinction, I think, not hitherto made, and a distinction of consequence. For the first may make us their equals; the second must pronounce us their inferiors even in our utmost success. But the first of these prizes is not so readily taken by the moderns; as valuables too massy for easy carriage are not so liable to the thief.

The ancients had a particular regard to the choice of their subjects; which were generally national and great. My subject is, in its own nature, noble; most proper for an Englishman; never more proper than on this occasion; and (what is strange) hitherto unsung.

If I stand not absolutely condemned by my own rules; if I have hit the spirit of ode in general; if I cannot think with Mr. Cowley, that "Music alone, sometimes, makes an excellent ode;"

Versus inopes rerum, nugaeque canorae;

if there is any thought, enthusiasm, and picture, which are as the body, soul, and robe of poetry; in a word, if in any degree I have provided rather food for men, than air for wits; I hope smaller faults will meet indulgence for the sake of the design, which is the glory of my country and my king.

And indeed, this may be said, in general, that great subjects are above being nice; that dignity and spirit ever suffer from scrupulous exactness; And that the minuter cares effeminate a composition. Great masters of poetry, painting, and statuary, in their nobler works, have even affected the contrary: and justly; for a truly masculine air partakes more of the negligent, than of the neat, both in writings, and in life—

Grandis oratio haberet majestatis suae pondus.

—PETRON.

A poem, like a criminal, under too severe correction, may lose all its spirit, and expire. We know it was Faberrimus, that was such an artist at a hair or a nail. And we know the cause was

Quia ponere totum Nescius.

HOR.

To close: if a piece of this nature wants an apology, I must own, that those who have strength of mind sufficient profitably to devote the whole of their time to the severer studies, I despair of imitating, I can only envy and admire. The mind is relieved and strengthened by variety; and he that sometimes is sporting with his pen, is only taking the most effectual means of giving a general importance to it. This truth is clear from the knowledge of human nature, and of history; from which I could cite very celebrated instances, did I not fear that, by citing them, I should condemn myself, who am so little qualified to follow their example in its full extent.



Ocean. An Ode.

Let the sea make a noise, let the floods clap their hands.

PSALM XCVIII.

Sweet rural scene! Of flocks and green! At careless ease my limbs are spread; All nature still, But yonder rill; And list'ning pines nod o'er my head:

In prospect wide, The boundless tide! Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar; Without a breeze, The curling seas Dance on, in measure to the shore.

Who sings the source Of wealth and force? Vast field of commerce, and big war, Where wonders dwell! Where terrors swell! And Neptune thunders from his car?

Where? where are they, Whom Paean's ray Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave?— What! none aspire? I snatch the lyre, And plunge into the foaming wave.

The wave resounds! The rock rebounds! The Nereids to my song reply! I lead the choir, And they conspire, With voice and shell, to lift it high.

They spread in air Their bosoms fair, Their verdant tresses pour behind: The billows beat With nimble feet, With notes triumphant swell the wind.

Who love the shore, Let those adore The god Apollo, and his Nine, Parnassus' hill, And Orpheus' skill; But let Arion's harp be mine.

The main! the main! Is Britain's reign; Her strength, her glory, is her fleet: The main! the main! Be Britain's strain; As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet.

Thro' nature wide Is nought descried So rich in pleasure or surprise; When all-serene, How sweet the scene! How dreadful, when the billows rise;

And storms deface The fluid glass, In which erewhile Britannia fair Look'd down with pride, Like Ocean's bride, Adjusting her majestic air!

When tempests cease, And, hush'd in peace, The flatten'd surges smoothly spread, Deep silence keep, And seem to sleep Recumbent on their oozy bed;

With what a trance, The level glance, Unbroken, shoots along the seas! Which tempt from shore The painted oar; And every canvass courts the breeze!

When rushes forth The frowning north On black'ning billows, with what dread My shuddering soul Beholds them roll, And hears their roarings o'er my head!

With terror mark Yon flying bark! Now center-deep descend the brave; Now, toss'd on high, It takes the sky, A feather on the tow'ring wave!

Now spins around In whirls profound: Now whelm'd; now pendant near the clouds; Now stunn'd, it reels 'Midst thunder's peals: And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.

All ether burns! Chaos returns! And blends, once more, the seas and skies: No space between Thy bosom green, O deep! and the blue concave, lies.

The northern blast, The shatter'd mast, The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock, The breaking spout, The stars gone out, The boiling streight, the monsters shock,

Let others fear; To Britain dear Whate'er promotes her daring claim; Those terrors charm, Which keep her warm In chase of honest gain, or fame.

The stars are bright To cheer the night, And shed, thro' shadows, temper'd fire; And Phoebus' flames, With burnish'd beams, Which some adore, and all admire.

Are then the seas Outshone by these? Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone; With kinder beams, And softer gleams, Thy bosom wears them as thy own.

There, set in green, Gold stars are seen, A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap; And when the sun His race has run, He falls enamour'd in thy lap.

Those clouds, whose dyes Adorn the skies, That silver snow, that pearly rain, Has Phoebus stole To grace the pole, The plunder of th' invaded main!

The gaudy bow, Whose colours glow, Whose arch with so much skill is bent, To Phoebus' ray, Which paints so gay, By thee the wat'ry woof was lent.

In chambers deep, Where waters sleep, What unknown treasures pave the floor! The pearl, in rows, Pale lustre throws; The wealth immense, which storms devour.

From Indian mines, With proud designs, The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore; The tempests rise, And seize the prize, And toss him breathless on the shore.

His son complains In pious strains, "Ah cruel thirst of gold!" he cries; Then ploughs the main, In zeal for gain, The tears yet swelling in his eyes.

Thou wat'ry vast! What mounds are cast To bar thy dreadful flowings o'er! Thy proudest foam Must know its home; But rage of gold disdains a shore.

Gold pleasure buys; But pleasure dies, Too soon the gross fruition cloys; Tho' raptures court, The sense is short; But virtue kindles living joys;

Joys felt alone! Joys ask'd of none! Which time's and fortune's arrows miss: Joys that subsist, Tho' fates resist, An unprecarious, endless bliss!

The soul refin'd Is most inclin'd To every moral excellence; All vice is dull, A knave's a fool; And virtue is the child of sense.

The virtuous mind, Nor wave, nor wind, Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown, The shaken ball, Nor planet's fall, From its firm basis can dethrone.

This Britain knows, And therefore glows With gen'rous passions, and expends Her wealth and zeal On public weal, And brightens both by god-like ends.

What end so great As that which late Awoke the genius of the main; Which tow'ring rose With George to close, And rival great Eliza's reign?

A voice has flown From Britain's throne To re-inflame a grand design; That voice shall rear Yon (23)fabric fair, As nature's rose at the divine.

When nature sprung, Blest angels sung, And shouted o'er the rising ball; For strains as high As man's can fly, These sea-devoted honours call.

From boist'rous seas, The lap of ease Receives our wounded, and our old; High domes ascend! Stretch'd arches bend! Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold!

Here, soft reclin'd, From wave, from wind, And fortune's tempest safe ashore, To cheat their care, Of former war They talk the pleasing shadows o'er.

In lengthen'd tales, Our fleet prevails; In tales the lenitives of age! And o'er the bowl, They fire the soul Of list'ning youth, to martial rage.

Unhappy they! And falsely gay! Who bask for ever in success; A constant feast Quite palls the taste, And long enjoyment is distress.

When, after toil, His native soil The panting mariner regains, What transport flows From bare repose! We reap our pleasure from our pains.

Ye warlike slain! Beneath the main, Wrapt in a wat'ry winding sheet; Who bought with blood Your country's good, Your country's (24)full-blown glory greet.

What pow'rful charm Can death disarm? Your long, your iron slumbers break? By Jove, by Fame, By George's name, Awake! awake! awake! awake!

With spiral shell, Full blasted, tell, That all your wat'ry realms should ring; Your pearl alcoves, Your coral groves, Should echo theirs, and Britain's king.

As long as stars Guide mariners, As Carolina's virtues please, Or suns invite The ravish'd sight, The British flag shall sweep the seas.

Peculiar both! Our soil's strong growth, And our bold natives' hardy mind; Sure heaven bespoke Our hearts and oak, To give a master to mankind.

That noblest birth Of teeming earth, Of forests fair, that daughter proud, To foreign coasts Our grandeur boasts, And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud:

Now big with war, Sends fate from far, If rebel realms their fate demand, Now, sumptuous spoils Of foreign soils Pours in the bosom of our land.

Hence Britain lays In scales, and weighs The fate of kingdoms, and of kings; And as she frowns, Or smiles, on crowns A night, or day of glory, springs.

Thus ocean swells The streams and rills, And to their borders lifts them high; Or else withdraws The mighty cause, And leaves their famish'd channels dry.

How mixt, how frail, How sure to fail, Is every pleasure of mankind! A damp destroys My blooming joys, While Britain's glory fires my mind.

For who can gaze On restless seas, Unstruck with life's more restless state? Where all are tost, And most are lost, By tides of passion, blasts of fate?

The world's the main, How vext! how vain! Ambition swells, and anger foams; May good men find, Beneath the wind, A noiseless shore, unruffled homes!

The public scene Of harden'd men Teach me, O teach me to despise! The world few know But to their woe, Our crimes with our experience rise;

All tender sense Is banish'd thence, All maiden nature's first alarms What shock'd before Disgust no more, And what disgusted has its charms.

In landscapes green True bliss is seen, With innocence, in shades, she sports; In wealthy towns Proud labour frowns, And painted sorrow smiles in courts.

These scenes untried Seduc'd my pride, To fortune's arrows bar'd my breast; Till wisdom came, A hoary dame! And told me pleasure was in rest.

"O may I steal Along the vale Of humble life, secure from foes! My friend sincere! My judgment clear! And gentle business my repose!

"My mind be strong To combat wrong! Grateful, O king! for favours shown! Soft to complain For others' pain! And bold to triumph o'er my own!

"(When fortune's kind) Acute to find, And warm to relish every boon! And wise to still Fantastic ill, Whose frightful spectres stalk at noon!

"No fruitless toils! No brainless broils! Each moment levell'd at the mark! Our day so short Invites to sport; Be sad and solemn when 'tis dark.

"Yet, prudence, still Rein thou my will! What's most important, make most dear! For 'tis in this Resides true bliss; True bliss, a deity severe!

"When temper leans To gayer scenes, And serious life void moments spares, The sylvan chase My sinews brace! Or song unbend my mind from cares!

"Nor shun, my soul! The genial bowl, Where mirth, good nature, spirit, flow! Ingredients these, Above, to please The laughing gods, the wise, below.

"Though rich the vine, More wit than wine, More sense than wit, good-will than art, May I provide! Fair truth, my pride! My joy, the converse of the heart!

"The gloomy brow, The broken vow, To distant climes, ye gods! remove! The nobly soul'd Their commerce hold With words of truth and looks of love!

"O glorious aim! O wealth supreme! Divine benevolence of soul! That greatly glows, And freely flows, And in one blessing grasps the whole;

"Prophetic schemes, And golden dreams, May I, unsanguine, cast away! Have, what I have! And live, not leave, Enamour'd of the present day!

"My hours my own! My faults unknown! My chief revenue in content! Then, leave one beam Of honest fame! And scorn the labour'd monument!

"Unhurt my urn! Till that great turn When mighty nature's self shall die! Time cease to glide, With human pride, Sunk in the ocean of eternity."



A PARAPHRASE ON PART OF THE BOOK OF JOB.(25)

To the Right Honourable Thomas Lord Parker, Baron of Macclesfield, Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain, etc. etc.

My Lord,

Though I have not the honour of being known to your lordship, I presume to take a privilege which men of retirement are apt to think themselves in possession of, as being the only method they have of making their way to persons of your lordship's high station without struggling through multitudes for access. I may possibly fail in my respect to your lordship, even while I endeavour to show it most; but if I err, it is because I imagined I ought not to make my first approach to one of your lordship's exalted character with less ceremony than that of a dedication. It is annexed to the condition of eminent merit, not to suffer more from the malice of its enemies, than from the importunity of its admirers; and perhaps it would be unjust, that your lordship should hope to be exempted from the troubles, when you possess all the talents, of a patron.

I have here a fair occasion to celebrate those sublime qualities, of which a whole nation is sensible, were it not inconsistent with the design of my present application. By the just discharge of your great employments, your lordship may well deserve the prayers of the distressed, the thanks of your country, and the approbation of your royal master: this indeed is a reason why every good Briton should applaud your lordship; but it is equally a reason why none should disturb you in the execution of your important affairs by works of fancy and amusement. I was therefore induced to make this address to your lordship, by considering you rather in the amiable light of a person distinguished for a refined taste of the polite arts, and the candour that usually attends it, than in the dignity of your public character.

The greatness and solemnity of the subjects treated of in the following work cannot fail in some measure to recommend it to a person who holds in the utmost veneration those sacred books from which it is taken; and would at the same time justify to the world my choice of the great name prefixed to it, could I be assured that the undertaking had not suffered in my hands. Thus much I think myself obliged to say; that if this little performance had not been very indulgently spoken of by some, whose judgment is universally allowed in writings of this nature, I had not dared to gratify my ambition in offering it to your lordship: I am sensible that I am endeavouring to excuse one vanity by another; but I hope I shall meet with pardon for it, since it is visibly intended to show the great submission and respect with which I am, my lord, your lordship's most obedient and most humble servant,

EDWARD YOUNG.

Thrice happy Job(26) long liv'd in regal state, Nor saw the sumptuous East a prince so great; Whose worldly stores in such abundance flow'd, Whose heart with such exalted virtue glow'd. At length misfortunes take their turn to reign, And ills on ills succeed; a dreadful train! What now but deaths, and poverty, and wrong, The sword wide-wasting, the reproachful tongue, And spotted plagues, that mark'd his limbs all o'er So thick with pains, they wanted room for more? A change so sad what mortal heart could bear? Exhausted woe had left him nought to fear; But gave him all to grief. Low earth he prest, Wept in the dust, and sorely smote his breast. His friends around the deep affliction mourn'd, Felt all his pangs, and groan for groan return'd; In anguish of their hearts their mantles rent, And seven long days in solemn silence spent; A debt of rev'rence to distress so great! Then Job contain'd no more; but cursed his fate. His day of birth, its inauspicious light He wishes sunk in shades of endless night, And blotted from the year; nor fears to crave Death, instant death; impatient for the grave, That seat of bliss, that mansion of repose, Where rest and mortals are no longer foes; Where counsellors are hush'd, and mighty kings (O happy turn!) no more are wretched things. His words were daring, and displeas'd his friends; His conduct they reprove, and he defends; And now they kindled into warm debate, And sentiments oppos'd with equal heat; Fix'd in opinion, both refuse to yield, And summon all their reason to the field: So high at length their arguments were wrought, They reach'd the last extent of human thought: A pause ensu'd.—When, lo! Heaven interpos'd, And awfully the long contention clos'd. Full o'er their heads, with terrible surprise, A sudden whirlwind blacken'd all the skies: (They saw, and trembled!(27)) From the darkness broke A dreadful voice, and thus th' Almighty spoke. Who gives his tongue a loose so bold and vain, Censures my conduct, and reproves my reign? Lifts up his thoughts against me from the dust, And tells the world's Creator what is just? Of late so brave, now lift a dauntless eye, Face my demand, and give it a reply: Where didst thou dwell at nature's early birth? Who laid foundations for the spacious earth? Who on its surface did extend the line, Its form determine, and its bulk confine? Who fix'd the corner-stone? What hand, declare, Hung it on nought, and fasten'd it on air; When the bright morning stars in concert sung, When heaven's high arch with loud hosannas rung; When shouting sons of God the triumph crown'd, And the wide concave thunder'd with the sound? Earth's num'rous kingdoms, hast thou view'd them all? And can thy span of knowledge grasp the ball? Who heav'd the mountain, which sublimely stands, And casts its shadow into distant lands? Who, stretching forth his sceptre o'er the deep, Can that wide world in due subjection keep? I broke the globe, I scoop'd its hollow'd side, And did a bason for the floods provide; I chain'd them with my word; the boiling sea, Work'd up in tempests, hears my great decree; "(28)Thus far, thy floating tide shall be convey'd; And here, O main, be thy proud billows stay'd." Hast thou explor'd the secrets of the deep, Where, shut from use, unnumber'd treasures sleep? Where, down a thousand fathoms from the day, Springs the great fountain, mother of the sea? Those gloomy paths did thy bold foot e'er tread, Whole worlds of waters rolling o'er thy head? Hath the cleft centre open'd wide to thee? Death's inmost chambers didst thou ever see? E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade To the black portal through th' incumbent shade? Deep are those shades; but shades still deeper hide My counsels from the ken of human pride. Where dwells the light? In what refulgent dome? And where has darkness made her dismal home? Thou know'st, no doubt, since thy large heart is fraught With ripen'd wisdom, through long ages brought; Since nature was call'd forth when thou wast by, And into being rose beneath thine eye! Are mists begotten? Who their father knew? From whom descend the pearly drops of dew? To bind the stream by night, what hand can boast, Or whiten morning with the hoary frost? Whose powerful breath, from northern regions blown, Touches the sea, and turns it into stone? The like spirit in these two passages is no bad concurrent argument, that Moses is author of the book of Job.] A sudden desart spreads o'er realms defac'd, And lays one half of the creation waste? Thou know'st me not; thy blindness cannot see How vast a distance parts thy God from thee. Canst thou in whirlwinds mount aloft? Canst thou In clouds and darkness wrap thy awful brow? And, when day triumphs in meridian light, Put forth thy hand, and shade the world with night? Who launch'd the clouds in air, and bid them roll Suspended seas aloft, from pole to pole? Who can refresh the burning sandy plain, And quench the summer with a waste of rain? Who, in rough desarts, far from human toil, Made rocks bring forth, and desolation smile? There blooms the rose, where human face ne'er shone, And spreads its beauties to the sun alone. To check the shower, who lifts his hand on high, And shuts the sluices of th' exhausted sky When earth no longer mourns her gaping veins, Her naked mountains, and her russet plains; But, new in life, a cheerful prospect yields Of shining rivers, and of verdant fields; When groves and forests lavish all their bloom, And earth and heaven are fill'd with rich perfume? Hast thou e'er scal'd my wintry skies, and seen Of hail and snows my northern magazine? These the dread treasures of mine anger are, My funds of vengeance for the day of war, When clouds rain death, and storms, at my command, Rage through the world, or waste a guilty land. Who taught the rapid winds to fly so fast, Or shakes the centre with his eastern blast? Who from the skies can a whole deluge pour? Who strikes through nature with the solemn roar Of dreadful thunder, points it where to fall, And in fierce lightning wraps the flying ball? Not he who trembles at the darted fires, Falls at the sound, and in the flash expires. Who drew the comet out to such a size, And pour'd his flaming train o'er half the skies? Did thy resentment hang him out? Does he Glare on the nations, and denounce, from thee? Who on low earth can moderate the rein, That guides the stars along th' ethereal plain? Appoint their seasons, and direct their course, Their lustre brighten, and supply their force? Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain, And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain? Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere, Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year? Bid Mazzaroth his destin'd station know, And teach the bright Arcturus where to glow? Mine is the night, with all her stars; I pour Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store. Dost thou pronounce where day-light shall be born, And draw the purple curtain of the morn; Awake the sun, and bid him come away, And glad thy world with his obsequious ray? Hast thou, inthron'd in flaming glory, driven Triumphant round the spacious ring of heaven? That pomp of light, what hand so far displays, That distant earth lies basking in the blaze? Who did the soul with her rich powers invest, And light up reason in the human breast? To shine, with fresh increase of lustre, bright, When stars and sun are set in endless night? To these my various questions make reply. Th' Almighty spoke; and, speaking, shook the sky. What then, Chaldaean sire, was thy surprise! Thus thou, with trembling heart, and downcast eyes: "Once and again, which I in groans deplore, My tongue has err'd; but shall presume no more. My voice is in eternal silence bound, And all my soul falls prostrate to the ground." He ceas'd: when, lo! again th' Almighty spoke; The same dread voice from the black whirlwind broke. Can that arm measure with an arm divine? And canst thou thunder with a voice like mine? Or in the hollow of thy hand contain The bulk of waters, the wide-spreading main, When, mad with tempests, all the billows rise In all their rage, and dash the distant skies? Come forth, in beauty's excellence array'd; And be the grandeur of thy power display'd; Put on omnipotence, and, frowning, make The spacious round of the creation shake; Dispatch thy vengeance, bid it overthow Triumphant vice, lay lofty tyrants low, And crumble them to dust. When this is done, I grant thy safety lodg'd in thee alone; Of thee thou art, and mayst undaunted stand Behind the buckler of thine own right hand. Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade! What worlds hast thou produc'd, what creatures fram'd, What insects cherish'd, that thy God is blam'd? When (29)pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood Loud calls on God, importunate for food, Who hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request, And stills the clamour of the craving nest? Who in the stupid ostrich(30) has subdu'd A parent's care, and fond inquietude? While far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found, Without an owner, on the sandy ground; Cast out on fortune, they at mercy lie, And borrow life from an indulgent sky; Adopted by the sun, in blaze of day, They ripen under his prolific ray. Unmindful she, that some unhappy tread May crush her young in their neglected bed. (31)What time she skims along the field with speed, (32)She scorns the rider, and pursuing steed. How rich the peacock!(33) what bright glories run From plume to plume, and vary in the sun! He proudly spreads them, to the golden ray Gives all his colours, and adorns the day; With conscious state the specious round displays, And slowly moves amid the waving blaze. Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise, Perpetual summer, and a change of skies? When clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind, Shoots to the south, nor fears the storm behind; The sun returning, she returns again, Lives in his beams, and leaves ill days to men. Tho' strong the hawk,(34) tho' practis'd well to fly, An eagle drops her in a lower sky; An eagle, when, deserting human sight, She seeks the sun in her unwearied flight: Did thy command her yellow pinion lift So high in air, and set her on the clift, Where far above thy world she dwells alone, And proudly makes the strength of rocks her own; (35)Thence wide o'er nature takes her dread survey, And with a glance predestinates her prey? She feasts her young with blood; and, hov'ring o'er Th' unslaughter'd host, enjoys the promis'd gore. (36)Know'st thou how many moons, by me assign'd, Roll o'er the mountain goat, and forest hind, While pregnant they a mother's load sustain? They bend in anguish, and cast forth their pain. Hale are their young, from human frailties freed; Walk unsustain'd, and unassisted feed; They live at once; forsake the dam's warm side; Take the wide world, with nature for their guide; Bound o'er the lawn, or seek the distant glade; And find a home in each delightful shade. Will the tall reem, which knows no lord but me, Low at the crib, and ask an alms of thee; Submit his unworn shoulder to the yoke, Break the stiff clod, and o'er thy furrow smoke? Since great his strength, go trust him, void of care; Lay on his neck the toil of all the year; Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors, And cast his load among thy gather'd stores. Didst thou from service the wild ass discharge, And break his bonds, and bid him live at large, Through the wide waste, his ample mansion, roam, And lose himself in his unbounded home? By nature's hand magnificently fed, His meal is on the range of mountains spread; As in pure air aloft he bounds along, He sees in distant smoke the city throng; Conscious of freedom, scorns the smother'd train, The threat'ning driver, and the servile rein. Survey the warlike horse! didst thou invest With thunder his robust distended chest? No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays; 'Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze; To paw the vale he proudly takes delight, And triumphs in the fulness of his might; High rais'd he snuffs the battle from afar, And burns to plunge amid the raging war; And mocks at death, and throws his foam around, And in a storm of fury shakes the ground. How does his firm, his rising heart, advance Full on the brandish'd sword, and shaken lance; While his fix'd eyeballs meet the dazzling shield, Gaze, and return the lightning of the field! He sinks the sense of pain in gen'rous pride, Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side; But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast Till death; and when he groans, he groans his last. But, fiercer still, the lordly lion stalks, Grimly majestic in his lonely walks; When round he glares, all living creatures fly; He clears the desart with his rolling eye. Say, mortal, does he rouse at thy command, And roar to thee, and live upon thy hand? Dost thou for him in forests bend thy bow, And to his gloomy den the morsel throw, Where bent on death lie hid his tawny brood, And, couch'd in dreadful ambush, pant for blood; Or, stretch'd on broken limbs, consume the day, In darkness wrapt, and slumber o'er their prey? (37)By the pale moon they take their destin'd round, And lash their sides, and furious tear the ground. Now shrieks, and dying groans, the desart fill; They rage, they rend; their rav'nous jaws distill With crimson foam; and, when the banquet's o'er, They stride away, and paint their steps with gore; In flight alone the shepherd puts his trust, And shudders at the talon in the dust. Mild is my behemoth, though large his frame; Smooth is his temper, and represt his flame, While unprovok'd. This native of the flood Lifts his broad foot, and puts ashore for food; Earth sinks beneath him, as he moves along To seek the herbs, and mingle with the throng. See with what strength his harden'd loins are bound, All over proof and shut against a wound. How like a mountain cedar moves his tail! Nor can his complicated sinews fail. Built high and wide, his solid bones surpass The bars of steel; his ribs are ribs of brass; His port majestic, and his armed jaw, Give the wide forest, and the mountain, law. The mountains feed him; there the beasts admire The mighty stranger, and in dread retire: At length his greatness nearer they survey, Graze in his shadow, and his eye obey. The fens and marshes are his cool retreat, His noontide shelter from the burning heat; Their sedgy bosoms his wide couch are made, And groves of willows give him all their shade. His eye drinks Jordan up, when, fir'd with drought, He trusts to turn its current down his throat; In lessen'd waves it creeps along the plain: (38)He sinks a river, and he thirsts again. (39)Go to the Nile, and, from its fruitful side, Cast forth thy line into the swelling tide: With slender hair leviathan command, And stretch his vastness on the loaded strand. Will he become thy servant? Will he own Thy lordly nod, and tremble at thy frown? Or with his sport amuse thy leisure day, And, bound in silk, with thy soft maidens play? Shall pompous banquets swell with such a prize? And the bowl journey round his ample size? Or the debating merchants share the prey, And various limbs to various marts convey? Thro' his firm skull what steel its way can win? What forceful engine can subdue his skin? Fly far, and live; tempt not his matchless might: The bravest shrink to cowards in his sight; (40)The rashest dare not rouse him up: Who then Shall turn on me, among the sons of men? Am I a debtor? Hast thou ever heard Whence come the gifts that are on me conferr'd? My lavish fruit a thousand valleys fills, And mine the herds, that graze a thousand hills: Earth, sea, and air, all nature is my own; And stars and sun are dust beneath my throne. And dar'st thou with the world's great Father vie, Thou, who dost tremble at my creature's eye? At full my huge leviathan shall rise, Boast all his strength, and spread his wondrous size. Who, great in arms, e'er stripp'd his shining mail, Or crown'd his triumph with a single scale? Whose heart sustains him to draw near? (41)Behold, Destruction yawns; his spacious jaws unfold, And, marshall'd round the wide expanse, disclose Teeth edg'd with death, and crowding rows on rows: What hideous fangs on either side arise! And what a deep abyss between them lies! Mete with thy lance, and with thy plummet sound, The one how long, the other how profound. His bulk is charg'd with such a furious soul, That clouds of smoke from his spread nostrils roll, As from a furnace; and, when rous'd his ire, (42)Fate issues from his jaws in streams of fire. The rage of tempests, and the roar of seas, Thy terror, this thy great superior please; Strength on his ample shoulder sits in state; His well-join'd limbs are dreadfully complete; His flakes of solid flesh are slow to part; As steel his nerves, as adamant his heart. When, late awak'd, he rears him from the floods, And, stretching forth his stature to the clouds, Writhes in the sun aloft his scaly height, And strikes the distant hills with transient light, Far round are fatal damps of terror spread, The mighty fear, nor blush to own their dread. (43)Large is his front; and, when his burnish'd eyes Lift their broad lids, the morning seems to rise. In vain may death in various shapes invade, The swift-wing'd arrow, the descending blade; His naked breast their impotence defies; The dart rebounds, the brittle fauchion flies. Shut in himself, the war without he hears, Safe in the tempest of their rattling spears; The cumber'd strand their wasted volleys strow; His sport, the rage and labour of the foe. His pastimes like a cauldron boil the flood, And blacken ocean with the rising mud; The billows feel him, as he works his way; His hoary footsteps shine along the sea; The foam high-wrought, with white divides the green, And distant sailors point where death has been. His like earth bears not on her spacious face: Alone in nature stands his dauntless race, For utter ignorance of fear renown'd, In wrath he rolls his baleful eye around: Makes every swoln, disdainful heart, subside, And holds dominion o'er the sons of pride. Then the Chaldaean eas'd his lab'ring breast, With full conviction of his crime opprest. "Thou canst accomplish all things, Lord of might: And every thought is naked to thy sight. But, oh! thy ways are wonderful, and lie Beyond the deepest reach of mortal eye. Oft have I heard of thine Almighty power; But never saw thee till this dreadful hour. O'erwhelm'd with shame, the Lord of life I see, Abhor myself, and give my soul to thee. Nor shall my weakness tempt thine anger more: Man is not made to question, but adore."



ON MICHAEL ANGELO'S FAMOUS PIECE OF THE CRUCIFIXION;

Who Is Said To Have Stabbed a Person That He Might Draw It More Naturally.(44)

Whilst his Redeemer on his canvass dies, Stabb'd at his feet his brother weltering lies: The daring artist, cruelly serene, Views the pale cheek and the distorted mien; He drains off life by drops, and, deaf to cries, Examines every spirit as it flies: He studies torment, dives in mortal woe, To rouse up every pang repeats his blow; Each rising agony, each dreadful grace, Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour's face. Oh glorious theft! oh nobly wicked draught! With its full charge of death each feature fraught, Such wondrous force the magic colours boast, From his own skill he starts in horror lost.



TO MR. ADDISON,

On the Tragedy of Cato.

What do we see? Is Cato then become A greater name in Britain than in Rome? Does mankind now admire his virtues more, Though Lucan, Horace, Virgil, wrote before? How will posterity this truth explain? "Cato begins to live in Anna's reign." The world's great chiefs, in council or in arms, Rise in your lines with more exalted charms; Illustrious deeds in distant nations wrought, And virtues by departed heroes taught, Raise in your soul a pure immortal flame, Adorn your life, and consecrate your fame; To your renown all ages you subdue, And Caesar fought, and Cato bled for you.

All Souls Coll. Oxon.



HISTORICAL EPILOGUE TO THE BROTHERS.

A Tragedy.

An Epilogue, through custom, is your right, But ne'er perhaps was needful till this night: To-night the virtuous falls, the guilty flies, Guilt's dreadful close our narrow scene denies. In history's authentic record read What ample vengeance gluts Demetrius' shade; Vengeance so great, that, when his tale is told, With pity some e'en Perseus may behold. Perseus surviv'd, indeed, and fill'd the throne, But ceaseless cares in conquest made him groan: Nor reign'd he long; from Rome swift thunder flew, And headlong from his throne the tyrant threw: Thrown headlong down, by Rome in triumph led, For this night's deed his perjur'd bosom bled: His brother's ghost each moment made him start, And all his father's anguish rent his heart. When, rob'd in black, his children round him hung, And their rais'd arms in early sorrow wrung; The younger smil'd, unconscious of their woe; At which thy tears, O Rome! began to flow; So sad the scene! What then must Perseus feel, To see Jove's race attend the victor's wheel: To see the slaves of his worst foes increase, From such a source!—An emperor's embrace! He sicken'd soon to death; and, what is worse, He well deserv'd, and felt, the coward's curse; Unpitied, scorn'd, insulted his last hour, Far, far from home, and in a vassal's power: His pale cheek rested on his shameful chain, No friend to mourn, no flatterer to feign; No suit retards, no comfort soothes his doom, And not one tear bedews a monarch's tomb. Nor ends it thus—dire vengeance to complete, His ancient empire falling shares his fate: His throne forgot! his weeping country chain'd! And nations ask—where Alexander reign'd. As public woes a prince's crime pursue, So public blessings are his virtue's due. Shout, Britons, shout—auspicious fortune bless! And cry, Long live—Our title to success!



EPITAPH

On Lord Aubrey Beauclerk(45), in Westminster Abbey, 1740.

Whilst Britain boasts her empire o'er the deep, This marble shall compel the brave to weep: As men, as Britons, and as soldiers, mourn; 'Tis dauntless, loyal, virtuous Beauclerk's urn. Sweet were his manners, as his soul was great, And ripe his worth, though immature his fate; Each tender grace that joy and love inspires, Living, he mingled with his martial fires: Dying, he bid Britannia's thunders roar; And Spain still felt him, when he breath'd no more.



EPITAPH AT WELWYN, HERTFORDSHIRE.

If fond of what is rare, attend! Here lies an honest man, Of perfect piety, Of lamblike patience, My friend, James Barker; To whom I pay this mean memorial, For what deserves the greatest. An example Which shone through all the clouds of fortune, Industrious in low estate, The lesson and reproach of those above him. To lay this little stone Is my ambition; While others rear The polish'd marbles of the great! Vain pomp; A turf o'er virtue charms us more.

E. Y. 1749.



A LETTER TO MR. TICKELL,

Occasioned by the Death of the Right Hon. Joseph Addison, Esq., 1719.

—Tu nunc eris alter ab illo.

—VIRG.

O long with me in Oxford groves confin'd, In social arts and sacred friendship join'd; Fair Isis' sorrow, and fair Isis' boast, Lost from her side, but fortunately lost; Thy wonted aid, my dear companion! bring, And teach me thy departed friend to sing: A darling theme! once powerful to inspire, And now to melt, the muses' mournful choir: Now, and now first, we freely dare commend His modest worth, nor shall our praise offend.

Early he bloom'd amid the learned train, And ravish'd Isis listen'd to his strain. "See, see," she cried, "old Maro's muse appears, Wak'd from her slumber of two thousand years: Her finish'd charms to Addison she brings, Thinks in his thought, and in his numbers sings. All read transported his pure classic page; Read, and forget their climate and their age." The state, when now his rising fame was known, Th' unrival'd genius challeng'd for her own, Nor would that one, for scenes for action strong, Should let a life evaporate in song. As health and strength the brightest charms dispense, Wit is the blossom of the soundest sense: Yet few, how few, with lofty thoughts inspir'd, With quickness pointed, and with rapture fir'd, In conscious pride their own importance find, Blind to themselves, as the hard world is blind! Wit they esteem a gay but worthless power, The slight amusement of a leisure hour; Unmindful that, conceal'd from vulgar eyes, Majestic wisdom wears the bright disguise. Poor Dido fondled thus, with idle joy, Dread Cupid, lurking in the Trojan boy; Lightly she toy'd, and trifled with his charms, And knew not that a god was in her arms. Who greatest excellence of thought could boast, In action, too, have been distinguish'd most: This Sommers(46) knew, and Addison sent forth From the malignant regions of the north, To be matur'd in more indulgent skies, Where all the vigour of the soul can rise; Thro' warmer veins where sprightlier spirits run, And sense enliven'd sparkles in the sun. With secret pain the prudent patriot gave The hopes of Britain to the rolling wave, Anxious, the charge to all the stars resign'd, And plac'd a confidence in sea and wind. Ausonia soon receiv'd her wondering guest, And equal wonder in her turn confess'd, To see her fervours rival'd by the pole, Her lustre beaming from a northern soul: In like surprise was her AEneas lost, To find his picture grace a foreign coast. Now the wide field of Europe he surveys, Compares her kings, her thrones and empires weighs, In ripen'd judgment and consummate thought; Great work! by Nassau's favour cheaply bought. He now returns to Britain a support, Wise in her senate, graceful in her court; And when the public welfare would permit, The source of learning, and the soul of wit. O Warwick! (whom the muse is fond to name, And kindles, conscious of her future theme,) O Warwick! by divine contagion bright! How early didst thou catch his radiant light! By him inspir'd, how shine before thy time, And leave thy years, and leap into thy prime! On some warm bank, thus, fortunately born, A rose-bud opens to a summer's morn, Full-blown ere noon her fragrant pride displays, And shows th' abundance of her purple rays. Wit, as her bays, was once a barren tree; We now, surpris'd, her fruitful branches see; Or, orange-like, till his auspicious time It grew indeed, but shiver'd in our clime: He first the plant to richer gardens led, And fix'd, indulgent, in a warmer bed: The nation, pleas'd, enjoys the rich produce, And gathers from her ornament her use. When loose from public cares the grove he sought, And fill'd the leisure interval with thought, The various labours of his easy page, A chance amusement, polish'd half an age. Beyond this truth old bards could scarce invent, Who durst to frame a world by accident. What he has sung, how early and how well, The Thames shall boast, and Roman Tiber tell. A glory more sublime remains in store, Since such his talents, that he sung no more. No fuller proof of power th' Almighty gave, Making the sea, than curbing her proud wave. Nought can the genius of his works transcend, But their fair purpose and important end; To rouse the war for injur'd Europe's laws, To steel the patriot in great Brunswick's cause; With virtue's charms to kindle sacred love, Or paint th' eternal bowers of bliss above. Where hadst thou room, great author! where to roll The mighty theme of an immortal soul? Through paths unknown, unbeaten, whence were brought Thy proofs so strong for immaterial thought? One let me join, all other may excel. "How could a mortal essence think so well?" But why so large in the great writer's praise? More lofty subjects should my numbers raise; In him (illustrious rivalry!) contend The statesman, patriot, Christian, and the friend! His glory such, it borders on disgrace To say he sung the best of human race. In joy once join'd, in sorrow now for years, Partner in grief, and brother of my tears, Tickell! accept this verse, thy mournful due; Thou further shalt the sacred theme pursue; And, as thy strain describes the matchless man, Thy life shall second what thy muse began. Though sweet the numbers, though a fire divine Dart through the whole, and burn in every line, Who strives not for that excellence he draws, Is stain'd by fame, and suffers from applause. But haste to thy illustrious task; prepare The noble work well trusted to thy care, The gift(47) bequeath'd by Addison's command, To Craggs made sacred by his dying hand. Collect the labours, join the various rays, The scatter'd light in one united blaze; Then bear to him so true, so truly lov'd, In life distinguished, and in death approv'd, Th' immortal legacy. He hangs awhile In generous anguish o'er the glorious pile; With anxious pleasure the known page reviews, And the dear pledge with falling tears bedews. What though thy tears, pour'd o'er thy godlike friend, Thy other cares for Britain's weal suspend? Think not, O patriot! while thy eyes o'erflow, Those cares suspended for a private woe; Thy love to him is to thy country shown; He mourns for her who mourns for Addison.



REFLECTIONS ON THE PUBLIC SITUATION OF THE KINGDOM

Inscribed to the Duke of Newcastle.

Holles! immortal in far more than fame! Be thou illustrious in far more than power. Great things are small when greater rise to view Tho' station'd high, and press'd with public cares, Disdain not to peruse my serious song, Which peradventure may push by the world: Of a few moments rob Britannia's weal, And leave Europa's counsels less mature! For thou art noble, and the theme is great. Nor shall or Europe or Britannia blame Thine absent ear, but gain by the delay. Long vers'd in senates and in cabinets, States' intricate demands and high debates! As thou of use to those, so this to thee; And in a point that empire far outweighs, That far outweighs all Europe's thrones in one. Let greatness prove its title to be great. 'Tis power's supreme prerogative to stamp On other minds an image of its own. Bend the strong influence of high place, to stem The stream that sweeps away the country's weal; The Stygian stream, the torrent of our guilt. Far as thou mayst give life to virtue's cause; Let not the ties of personal regard Betray the nation's trust to feeble hands: Let not fomented flames of private pique Prey on the vitals of the public good: Let not our streets with blasphemies resound, Nor lewdness whisper where the laws can reach: Let not best laws, the wisdom of our sires, Turn satires on their sunk degenerate sons, The bastards of their blood! and serve no point But with more emphasis to call them fools: Let not our rank enormities unhinge Britannia's welfare from divine support. Such deeds the minister, the prince adorn; No power is shown but in such deeds as these: All, all is impotence but acting right; And where's the statesman but would show his power? To prince and people thou, of equal zeal! Be it henceforward but thy second care To grace thy country, and support the throne; Though this supported, that adorn'd so well, A throne superior our first homage claims; To Caesar's Caesar our first tribute due: A tribute which, unpaid, makes specious wrong And splendid sacrilege of all beside: Illustrious followers; we must first be just; And what so just as awe for the supreme? Less fear we rugged ruffians of the north, Than virtue's well-clad rebels nearer home Less Loyola's disguis'd, all-aping sons, Than traitors lurking in our appetites; Less all the legions Seine and Tagus send, Than unrein'd passions rushing on our peace: Yon savage mountaineers are tame to these. Against those rioters send forth the laws, And break to reason's yoke their wild careers. Prudence for all things points the proper hour, Though some seem more importunate and great. Tho' Britain's generous views and interests spread Beyond the narrow circle of her shores, And their grand entries make on distant lands; Though Britain's genius the wide wave bestrides, And, like a vast Colossus, towering stands With one foot planted on the continent; Yet be not wholly wrapp'd in public cares, Tho' such high cares should call as call'd of late; The cause of kings and emperors adjourn, And Europe's little balance drop awhile; For greater drop it: ponder and adjust The rival interests and contending claims Of life and death, of now and of for-ever; Sublimest theme; and needful as sublime. Thus great Eliza's oracles renown'd, Thus Walsingham and Raleigh, (Britain's boasts!) Thus every statesman thought that ever—died. There's inspiration in a sable hour, And Death's approach makes politicians wise. When thunderstruck, that eagle Wolsey fell; When royal favour, as an ebbing sea, Like a leviathan, his grandeur left, His gasping grandeur! naked on the strand, Naked of human, doubtful of divine, Assistance; no more wallowing in his wealth, Spouting proud foams of insolence no more, On what, then, smote his heart, uncardinal'd, And sunk beneath the level of a man! On the grand article, the sum of things! The point of the first magnitude! that point Tubes mounted in a court, but rarely reach; Some painted cloud still intercepts their sight. First right to judge; then choose; then persevere, Steadfast, as if a crown or mistress call'd.— These, these are politics will stand the test, When finer politics their masters sting, And statesmen fain would shrink to common men. These, these are politics will answer now, (When common men would fain to statesmen swell,) Beyond a Machiavel's or Tencin's scheme. All safety rests on honest counsels: these Immortalize the statesman, bless the state, Make the prince triumph, and the people smile; In peace rever'd, or terrible in arms, Close-leagued with an invincible ally, Which honest counsels never fail to fix In favour of an unabandon'd land; A land—that starts at such a land as this, A parliament, so principled, will sink All ancient schools of empire in disgrace, And Britain's glory, rising from the dead, Will fill the world, loud fame's superior song. Britain!—that word pronounc'd is an alarm; It warms the blood, though frozen in our veins; Awakes the soul, and sends her to the field, Enamour'd of the glorious face of Death. Britain!—there's noble magic in the sound. O what illustrious images arise! Embattled, round me, blaze the pomps of war! By sea, by land, at home, in foreign climes, What full-blown laurels on our fathers' brows! Ye radiant trophies! and imperial spoils! Ye scenes!—astonishing to modern sight! Let me, at least, enjoy you in a dream. Why vanish? Stay, ye godlike strangers! stay: Strangers!—I wrong my countrymen: they wake; High beats the pulse: the noble pulse of war Beats to that ancient measure, that grand march Which then prevail'd, when Britain highest soar'd, And every battle paid for heroes slain. No more our great forefathers stain our cheeks With blushes; their renown our shame no more. In military garb, and sudden arms, Up starts old Britain; crosiers are laid by; Trade wields the sword, and agriculture leaves Her half-turn'd furrow: other harvests fire A nobler avarice, avarice of renown! And laurels are the growth of every field. In distant courts is our commotion felt; And less like gods sit monarches on their thrones. What arm can want or sinews or success, Which, lifted from an honest heart, descends, With all the weight of British wrath, to cleave The papal mitre, or the Gallic chain, At every stroke, and save a sinking land? Or death or victory must be resolv'd; To dream of mercy, O how tame! how mad! Where, o'er black deeds the crucifix display'd, Fools think Heaven purchas'd by the blood they shed; By giving, not supporting, pains and death! Nor simple death! where they the greatest saints Who most subdue all tenderness of heart; Students in torture! where, in zeal to him, Whose darling title is the Prince of Peace, The best turn ruthless butchers, for our sakes; To save us in a world they recommend, And yet forbear, themselves with earth content; What modesty!—such virtues Rome adorn! And chiefly those who Rome's first honours wear, Whose name from Jesus, and whose hearts from hell! And shall a pope-bred princeling crawl ashore, Replete with venom, guiltless of a sting, And whistle cut-throats, with those swords that scrap'd Their barren rocks for wretched sustenance, To cut his passage to the British throne? One that has suck'd in malice with his milk, Malice, to Britain, liberty, and truth? Less savage was his brother-robber's nurse, The howling nurse of plundering Romulus, Ere yet far worse than pagan harbour'd there. Hail to the brave! be Britain Britain still: Britain! high favour'd of indulgent Heaven! Nature's anointed empress of the deep! The nurse of merchants, who can purchase crowns! Supreme in commerce! that exuberant source Of wealth, the nerve of war; of wealth, the blood, The circling current in a nation's veins, To set high bloom on the fair face of peace! This once so celebrated seat of power, From which escap'd the mighty Caesar triumph'd! Of Gallic lilies this eternal blast! This terror of armadas! this true bolt, Ethereal-temper'd, to repress the vain Salmonean thunders from the papal chair! This small isle wide-realm'd monarchs eye with awe! Which says to their ambition's foaming waves, "Thus far, nor farther!"—Let her hold, in life, Nought dear disjoin'd from freedom and renown; Renown, our ancestors' great legacy, To be transmitted to their latest sons. By thoughts inglorious, and un-British deeds, Their cancel'd will is impiously profan'd. Inhumanly disturb'd their sacred dust. Their sacred dust with recent laurels crown, By your own valour won. This sacred isle, Cut from the continent, that world of slaves; This temple built by Heaven's peculiar care, In a recess from the contagious world, With ocean pour'd around it for its guard, And dedicated, long, to liberty, That health, that strength, that bloom, of civil life! This temple of still more divine; of faith Sifted from errors, purified by flames, Like gold, to take anew truth's heavenly stamp, And (rising both in lustre and in weight) With her bless'd Master's unmaim'd image shine; Why should she longer droop? why longer act As an accomplice with the plots of Rome? Why longer lend an edge to Bourbon's sword, And give him leave, among his dastard troops, To muster that strong succour, Albion's crimes? Send his self-impotent ambition aid, And crown the conquest of her fiercest foes? Where are her foes most fatal? Blushing truth, "In her friends' vices,"—with a sigh replies. Empire on virtue's rock unshaken stands; Flux as the billows, when in vice dissolv'd. If Heaven reclaims us by the scourge of war, What thanks are due to Paris and Madrid? Would they a revolution?—Aid their aim, But be the revolution—in our hearts! Wouldst thou (whose hand is at the helm) the bark, The shaken bark of Britain, should outride The present blast, and every future storm? Give it that ballast which alone has weight With Him whom wind, and waves, and war, obey, Persist. Are others subtle? Thou be wise: Above the Florentine's court-science raise; Stand forth a patriot of the moral world; The pattern, and the patron, of the just: Thus strengthen Britain's military strength; Give its own terror to the sword she draws. Ask you, "What mean I?"—The most obvious truth; Armies and fleets alone ne'er won the day. When our proud arms are once disarm'd, disarm'd Of aid from Him by whom the mighty fall; Of aid from Him by whom the feeble stand; Who takes away the keenest edge of battle, Or gives the sword commission to destroy; Who blasts, or bids the martial laurel bloom— Emasculated, then, most manly might; Or, though the might remains, it nought avails: Then wither'd weakness foils the sinewy arm Of man's meridian and high-hearted power: Our naval thunders, and our tented fields With travel'd banners fanning southern climes, What do they? This; and more what can they do? When heap'd the measure of a kingdom's crimes, The prince most dauntless, the first plume of war, By such bold inroads into foreign lands, Such elongation of our armaments, But stretches out the guilty nation's neck, While Heaven commands her executioner, Some less abandon'd nation, to discharge Her full-ripe vengeance in a final blow, And tell the world, "Not strong is human strength; And that the proudest empire holds of Heaven." O Britain! often rescued, often crown'd, Beyond thy merit and most sanguine hopes, With all that's great in war, or sweet in peace! Know from what source thy signal blessings flow. Though bless'd with spirits ardent in the field, Though cover'd various oceans with thy fleets, Though fenc'd with rocks, and moated by the main, Thy trust repose in a far stronger guard; In Him, who thee, though naked, could defend; Tho' weak, could strengthen; ruin'd, could restore. How oft, to tell what arm defends thine isle, To guard her welfare, and yet check her pride, Have the winds snatch'd the victory from war? Or, rather, won the day, when war despair'd? How oft has providential succour aw'd, Aw'd while it bless'd us, conscious of our guilt; Struck dead all confidence in human aid, And, while we triumph'd, made us tremble too! Well may we tremble now; what manners reign? But wherefore ask we, when a true reply Would shock too much? Kind Heaven! avert events Whose fatal nature might reply too plain! Heaven's half-bar'd arm of vengeance has been wav'd In northern skies, and pointed to the south. Vengeance delay'd but gathers and ferments; More formidably blackens in the wind; Brews deeper draughts of unrelenting wrath, And higher charges the suspended storm. "That public vice portends a public fall"— Is this conjecture of adventurous thought! Or pious coward's pulpit cushion'd dream; Far from it. This is certain; this is fate. What says experience, in her awful chair Of ages, her authentic annals spread Around her? What says reason eagle-eyed? Nay, what says common sense, with common care Weighing events, and causes, in her scale? All give one verdict, one decision sign; And this the sentence Delphos could not mend: "Whatever secondary props may rise From politics, to build the public peace, The basis is the manners of the land. When rotten these, the politician's wiles But struggle with destruction, as a child With giants huge, or giants with a Jove. The statesman's arts to conjure up a peace, Or military phantoms void of force, But scare away the vultures for an hour; The scent cadaverous (for, oh! how rank The stench of profligates!) soon lures them back On the proud flutter of a Gallic wing Soon they return; soon make their full descent; Soon glut their rage, and riot in our ruin; Their idols grac'd and gorgeous with our spoils, Of universal empire sure presage! Till now repell'd by seas of British blood." And whence the manners of the multitude? The colours of their manners, black or fair, Falls from above; from the complexion falls Of state Othellos, or white men in power: And from the greater height example falls, Greater the weight, and deeper its impress In ranks inferior, passive to the stroke: From the court-mint, of hearts the current coin, The pupil presses, but the pattern drives. What bonds then, bonds how manifold, and strong To duty, double duty, are the great! And are there Samsons that can burst them all? Yes; and great minds that stand in need of none, Whose pulse beats virtues, and whose generous blood Aids mental motives to push on renown, In emulation of their glorious sires, From whom rolls down the consecrated stream. Some sow good seeds in the glad people's hearts, Some cursed tares, like Satan in the text: This makes a foe most fatal to the state; A foe who (like a wizard in his cell) In his dark cabinet of crooked schemes, Resembling Cuma's gloomy grot, the forge Of boasted oracles, and real lies, (Aided, perhaps, by second-sighted Scots, French magi, relics riding post from Rome, A gothic hero(48) rising from the dead, And changing for spruce plaid his dirty shroud, With succour suitable from lower still,) A foe who, these concurring to the charm, Excites those storms that shall o'erturn the state, Rend up her ancient honours by the root, And lay the boast of ages, the rever'd Of nations, the dear-bought with sumless wealth And blood illustrious, (spite of her La Hogues, Her Cresseys, and her Blenheims,) in the dust. How must this strike a horror thro' the breast, Thro' every generous breast where honour reigns, Thro' every breast where honour claims a share! Yes, and thro' every breast of honour void! This thought might animate the dregs of men; Ferment them into spirit; give them fire To fight the cause, the black opprobrious cause, Foul core of all!—corruption at our hearts. What wreck of empire has the stream of time Swept, with her vices, from the mountain height Of grandeur, deified by half mankind, To dark oblivion's melancholy lake, Or flagrant infamy's eternal brand! Those names, at which surrounding nations shook, Those names ador'd, a nuisance! or forgot! Nor this the caprice of a doubtful die, But Nature's course; no single chance against it. For know, my lord! 'tis writ in adamant, 'Tis fixt, as is the basis of the world, Whose kingdoms stand or fall by the decree. What saw these eyes, surpris'd!—Yet why surpris'd— For aid divine the crisis seem'd to call, And how divine was the monition given! As late I walk'd the night in troubled thought, My peace disturb'd by rumours from the north, While thunder o'er my head, portentous, roll'd, As giving signal of some strange event, And ocean groan'd beneath for her he lov'd, Albion the fair! so long his empire's queen, Whose reign is, now, contested by her foes, On her white cliffs (a tablet broad and bright, Strongly reflecting the pale lunar ray) By fate's own iron pen I saw it writ, And thus the title ran:



THE STATEMAN'S CREED.

"Ye states! and empires! nor of empires least, Though least in size, hear, Britain! thou whose lot, Whose final lot, is in the balance laid, Irresolutely play the doubtful scales, Nor know'st thou which will win.—Know then from me, As govern'd well or ill, states sink or rise: State ministers, as upright or corrupt, Are balm or poison in a nation's veins! Health or distemper, hasten or retard The period of her pride, her day of doom: And though, for reasons obvious to the wise, Just Providence deals otherwise with men, Yet believe, Britons! nor too late believe, 'Tis fix'd! by fate irrevocably fix'd! Virtue and vice are empire's life and death."