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Imperial Britain on the sea looks down,
And smiling sees her rebel subject frown:
Striking her cliff, the storm confirms her pow'r;
The waves but whiten her triumphant shore: 50
In vain they would advance, in vain retreat:
Broken they dash, and perish at her feet.
For William still new wonders shall be shown :
The powers that rescued, shall preserve the throne.
Safe on his darling Britain's joyful sea,
Behold, the monarch ploughs his liquid way:
His fleets in thunder through the world declare,
Whose empire they obey, whose arms they bear.
Bless'd by aspiring winds, he finds the strand
Blacken'd with crowds; he sees the nations stand
Blessing his safety, proud of his command. 61
In various tongues he hears the captains dwell
On their great leader's praise; by turns they tell,
And listen, each with emulous glory fir’d,
How William conquer’d, and how France retir’d;
How Belgia freed, the hero's arm confess'd,
But trembled for the courage which she bless'd.
O Louis, from this great example know,
To be at once a hero, and a foe:
By sounding trumpets, hear, and rattling drums,
When William to the open vengeance comes : 71
And see the soldier plead the monarch's right,
Heading his troops, and foremost in the fight.
Hence then, close Ambush and perfidious War,
Down to your native seats of Night repair.
And thou, Bellona, weep thy cruel pride
Restrain'd, behind the victor's chariot tied
In brazen knots, and everlasting chains,
(So Europe's peace, so William's fate ordains).

While on the ivory chair, in happy state, 80
He sits, secure in innocence, and great
In regal clemency; and views beneath
Averted darts of rage, and pointless arms of death.


MoEE, whilst thou weep'st, fair Cloe, see } The world in sympathy with thee. & The cheerful birds no longer sing; Each droops his head, and hangs his wing. The clouds have bent their bosom lower, And shed their sorrows in a shower. The brooks beyond their limits flow; And louder murmurs speak their woe. The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares; They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears. 10 Fantastic nymph 1 that grief should move Thy heart, obdurate against Love. Strange tears! whose power can soften all, But that dear breast on which they fall.



§ EAR Howard, from the soft assaults of - Love, Poets and painters never are secure; Can I untouch'd the fair ones' passions move 2 Or thou draw beauty, and not feel its power?

* “Hugh Howard, better known by these beautiful verses to him, than by his own works, was son of Ralph Howard, doctor of physic, and was born in Dublin, February 7, 1675. His father being driven from Ireland by the troubles that followed the Revolution, brought the lad to England, who discovering a disposition to the arts and Belles Lettres, was sent to travel in 1697; and, in his way to Italy, passed through Holland in the train of Thomas, Earl of Pembroke, one of the plenipotentiaries at the treaty of Ryswick. Mr. Howard proceeded as he had intended, and having visited France and Italy, returned home in October, 1700.

“Some years he passed in Dublin: the greatest and latter part of his life he spent entirely in England, practising painting, at least with applause ; but having ingratiated himself by his fame and knowledge of lands with men of the first rank, particularly the Duke of Devonshire and Lord Pembroke, and by a parsimonious management of his good fortune, and of what he received with his wife, he was enabled to quit the practical part of his profession for the last twenty years of his life; the former peer having obtained for him the posts of Keeper of the State Papers, and Paymaster of his Majesty's Palaces. In this pleasing situation he amused himself with forming a large collection of prints, books, and medals, which at his death' (March 27, 1737), he bequeathed to his only brother Robert Howard, Bishop of Elphin, who transported them to Ireland.

" He died in Pall-Mall, and was buried at Richmond. Walpole's Anecdotes, vol. iii. p. 156.


To great Apelles when young Ammon brought" The darling idol of his captive heart;

And the pleas'd nymph with kind attention sat, To have her charms recorded by his art:

The am’rous master own'd her potent eyes; Sigh’d when he look'd, and trembled as he drew

Each flowing line confirm'd his first surprise, 10 And as the piece advanc'd, the passion grew.

While Philip's son, while Venus' son was near,
What different tortures does his bosom feel !

Great was the rival, and the god severe:
Nor could he hide his flame, nor durst reveal.

The prince, renown'd in bounty as in arms,
With pity saw the ill-conceal’d distress;

Quitted his title to Campaspe's charms,
And gave the fair one to the friend's embrace.

Thus the more beauteous Cloe sat to thee, 20
Good Howard, emulous of the Grecian art:

But happy thou, from Cupid’s arrow free,
And flames that pierced thy predecessor's heart

Had thy poor breast receiv'd an equal pain;
Had I been vested with the monarch's power;

Thou must have sigh'd, unlucky youth, in vain;
Nor from my bounty hadst thou found a cure.

“Mr. Howard's picture was drawn by Dahl, very like, and published in mezzotinto about a year before his death. Howard himself etched from a drawing of Carlo Marati, a head of Padra Resta, the collector, with his spectacles on, turning over a large book of drawings.”

* See Pliny's Natural History, B. 35, C. 10.

Though to convince thee, that the friend did feel A kind concern for thy ill-fated care, 30

I would have sooth'd the flame I could not heal; Giv'n thee the world, though I withheld the fair.

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AENEATH a myrtle's verdant shade
As Cloe half asleep was laid,
A Cupid perch’d lightly on her breast,
#49 And in that heav'n desir'd to rest:
Over her paps his wings he spread:
Between he found a downy bed,
And nestled in his little head.
Still lay the god: the nymph surpris'd,
Yet mistress of herself, devis’d
How she the vagrant might enthral, 10
And captive him who captives all.
Her bodice half-way she unlac'd ;
About his arms she slily cast
The silken bond, and held him fast.
The god awak'd; and thrice in vain
He strove to break the cruel chain;
And thrice in vain he shook his wing,
Incumber'd in the silken string.
Flutt'ring the god, and weeping said,
Pity poor Cupid, generous maid, 20
Who happen'd, being blind, to stray,
And on thy bosom lost his way;

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