The proper task of man; and fure, to fing
Of nature's laws, and nature's mighty King,
Is blifs fupreme. Let gods with mortals join!
The subject may tranfport a breaft divine.

CLAREMONT.

ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF CLARB.

WHAT frenzy has of late poffefs'd the brain;

Tho' few can write, yet fewer can refrain.
So rank our foil, our bards rife in fuch store,
Their rich retaining patrons scarce are more:
The laft indulge the fault the first commit,
And take off ftill the offal of their wit.
So fhameless, fo abandon'd, are their ways,
They poach Parnaffus, and lay fnares for praise.
None ever can without admirers live,
Who have a penfion or a place to give.
Great minifters ne'er fail of great deferts;
The herald gives them blood, the poet parts.
Senfe is of course annex'd to wealth and pow'r;
No Mufe is proof against a golden fhow'r.
Let but his lordship write fome poor lampoon,
He's Horac'd up in doggrel like his own ;

Or if to rant in tragick rage he yields,

Falfe Fame cries- Athens;' honest Truth-' Moorfields.'

Thus fool'd, he flounces on thro' floods of ink,

Flags with full fail. and rifes but to fink.

Some venal pens fo prostitute the bays,

Their panegyricks lafh, their fatire's praise :

So naufeously and fo unlike they paint,
N's an Adonis, M-r a faint.
Metius with thofe fam'd heroes is compar'd-
That led in triumph Porus and Tallard.
But fuch a fhameless Muse must laughter move,
That aims to make Salmoneus vie with Jove.

To form great works puts Fate itself to pain;
E'en Nature labours for a mighty man;
And, to perpetuate her hero's fame,
She strains no lefs a poet next to frame.
Rare as the hero's is the poet's rage;
Churchills and Drydens rise but once an age.
With earthquakes tow'ring Pindar's birth begun,.
And an eclipse produc'd Alcmena's fon:
The fire of gods o'er Phoebus cast a shade,
But with a hero well the world repaid.

No bard for bribes should prostitute his vein,
Nor dare to flatter where he should arraign.
To grant big Thrafo valour, Phormio fense,
Should indignation give, at least offence.

I hate fuch mercenaries, and would try
From this reproach to rescue poetry.
Apollo's fons should scorn the fervile art,

And to court-preachers leave the fulfome part.

What, then,' you'll fay, muft no true fterling pafs,
coin debafe?'

• Because impure allays fome

Yes-praife, if justly offer'd, I'll allow,

And when I meet with merit fcribble too.
The man who's honeft, open, and a friend,
Glad to oblige, uneafy to offend;

Forgiving others, to himself fevere;
Tho' earneft eafy, civil yet fincere ;

Who feldom but thro' great good-nature errs;
Detesting fraud as much as flatterers:
'Tis he my Mufe's homage fhould receive,
If I could write, or Holles could forgive.

But

But pardon, learned youth, that I decline
A name fo lov'd by me, fo lately thine.
When Pelham you refign'd, what could repair
A loss so great, unless Newcastle's heir?
Hydafpes, that the Afian plains divides,
From his bright urn in pureft chrystal glides ;
But when new-gathering ftreams enlarge his course,
He's Indus nam'd, and rolls with mightier force;
In fabled floods of gold his current flows,
And wealth on nations, as he runs, bestows.

Direct me, Clare! to name some nobler Muse,
That for her theme thy late recefs may chufe;
Such bright defcriptions fhall the subject dress,
Such varied fcenes, fuch pleafing images,

That fwains fhall leave their lawns, and nymphs their bow'rs,
And quit Arcadia for a feat like yours.

But fay, who fhall attempt th' advent'rous part,
Where Nature borrows dress from Vanbrugh's art?
If, by Apollo taught, he touch the lyre,
Stones mount in columns, palaces afpire,
And rocks are animated with his fire.
'Tis he can paint in verse those rifing hills,
Their gentle vallies, and their filver rills;
Close groves and op'ning glades with verdure spread,
Flow'rs fighing fweets, and fhrubs that balfam bleed;
With gay variety the profpect crown'd,

And all the bright horizon fmiling round;
Whilft I attempt to tell how ancient fame

Records from whence the villa took it's name.

In times of old, when British nymphs were known
To love no foreign fashions like their own ;
When drefs was monftrous, and fig-leaves the mode,
And quality put on no paint but woad;

Of Spanish red unheard was then the name,

(For cheeks were only taught to blush by shame)

}

No

No beauty, to increase her crowd of staves,
Rofe out of wash, as Venus out of waves;
Not yet lead-comb was on the toilet plac'd,
Not yet broad eyebrows were reduc'd by pafte;
No shape-fmith fet up fhop, and drove a trade
To mend the work wife Providence had made;
Tires were unheard of, and unknown the loom,
And thrifty filk-worms fpun for times to come;
Bare limbs were then the marks of modefty;
All, like Diana, were below the knee.

The men appear'd a rough undaunted race,
Surly in show, unfashion'd in addrefs;
Upright in actions, and in thought fincere,
And ftrictly were the fame they would appear.
Honour was plac'd in probity alone,

For villains had no titles but their own.
None travell'd to return politely mad,
But ftill what fancy wanted reafon had.
Whatever Nature ask'd their hands could give ;
Unlearn'd in feafts, they only eat to live.
No cook with art increas'd phyficians fees,
Nor ferv'd up death in foups and fricaffées.
Their tafte was, like their temper, unrefin❜d,
For looks were then the language of the mind.
Ere right and wrong by turns fet prices bore,
And confcience had it's rate, like common whores
Or tools to great employments had pretence,
Or merit was made out by impudence;
Or coxcombs look'd affuming in affairs,
And humble friends grew haughty minifters:
In those good days of innocence here flood
Of oaks, with heads unfhorn, a folemn wood,
Frequented by the Druids, to bestow
Religious honours on the mifletoe.

The naturalifts are puzzled to explain
How trees did firft this stranger entertain ;

Whether

Whether the bufy birds ingraft it there,
Or else fome deity's mistaken care,

As Druids thought; for when the blasted oak
By lightning falls, this plant efcapes the stroke.
So, when the Gauls the tow'rs of Rome defac'd,
And flames drove forward with outrageous wafte,
Jove's favour'd capitol uninjur'd flood;

So facred was the manfion of a god.

Shades honour'd by this plant the Druids chofe,
Here for the bleeding victims altars rose:
To Hermes oft they paid their facrifice,
Parent of arts, and patron of the wife.
Good rules in mild perfuafions they convey'd,
Their lives confirming what their lectures faid.
None violated truth, invaded right,

Yet had few laws but will and appetite,

The people's peace they study'd, and profess'd
No politicks but publick interest.

Hard was their lodging, homely was their food,
For all their luxury was doing good.

No mitred prieft did then with princes vie,
Nor o'er his matter claim fupremacy;
Nor were the rules of faith allow'd more pure
For being feveral centuries obfcure.
None loft their fortunes, forfeited their blood,
For not believing what none understood:
Nor Simony nor finecure were known;
Nor would the bee work honey for the drones
Nor was the way invented, to difmifs
Frail Abigails with fat pluralities.

But then, in fillets bound, a hallow'd band,
Taught how to tend the flocks, and till the land;
Could tell what murrains in what months begun,
And how the feafons travell'd with the fun :
When his dim orb feem'd wading thro' the air,
They told that rain on dropping wings drew near;

And