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O Phœbus! would thy godhead not refuse This humble incense, on thy altar laid; Would thy propitious ear attend the Muse, That suppliant now invokes thy certain aid; With Mantuan force I'd mount a stronger gale, And sing the parent of her land, who strove T'exceed the transports of her people's zeal, With acts of mercy, and majestic love; By Fate, to fix Britannia's empire, given The guardian power of Earth, and public care of Heaven.

VI.

Then, Churchill, should the Muse record
The conquests by thy sword achiev'd;
Quiet to Belgian states restor'd,

And Austrian crowns by thee retriev'd.
Imperious Leopold confess'd

His hoary majesty distress'd;
To arms, to arms, Bavaria calls,

Nor with less terrour shook his throne,
Than when the rising crescent shone
Malignant o'er his shatter'd walls.

The warrior led the Britons forth,
On foreign fields to dare their fate,
Distinguish'd souls of shining worth,
In war unknowing to retreat:
Thou, Phoebus, saw'st the hero's face,
When Mars had breath'd a purple grace,
And mighty fury fill'd his breast:
How like thyself, when to destroy
The Greeks thou didst thy darts employ,
Fierce with thy golden quiver drest!

Sudden, whilst banish'd from his native land,
Red with dishonest wounds, Bavaria mourn'd,
The chief, at Gloriana's high command,
Like a rous'd lion, to the Maes return'd;
With vengeful speed the British sword he drew,
Unus'd to grieve his host with long delay;
Whilst wing'd with fear the force of Gallia flew ;
As when the morning star restores the day,
The wandering ghosts of twenty thousand slain
Fleet sullen to the shades from Blenheim's mourn-
ful plain.

VII.

Britannia, wipe thy dusty brow,
And put the Bourbon laurels on;
To thee deliver'd nations bow,

And bless the spoils thy wars have won.
For thee Bellona points her spear,
And, whilst lamenting mothers fear,
On high her signal torch displays;
But when thy sword is sheath'd, again
Obsequious she receives thy chain,
And sinooths her violence of face.
Parent of arms! for ever stand
With large increase of fame rever'd,
Whilst arches to thy saving hand
On Danube's grateful banks are rear'd.
Eugene, inspir'd to war by thee,
Ausonia's weeping states to free,
Swift on th' Imperial eagle flies;
Whilst, bleeding, from his azure bed
Th' asserted Iber lifts his head,
And safe his Austrian lord enjoys

Io Britannia! fix'd on foreign wars,
Guiltless of civil rage extend thy name:
The waves of utmost ocean, and the stars,
Are bounds but equal to thy sovereign's fame.

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When with establish'd freedom bless'd,
The globe to great Alcides bow'd,
Whose happy power reliev'd th' oppress'd
From lawless chains, and check'd the proud;
Mature in fame, the grateful gods
Receiv'd him to their bright abodes:
Where Hebe crown'd his blooming joys;
Garlands the willing Muses wove,
And each with emulation strove

T' adorn the Churchill of the skies.

For Albion's chief, ye sacred Nine!
Your harps with generous ardour string,
With Fame's immortal trumpet join,
And safe beneath his laurel sing:
When clad in vines the Seine shall glide,
And duteous in a smoother tide,
To British seas her tribute yield;
Wakeful at Honour's shrine attend,
And long with living beams defend
From night, the warrior's votive shield.

And, Woodstock, let his dome exalt thy fame,
Great o'er thy Norman ruins be restor❜d;
Thou that with pride dost Edward's' cradle claim,
Receive an equal hero for thy lord:

Whilst every column, to record their toils,
Eternal monuments of conquest wears,

And all thy walls are dress'd with mingled spoils,
Gather'd on fam'd Ramilia and Poictiers,
High on thy tower the grateful flag display,
Due to thy queen's reward, and Blenheim's glorious
day.

FLORELIO;

A PASTORAL,

LAMENTING THE DEATH OF THE LATE

MARQUIS OF BLANDFORD.

Ask not the cause why all the tuneful swains,
Who us'd to fill the vales with tender strains,
In deep despair neglect the warbling reed,
And all their bleating flocks refuse to feed.
Ask not why greens and flowers so late appear
To clothe the glebe, and deck the springing year;
Why sounds the lawn with loud laments and cries,
And swoln with tears to floods the rivulets rise:
The fair Florelio now has left the plain, [swain.
And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British
For thee, lov'd youth! on every vale and lawn,
The nymphs and all thy fellow-shepherds moan.
The little birds now cease to sing and love,
Silent they sit, and droop in every grove:
No mounting lark now warbles on the wing,
Nor linnets chirp to cheer the sullen Spring:
Only the melancholy turtles coo,
And Philomel by night repeats her woe.

1 The Black Prince.

O, charmer of the shades! the tale prolong,
Nor let the morning interrupt thy song:
Or softly tune thy tender notes to mine,
Forgetting Tereus, make my sorrows thine.
Now the dear youth has left the lonely plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British
swain.

Say, all ye shades, where late he us❜d to rest,
If e'er your beds with lovelier swain were prest;
Say, all ye silver streams, if e'er ye bore
The image of so fair a face before.

But now, ye streams, assist me whilst I mourn,
For never must the lovely swain return;
And, as these flowing tears increase your tide,
O, murmur for the shepherd, as ye glide:
Be sure, ye rocks, while I my grief disclose,
Let your sad echoes lengthen out my woes:
Ye breezes, bear the plaintive accent on,
And, whispering, tell the floods Florelio's gone;
For ever gone, and left the lonely plain,

And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British swain.

Ripe strawberries for thee, and peaches, grew,
Sweet to the taste, and tempting red to view.
For thee the rose put sweeter purple on,
Preventing, by her haste, the summer-sun.
But now the flowers all pale and blighted lie,
And in cold sweats of sickly mildew die.
Nor can the bees suck from the shrivel'd blooms
Ethereal sweets, to store their golden combs.
Oft on thy lips they would their labour leave,
And sweeter odours from thy mouth receive:
Sweet as the breath of Flora, when she lies
In jasmine shades, and for young Zephyr sighs.
But now those lips are cold; relentless Death
Hath chill'd their charms, and stopt thy balmy
breath.

Those eyes, where Cupid tipp'd his darts with fire,
And kindled in the coldest nymphs desire,
Robb'd of their beams, in everlasting night
Are clos'd, and give us woes as once delight:
And thou, dear youth, hast left the lonely plain,
And art the grief, who wert the grace, of every Bri.

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By night, be thy dear eyes by Death compos'd:
A gentle fall may thy young beautics have,
And golden slumbers wait thee in the grave:
Yearly thy hearse with garlands we'll adorn,
And teach young nightingales for thee to mourn ;
Bees love the blooms, the flocks the bladed grain,
Nor less wert thou belov'd by every swain.
Come, shepherds, come, perform the funeral due,
For he was ever good and kind to you:
On every smoothest beech, in every grove,
In weeping characters record your love."
And as in memory of Adonis slain,

When for the youth the Syrian maids complain,
His river, to record the guilty day,
With freshly bleeding purple stains the sea:
So thou, dear Cam, contribute to our woe,
And bid thy stream in plaintive murmurs flow:

Thy head with thy own willow boughs adorn,
And with thy tears supply the frugal urn.
The swains their sheep, the nymphs shall leave the
lawn,

And yearly on their banks renew their moan:
His mother, while they there lament, shall be
The queen of love, the lov'd Adonis he:
On her, like Venus, all the Graces wait,
And he too like Adonis in his fate!

For fresh in fragrant youth he left the plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British
swain
[side,

No more the nymphs, that o'er the brooks pre-
Dress their gay beauties by the crystal tide,
Nor fly the wintry winds, nor scorching Sun,
Now he, for whom they strove to charm is gone.
Oft they beneath their reedy coverts sigh'd,
And look'd, and long'd, and for Florelio dy'd.
Of him they sang, and with soft ditties strove
To soothe the pleasing agonies of love.
But now they roam distracted with despair,
And cypress, twin'd with mournful willows, wear.
Thus, hand-in-hand, around his grave they go,
And saffron buds and fading lilies strow,
With sprigs of myrtle mix'd, and scattering cry,
"So sweet and soft the shepherd was! so soon de-
creed to die!"

There, fresh in dear remembrance of their woes,
His name the young anemonies disclose;
Nor strange they should a double grief avow,
Then Venus wept, and Pastorella now.
Breathe soft, ye winds! long let them paint the

plain,

Unhurt, untouch'd, by every passing swain. And when, ye nymphs, to make the garlands gay, With which ye crown the mistress of the May, Ye shall these flowers to bind her temples take, | O pluck them gently for Florelio's sake! And when through Woodstock's green retreats ye stray,

Or Althrop's flowery vales invite to play;
O'er which young Pastorella's beauties bring
Elysium early, and improve the spring:
When evening gales attentive silence keep,
And Heaven its balmy dew begins to weep,
By the soft fall of every warbling stream,
Sigh your sad airs, and bless the shepherd's name:
There to the tender lute attune your woe,
While hyacinths and myrtles round ye grow.
So may Sylvanus ever 'tend your bowers,
And Zephyr brush the mildew from the flowers!
Bid all the swans from Cam and Isis haste,
In the melodious choir to breathe their last.
O Colin, Colin, could I there complain
Like thee, when young Philisides was slain!
Thou sweet frequenter of the Muses' stream!
Why have I not thy voice, or thou my theme?
Though weak my voice, though lowly be my lays,
They shall be sacred to the shepherd's praise:
To him my voice, to him my lays, belong,
And bright Myrtilla now must live unsung:
Even she, whose artless beauty bless'd me more
Than ever swain was bless'd by nymph before;
While every tender sigh, to seal our bliss,
Brought a kind vow, and every vow a kiss:
Fair, chaste, and kind, yet now no more can move,
So much my grief is stronger than my love:
Now the dear youth has left the lonely plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British

swain,

As when some cruel hind has borne away
The turtle's nest, and made the young his prey,
Sad in her native grove she sits alone,
There hangs her wings, and murmurs out her moan;
So the bright shepherdess, who bore the boy,
Beneath a baleful yew does weeping lie;
Nor can the fair the weighty woe sustain,
But bends, like roses crush'd with falling rain;
Nor from the silent earth her eyes removes,
That, weeping, languish like a dying dove's.
Not such her look (severe reverse of fate!)
When little Loves in every dimple sate;
And all the Smiles delighted to resort

On the calm Heaven of her soft cheeks to sport:
Soft as the clouds mild April evenings wear,
Which drop fresh flowrets on the youthful year.
The fountain's fall can't lull her wakeful woes,
Nor poppy-garlands give the nymph repose:
Through prickly brakes, and unfrequented groves,
O'er hills and dales, and craggy cliffs, she roves.
And when she spies, beneath some silent shade,
The daisies press'd, where late his limbs were laid,
To the cold print there close she joins her face,
And all with gushing tears bedews the grass. [skies,
There with loud plaints she wounds the pitying

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And, oh! return, my lovely youth," she cries; "Return, Florelio, with thy wonted charms Fill the soft circle of my longing arms."

Cease, fair Affliction, cease! the lovely boy
In Death's cold arms must pale and breathless lie.
The Fates can never change their first decree,
Or sure they would have chang'd this one for thee.
Pan for his Syrinx makes eternal moan,
Cercs her daughter lost, and thou thy son.
Thy son for ever now has left the plain,

And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British swain.

Adieu, ye mossy caves, and shady groves, Once happy scenes of our successful loves: Ye hungry herds, and bleating flocks, adieu! Flints be your beds, and browze the bitter yew. Two lambs alone shall be my charge to feed, For yearly on his grave two lambs shall bleed. This pledge of lasting love, dear shade, receive; 'Tis all, alas, a shepherd's love can give! But grief from its own power will set me free, Will send me soon a willing ghost to thee: Cropt in the flowery spring of youth, I'll go With hasty joy to wait thy shade below: In ever-fragrant meads, and jasmine-bowers, We'll dwell, and all Elysium shall be ours. Where citron groves ethereal odours breathe, And streams of flowing crystal purl beneath; Where all are ever young, and heavenly fair, As here above thy sister Graces are.

AN ODE.

WHAT art thou, Life, whose stay we court?
What is thy rival Death we fear?
Since we're but fickle Fortune's sport,
Why should we wish t' inhabit here,

And think the race, we find so rough, too short?

While in the womb we forming lie,
While yet the lamp of life displays
A doubtful dawn with feeble rays,

New issuing from non-entity;

The shell of flesh pollutes with sin
Its gem, the soul, just enter'd in ;
And, by transmitted vice defil'd,
The fiend commences with the child.

In this dark region future fates are bred,
And mines of secret ruin laid:
Hot fevers here long kindling lie,
Prepar'd with flaming whips to rage,
And lash on lingering Destiny:
Whene'er excess has fir'd our riper age,
Here brood in infancy the gout and stone,
Fruits of our fathers' follies, not our own.
Ev'n with our nourishment we death receive,
For here our guiltless mothers give
Poison for food when first we live.
Hence noisome humours sweat thro' every pore',
And blot us with an undistinguish'd sore:
Nor, mov'd with beanty, will the dire disease
Forbear on faultless forms to seize;
But vindicates the good, the gay,
The wise, the young, its common prey.
Had all, conjoin'd in one, had power to save,
The Muses had not wept o'er Blandford's grave.

The spark of pure ethereal light
That actuates this fleeting frame,
Darts through the cloud of flesh a sickly flame,
And seems a glow-worm in a winter night.

But man would yet look wondrous wise,
And equal chains of thought devise;
Intends his mind on mighty schemes,
Refutes, defines, confirms, declaims;
And diagrams he draws, t' explain

The learn'd chimeras of his brain;
And, with imaginary wisdom proud,
Thinks on the goddess while he clips the cloud.
Through Errour's mazy grove, with fruitless toil,
Perplex'd with puzzling doubts, we roam;
False images our sight beguile,
But still we stumble through the gloom,
And science seek, which still deludes the mind.
Yet, more enamour'd with the race,
With disproportion'd speed we urge the chase:
In vain! the various prey no bounds restrain;
Fleeting it only leaves, t' increase our pain,
A cold unsatisfying scent behind.

Yet, gracious God! presumptuous man,
With random guesses, makes pretence
To sound thy searchless providence,
From which he first began:

Like hooded hawks we blindly tower,
And circumscribe, with fancy'd laws, thy power,
Thy will the rolling orbs obey,

The Moon, presiding o'er the sea,
Governs the waves with equal sway:
But man perverse, and lawless still,
Boldly runs counter to thy will;
Thy patient thunder he defies;
Lays down false principles, and moves
By what his vicious choice approves ;

And, when he's vainly wicked, thinks he's wise,

Return, return, too long misled !
With filial fear adore thy God:

Ere the vast deep of Heaven was spread,
Or body first in space abode,

Glories ineffable adoru'd his head.

The small-pox.

Unnumber'd seraphs round the burning throne,
Sung to th' incomprehensible Three-One:

Yet then his clemency did please
With lower forms t' augment his train,
And made thee, wretched creature, man,
Probationer of happiness.

On the vast ocean of his wonders here,

We momentary bubbles ride,

Till, crush'd by the tempestuous tide, Sunk in the parent flood, we disappear: We, who so gaudy on the waters shone, Proud, like the showery bow, with beauties not our

own..

But, at the signal given, this earth and sea
Shall set their sleeping vassals free;
And the belov'd of God,

The faithful, and the just,

Like Aaron's chosen rod,

Though dry, shall blossom in the dust:
Then, gladly bounding from their dark restraints,
The skeletons shall brighten into saints,
And, from mortality refin'd, shall rise

To meet their Saviour coming in the skies:
Instructed then by intuition, we

Shall the vain efforts of our wisdom see;

Shall then impartially confess
Our demonstration was but guess;

That knowledge, which from human reason flows,
Unless Religion guide its course,
And Faith her steady mounds oppose,
Is ignorance at best, and often worse.

"How art thou with diminish'd glory fall'a
From thy proud zenith, swift as meteors glide
Aslope a summer-eve! Of all the stars,
Titled the first and fairest, thou didst hope
To share divinity, or haply more,

Elated as supreme, when o'er the North
Thy bloody banners stream'd, to rightful kings
Portending ruinous downfall; wondrous low,
Opprobrious and detested, art thou thrown,
Disrob'd of all thy splendours: round thee stand
The swarming populace, and with fix'd regard
Eying thee, pale and breathless, spend their rage
In taunting speech, and jovial ask their friends,
Is this the Mighty, whose imperious yoke
We bore reluctant, who to desert wilds,
And haunts of savages, transform'd the marts,
And capital cities raz'd, pronouncing thrall
Or exile on the peerage? How becalın'd
The tyrant lies, whose nostrils us'd to breathe
Tempests of wrath, and shook establish'd thrones!'

"In solemn state the bones of pious kings,
Gather'd to their great sires, are safe repos'd
Beneath the weeping vault: but thou, a branch
Blasted and curs'd by Heaven, to dogs and fowls
Art doom'd a banquet; mingling some remains
With criminals unabsolv'd; on all thy race
Transinitting guilt and vengeance. From thy domes
Thy children skulk, erroneous and forlorn,
Fearing perdition, and for mercy sue,
With eyes uplift, and tearful. From thy seed
The sceptre Heaven resumes, by thee usurp'd
By guile and force, and sway'd with lawless rage,"

PART OF THE

FOURTEENTH CHAPTER OF ISAIAH

PARAPHRASED.

Now has th' Almighty Father, seated high
In ambient glories, from the eternal throne
Vouchsaf'd compassion; and th' afflictive power
Has broke, whose iron sceptre long had bruis'd
The groaning nations, Now returning Peace,
Dove-ey'd, and rob'd in white, the blissful land
Deigns to re-visit; whilst beneath her steps
The soil, with civil slaughter oft manur'd,
Pours forth abundant olives. Their high tops
The cedars wave, exulting o'er thy fall,
Whose steel from the tall monarch of the grove
Sever'd the regal honours, and up tore
The scions blooming in the parent shade.

When, vehicled in flame, thou slow didst pass Prone thro' the gates of Night, the dreary realms With loud acclaim receiv'd thee. Tyrants old (Gigantic forms, with human blood besmear'd) Rose from their thrones; for thrones they still possess,

[ery, Their penance and their guilt: "Art thou," they "O emulous of our crimes, here doom'd to reign Associate of our woe? Nor com'st thou girt With livery'd slaves, or bands of warrior-knights, Which erst before thee stood, a flattering crowd, Observant of thy brow; nor hireling quires, Attempering to the harp their warbled airs, Thy panegyric chaunt; but, hush'd in death, Like us thou ly'st unwept; a corse obscene With dust, and preying worins, bare and despoil'd Of ill-got pomp. We hail thee our compeer!

VERSES ON THE UNION.
THE Gaul, intent on universal sway,
Sees his own subjects with constraint obey;
And they who most his rising beams ador'd,
Weep in their chains, and wish another lord.
But, if the Muse not uninspir'd presage,
Justice shall triumph o'er oppressive rage:
His power shall be reclaim'd to rightful laws,
And all, like Savoy, shall desert his cause.
So when to distant vales an Eagle steers,
His fierceness not disarm'd by length of years,
From his stretch'd wing he sees the feathers fly,
Which bore him to his empire of the sky.

Unlike, great queen, thy steps to deathless Fame;
O best, O greatest, of thy royal name!
Thy Britons, fam'd for arts, in battle brave,
Have nothing now to censure, or to crave:
Ev'n Vice and factious Zeal are held in awe,
Thy court a temple, and thy life a law.

When edg'd with terrours, by thy vengeful hand The sword is drawn to gore a guilty land; Thy mercy cures the wound thy justice gave, For 'tis thy lov'd prerogative to save: And Victory, to grace thy triumph, brings Palins in her hand, with healing in her wings.

But as mild Heaven on Eden's op'ning gems Bestow'd the balmiest dews, and brightest beams: So, whilst remotest climes thy influence share, Fritain's the darling object of thy care: By thy wise councils, and resistless might, Abroad we conquer, and at home unite: Before thou bid'st the distant battles cease, Thy picty cements domestic peace;

Impatient of delay to fix the state,
Thy dove brings olive ere the waves abate

Hail, happy sister-lands! for ever prove Rivals alone in loyalty and love; Kindled from Heaven, be your auspicious flame As lasting, and as bright, as Anna's fame! And thou, fair northern nymphs, partake our toil, With us divide the danger, and the spoil: When thy brave sons, the friends of Mars avow'd, In steel around our Albion standards crowd; What wonders in the war shall now be shown By her, who single shook the Gallic throne!

The day draws nigh, in which the warrior-queen

Shall wave her union-crosses o'er the Seine:
Rous'd with heroic warmth unfelt before,
Her lions with redoubled fury roar;
And urging on to fame, with joy behold
The woody walks, in which they rang'd of old.
O Louis, Jong the terrour of thy arms
Has aw'd the continent with dire alarms;
Exulting in thy pride, with hope to see
Empires and states derive their power from thee;
From Britain's equal hand the scale to wrest,
And reign without a rival o'er the west:
But now the laurels, by thy rapine torn
From Belgian groves, in early triumphs borne;
Wither'd and leafless in thy winter stand,
Expos'd a prey to every hostile hand:
By strange extremes of destiny decreed
To flourish, and to fall with equal speed.

So the young gourd, around the prophet's head,
With swift increase, her fragrant honours spread;
Beneath the growing shade secure he sate,
To see the towers of Ninus bow to Fate:
But, curs'd by Heaven, the greens began to fade,
And, sickening, sudden as they rose, decay'd.

CUPID AND HYMEN.

Cueto resign'd to Sylvia's care
His bow and quiver stor'd with darts;
Commissioning the matchless fair

To fill his shrine with bleeding hearts.

His empire thus secur'd, he flies

To sport amid th' Idalian grove; Whose feather'd choirs proclaim'd the joys, And bless'd the pleasing power of love. The god their grateful songs engage,

To spread his nets which Venus wrought; Whilst Hymen held the golden cage,

To keep secure the game they caught.
The warblers, brisk with genial fiame,
Swift from the myrtle shades repair;
A willing captive each becaine,

And sweetlier carol'd in the snare.
When Hymen had receiv'd the prey,
To Cytherea's fane they flew,
Regardless, while they wing'd their way,
How sullen all the songsters grew.
Alas! no sprightly note is heard,

But each with silent grief consumes;
Thongh to celestial food preferr'd,

They pining droop their painted plumes.

Cupid, afflicted at the change,

To beg her aid to Venus run;

She heard the tale, nor thought it strange, But, smiling, thus advis'd her son: "Pleasure grows languid with restraint, 'Tis Nature's privilege to roam: If you'll not have your linnets faint, Leave Hymen with his cage at home,'

OLIVIA.

OLIVIA's lewd, but looks devout,
And scripture-proofs she throws about,
When first you try to win her:
Pull your fob of guineas out;
Fee Jenny first, and never doubt
To find the saint a sinner.
Baxter by day is her delight:
No chocolate must come in sight

Before two morning chapters:
But, lest the spleen should spoil her quite,
She takes a civil friend at night,

To raise her holy raptures.
Thus oft we see a glow-worm gay,
At large her fiery tail display,
Encourag'd by the dark:
And yet the sullen thing all day
Snug in the lonely thicket lay,
And hid the native spark.

TO A LADY,

SITTING BEFORE HER GLASS,

So smooth and clear the fountain was,
In which his face Narcissus spy'd,
When, gazing in that liquid glass,

He for himself despair'd and dy'd:
Now, Chloris, can you safer see
Your own perfections here than he.
The lark before the mirror plays,

Which some deceitful swain has set,
Pleas'd with herself, she fondly stays
To die deluded in the net.
Love may such frauds for you prepare,
Yourself the captive, and the snare.

But, Chloris, whilst you there review
Those graces opening in their bloom,
Think how disease and age pursue,

Your riper glories to consume.
Then sighing you would wish your glass
Could show to Chloris what she was.

Let Pride no more give Nature law,

But free the youth your power enslaves Her form, like yours, bright Cynthia saw, Reflected on the crystal waves ; Yet priz'd not all her charms above The pleasure of Endymion's love.

No longer let your glass supply

Too just an emblem of your breast,
Where oft to my deluded eye

Love's image has appear'd imprest;
But play'd so lightly on your mind,
It left no lasting print behind.

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