AN ODE.

Infcribed to the Memory of

THE HON. COLONEL GEORGE VILLIERS,
Drowned in the River Piava, in the country of Friuli, 1703.
In imitation of Horace, lib. I. ode 28..

Te maris & terra numeroque carentis arena
Menforem cohibent, Archyta, &c.

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AY, deareft Villiers, poor departed friend,
(Since fleeting life thus fuddenly muft end)
Say, what did all thy bufy hopes avail,
That anxious thou from pole to pole didft fail,
Ere on thy chin the fpringing beard began
To fpread a doubtful down and promise man?
What profited thy thoughts, and toils, and cares,
In vigour more confirm'd and riper years,
To wake ere morning-dawn to loud alarms,
And march till clofe of night in heavy arms,
To fcorn the fummer's funs and winter's fnows,
And search thro' ev'ry clime thy country's foes?
That thou might'ft Fortune to thy fide engage,
That gentle Peace might quell Bellona's rage,
And Anna's bounty crown her foldier's hoary age?
In vain we think that free-will'd man has pow'r 16
To haften or protract th' appointed hour.
Our term of life depends not on our deed :
Before our birth our fun'ral was decreed.
Nor aw'd by forefight, nor mifled by chance,
Imperious Death directs his ebon lance,

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[dance.

Peoples great Henry's tombs, and leads up Holben's Alike muft ev'ry ftate and ev'ry age

Sustain the universal tyrant's rage,

For neither William's pow'r nor Mary's charms
Could or repel or pacify his arms.

Young Churchill fell as life began to bloom,
And Bradford's trembling age expects the tomb..

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Wildom and Eloquence in vain would plead
One moment's refpite for the learned head;
Judges of writings and of men have dy'd,
Mæcenas, Sackville, Socrates, and Hyde;
And in their various turns the fons must tread-
Thofe gloomy journies which their fires have led..
The ancient fage, who did fo long maintain
That bodies die, but fouls return again,
With all the births and deaths he had in ftore,
Went out Pythagoras, and came no more.
And modern Afgyll, whofe capricious thought
Is yet with ftores of wilder notions fraught,
Too foon convinc'd, fhall yield that fleeting breath
Which play'd fo idly with the darts of Death.

Some from the stranded veffel force their way;
Fearful of fate they meet it in the sea :
Some, who efcape the fury of the wave,
Sicken on earth, and fink into a grave.
In journies or at home, in war or peace,
By hardships many, many fall by ease.
Lach changing feafon does its poifon bring,

Rheums chill the winter, agues blast the spring:
Wet, dry, cold, hot, at the appointed hour,
All act fubfervient to the tyrant's pow'r;
And when obedient Nature knows his will
A fly, a grape-ftone, or a hair, can kill.
For reftlefs Proferpine for ever treads
In paths unfeen, o'er our devoted heads,
And on the fpacious land and liquid main
Spreads flow difeafe, or darts afflictive pain :
Variety of deaths confirms her endless reign.

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On curs'd Piava's banks the goddess stood,
Show'd her dire warrant to the rifing flood,
When, what I long muft love and long must mourn,
With fatal speed was urging his return,
In his dear country to difperfe his care,
And arm himself by reft for future war,
To chide his anxious friends officious fears,
And promise to their joys his elder years.

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Oh! deftin'd head; and, oh! fevere decree,
Nor native country thou nor friend fhalt fee;
Nor war haft thou to wage, nor year to come,
Impending death is thine, and inftant doom.
Hark! the imperious goddess is obey'd;
Winds murmur, fnows defcend, and waters spread.
Oh! Kinsman, Friend-Oh! vain are all the cries
Of human voice, ftrong Destiny replies:

Weep you on earth, for he fhall fleep below;
Thence none return, and thither all muft
Whoe'er thou art, whom choice or bus'nefs leads

go.

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To this fad river, or the neighb'ring meads,
If thou may'ft happen on the dreary shores
To find the object which this verfe deplores,
Cleanfe the pale corpfe with a religious hand
From the polluting wed and common fand;
Lay the dead hero graceful in a grave,
(The only honour he can now receive)
And fragrant mould upon his body throw,
And plant the warrior-laurel o'er his brow;
Light lie the earth, and flourish green the bough!
So may juft Heav'n fecure thy future life
From foreign dangers and domeftic ftrife;
And when th' infernal Judge's dismal pow'r
From the dark urn fhall throw thy deftin'd hour;
When, yielding to the fentence, breathless thou,
And pale fhalt lie, as what thou buriest now,
May fome kind friend the piteous object see,
And equal rites perform to that which once was thee!

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AN ODE.

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE QUEEN,

On the glorious success of her Majesty's Arms, 1706.

W

'HEN I first thought of writing upon this occafion, I found the ideas fo great and numerous, that I judged them more proper for the warmth of an ode, than for any other fort of poetry: I therefore fet Horace before me for a pattern, and particularly his fainous ode, the fourth of the fourth book.

"Qualem miniftrum fulminis alitem," &c.

which he wrote in praise of Drufus after his expedition into Germany, and of Auguftus upon his happy choice of that general. And in the following poem, though I have endeavoured to imitate all the great ftrokes of that ode, I have taken the liberty to go off from it, and to add variously, as the subject and my own imagination carried me. As to the ftyle, the choice I made of following the ode in Latin, determined me in English to the stanza; and herein it was impoffible not to have a mind to follow our great countryman Spenfer; which I have done (as well at least as I could) in the manner of my expreffion, and the turn of my number: having only added one verfe to his flanza, which I thought made the number more harmonious; and avoided fuch of his words as I found too obfolete. I have, however, retained fome few of them, to make the colouring look more like Spenter's; Beheft, command; band, army; proves, ftrength; I sweet, I know; I ween, I think; uhilom, heretofore; and two or three more of that

kind, which I hope the ladies will pardon me, and not judge my mufe lefs handfome, though for once the appears in a farthingale. I have alfo, in Spenfer's manner, ufed Cæfar for the emperor, Boya for Bavaria, Bavara for that prince, Ifter for Danube, Iberia for Spain, &c. That noble part of the ode which I just now mentioned,

"Gens, quæ cremato fortis ab Ilio
"Jactata Tufcis æquoribus, &c.

where Horace praises the Romans as being defcended from Æneas, I have turned to the honour of the British nation, defcended from Brute, likewife a Trojan. That this Brute, fourth or fifth from Æneas, fettled in England, and built London, which is called Troja Nova, or Troynovante, is a story which (I think) owes its original, if not to Geoffry of Monmouth, at least to the Monkish writers; yet not rejected by our great Camden; and is told by Milton, as if (at least) he was pleafed with it, though poffibly he does not believe its however, it carries a poetical authority, which is fufficient for our purpose. It is as certain that Brute came into England, as that Æneas went into Italy; and, upon the fuppofition of these facts, Virgil wrote the best poem that the world ever read, and Spenfer paid Queen Elizabeth the greatest compliment.

I need not obviate one piece of criticism, that I bring my hero

"From burning Troy, and Xanthus red with blood: "

whereas he was not born when that city was destroyed. Virgil, in the cafe of his own Æneas, relating to Dido, will stand as a fufficient proof, that a man, in his poetical capacity, is not accountable for a little fault in chronology.

My two great examples, Horace and Spenfer, in many things resemble each other: both have a height of imagination, and a majesty of expreffion, in defcribing the fublime; and both know to temper those