"Tis continence of mind, unknown before, Next to the godlike praise of writing well, A golden period shall from you commence : Peace shall be sign'd 'twixt wit and manly sense; Whether your genius or your rank they view, The Muses find their Halifax in you. Like him succeed! nor think my zeal is shown For you; 'tis Britain's interest, not your own ; For lofty stations are but golden snares, Which tempt the great to fall in love with cares. I would proceed, but age has chill'd my vein, 'Twas a short fever, and I'm cool again. Though life I hate, methinks I could renew Its tasteless, painful course, to sing of you. When such the subject, who shall curb his flight? When such your genius, who shall dare to write? pure respect, I give my rhyming o'er, And, to commend you most, commend no more. In Adieu, whoe'er thou art! on death's pale coast Ere long I'll talk thee o'er with Dryden's ghost; The bard will smile. A last, a long farewell! Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell; There wait the friendly stroke that sets me free, And think of immortality and thee My strains are number'd by the tuneful Nine: Each maid presents her thanks, and all present thee mine. VERSES SENT BY LORD MELCOMBE NOT LONG BEFORE HIS LORDSHIP'S DEATH 1. KIND Companion of my youth, SEA-PIECE: CONTAINING I. THE BRITISH SAILOR'S EXULTATION. II. HIS PRAYER BEFORE ENGAGEMENT. THE DEDICATION. TO MR. VOLTAIRE. My Muse, a bird of passage, flies To dive full deep in ancient days', But where 's his dolphin? Know'st thou, where? "Tell me," say'st thou, "who courts my smile? What stranger stray'd from yonder isle !—” No stranger, sir! though born in foreign climes; On Dorset downs, when Milton's page, With Sin and Death, provok'd thy rage, Thy rage provok'd, who sooth'd with gentle rhyines? Who kindly couch'd thy censure's eye, Sound judginent giving law to fancy strong? Full soon shall sleep, as sleeps the past; The frowns and favours of the great; Ye wing'd, ye rapid moments! stay!- Nor calls in vain; the call inspires 1 Annals of the emperor Charles XII. Lewis XIV. ODE THE FIRST. THE BRITISH SAILOR'S EXULTATION. From whence arise these loud alarms? Hear, and revere.-At Britain's nod, From each enchanted grove and wood Hastes the huge oak, or shadeless forest leaves; The mountain pines assume new forms, Spread canvass-wings, and fly through storms, And ride o'er rocks, and dance on foaming waves. She nods again: the labouring Earth In smoking rivers runs her molten ore; Thence monsters of enormous size, Flame from the deck, from trembling bastions roar. [powers! On empires wide, an island's will, From hope's triumphant summit thrown, And leave all law below them; then they blaze! And rends the skies! and warms the waves! And calls a tempest from the peaceful deep, In spite of Nature, spite of Jove, While all serene, and hush'd above, Tumultuous winds in azure chambers sleep. A thousand deaths the bursting bomb Dwarf laurels rise in tented fields; There war's whole sting is shot, whole fire is spent, 2 House of lords. From the dread front of ancient war Less terrour frown'd; her scythed car, Her castled elephant, and battering beam, Stoop to those engines which deny Superior terrours to the sky, And boast their clouds, their thunder, and their flame. The flame, the thunder, and the cloud, Or do I dream? Or do I rave? Where Jove's red bolts the giant brothers frame? Ye sons of Etna! hear my call; Yon shield of Mars, Minerva's helmet blue: Your strokes suspend, ye brawny throng! Drop the feign'd thunder, and attempt the true. Begin and first take rapid flight 3, : Fierce flame, and clouds of thickest night, And ghostly terrour, paler than the dead; Then borrow from the north his roar, Mix groans and deaths; one phial pour Of wrong'd Britannia's wrath; and it is made; Gaul starts and trembles at your dreadful trade. ODE THE SECOND: IN WHICH IS THE SAILOR'S PRAYER BEFORE ENGAGEMENT. Gaul's haughty plan, and Bourbon shake; Ye warlike dead, who fell of old The day commission'd from above, That day 's arriv'd, that fatal hour!— 3 Alluding to Virgil's description of thunder. "Let prostrate hearts, and awful fear, And deep remorse, and sighs sincere For Britain's guilt, the wrath divine appease; A wrath, more formidable far Than angry Nature's wasteful war, The whirl of tempests, and the roar of seas. "From out the deep, to thee we cry, To thee, at Nature's helm on high! Steer thou our conduct, dread Omnipotence! To thee for succour we resort; Thy favour is our only port; Our only rock of safety, thy defence. "O thou, to whom the lions roar, And, not unheard, thy boon implore! Thy throne our bursts of cannon loud invoke: Thou canst arrest the flying ball; Or send it back and bid it fall A Pindaric carries a formidable sound; but there On those, from whose proud deck the thunder broke. is nothing formidable in the true nature of it; of With seas, and winds, henceforth, thy laws fulfil: "T is thine to beam sublime renown, which (with utmost submission) I conceive the critics have hitherto entertained a false idea. Pindar is as natural as Anacreon, though not so familiar. As a fixt star is as much in the bounds of Nature, as a flower of the field, though less obvious, and of greater dignity. This is not the received notion of Pindar; I shall therefore soon support at large that hint which is now given. Trade is a very noble subject in itself; more proper than any for an Englishman; and particularly seasonable at this juncture. We have more specimens of good writing in every province, than in the sublime; our two famous epic poems excepted. I was willing to make an attempt where I had fewest rivals. If, on reading this ode, any man has a fuller idea 'Tis thine to doom, 't is thine, from death to free; of the real interest, or possible glory of his country, To turn aside his level'd dart, Or pluck it from the bleeding heart: There we cast anchor, we confide in thee. "Thou, who hast taught the north to roar, And streaming lights nocturnal pour 2, Of frightful aspect! when proud foes invade, Their blasted pride with dread to seize, Bid Britain's flags, as meteors, blaze; And George depute to thunder in thy stead. "The right alone is bold and strong; Black, hovering clouds appal the wrong With dread of vengeance: Nature's awful sire! Less than one moment shouldst thou frown, Where-is puissance and renown? Thrones tremble, empires sink, or worlds expire. "Let George the just chastise the vain : Thou, who durst curb the rebel main, To mount the shore when boiling billows rave! Bid George repel a bolder tide, The boundless swell of Gallic pride; And check ambition's overwhelming wave. "And when (all milder means withstood) Ambition, tam'd by loss of blood, Regains her reason; then, on angel's wings, Let Peace descend, and shouting greet, than before; or a stronger impression from it, or a warmer concern for it, I give up to the critic any further reputation. We have many copies and translations that pass for originals. This ode I humbly conceive is an original, though it professes imitation. No man can be like Pindar, by imitating any of his particular works; any more than like Raphael, by copying the cartoons. The genius and spirit of such great men must be collected from the whole; and when thus we are possessed of it, we must exert its energy in subjects and designs of our own. Nothing is so unpindarical as following Pindar on the foot. Pindar is an original, and he must be so too, who would be like Pindar in that which is his greatest praise. Nothing so unlike as a close copy, and a noble original. As for length, Pindar has an unbroken ode of six hundred lines. Nothing is long or short in writing, but relatively to the demand of the subject, and the manner of treating it, A distich may be long, and a folio short. However, I have broken this ode into Strains, each of which may be considered as a separate ode if you please. And if the variety and fullness of matter be considered, I am rather apprehensive of danger from brevity in this ode, than from length. But lank writing is what I think ought most to be declined, if for nothing else, for our plenty of it. The ode is the most spirited kind of poetry, and the Pindaric is the most spirited kind of ode; this I speak at my own very great peril: but truth has an eternal title to our confession, though we are sure to suffer by it. THE PRELUDE. The proposition. An address to the vessel that brought over the king. Who should sing on this occasion. A Pindaric boast. FAST by the surge my limbs are spread, I celebrate in song-Fam'd Isle! no less, Though fate and time have damp'd my strains, Away, my soul! salute the Pine', Salute the bark that ne'er shall hold My soul! to thee, she spreads her sails; O send her down the tide of time, Snatch'd from oblivion, and secure from storm. The sea she scorns; and, now, shall bound I am her pilot, and her port the skies! Dare you to sing, ye tinkling train? And labour stiff Anacreontic Odes. Ye lawful sons of genius, rise! Ye founts of learning! and ye mints of fame! And drink pure song from Cam's or Isis' stream. 1 The vessel that brought over the king. STRAIN THE FIRST. THE ARGUMENT. How the king attended. A prospect of happiness. Industry. A surprising instance of it in old Rome. The mischief of sloth. What happiness is. Sloth its greatest enemy. Trade natural to Britain. Trade invoked. Described. What the greatest human excellence. The praise of wealth. Its use, abuse, end. The variety of Nature. The final mo. ral cause of it. The benefit of man's necessities. Britain's naval stores. She makes all Nature serviceable to her ends. Of reason. Its excellence. How we should form our estimate of things. Reason's difficult task. Why the first glory hers. Her effects in old Britain. "OUR monarch comes! nor comes alone!" "Our monarch comes! nor comes alone:" The volume dark, the folds of Fate; All Jove can give, the naval oak bestows. What cannot industry complete? "Fell all your groves," a Flamen cries; Cankers our being, all devours; Yet healthy Nature feel her wonted force; Where, Industry! thy daughter fair? What though she languish'd? 'twas but fear, Wake, sting her up. Trade! lean no more And, see, she 's rous'd, absolv'd from fears, Religion, habit, custom, tongue, and name; Again, she travels with the Sun, Again, she draws a golden zone [fame! Round Earth and main; bright zone of wealth and Ten thousand active hands, that hung In shameful sloth with nerves unstrung, The nation's languid load, defy the storms, The sheets unfurl, and anchors weigh, The long-moor'd vessel wing to sea, Worlds, worlds salute, and peopled Ocean swarms. His sons, Po, Ganges, Danube, Nile, Their urns inverted prodigally pour Streams, charg'd with wealth, and vow to buy Happy the man! who, large of heart, Of being rich: stores starve us, or they cloy; Plenty's a means, and joy her end: When humbler scenes resign their light, Pregnant with blessings, Britain! swear That blood of nations! commerce and increase, And kings' revenues ripen in the mines. What's various Nature? Art divine Heaven different growths to different lands imparts, With climes paid down; what can the gods do more? A net to catch and join all human hearts. Cold Russia costly furs from far, France generous wines to crown it, Arab sweet With gales of incense swells our sails, Her richest ore the ballast of our fleet. Luxuriant isle! What tide that flows, All these one British harvest make! Both sinks and swells: his arms thy bosom wrap, And fondly give, in boundless dower, Commerce brings riches, riches crown When hearts for others' welfare glow, Glow then, my breast! abound, my store! All blessings wound us, when discretion's lost. Wealth, in the virtuous and the wise, Whose heads or hearts pervert its use, Thus has the great Creator's pen E'en appetite supplies the place At every port, on every quay, Huge mountains rise, of cable, anchor, mast! Sees here, by subjects of a British king: How Earth's abridg'd! all nations range In size confin'd, and humbly made, Thou golden chain 'twixt God and men, |