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POEMS

OF

ELIJAH FENTON.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

CHARLES EARL OF ORRERY,

THESE POEMS ARE MOST HUMBLY DEDICATED, BY HIS LORDSHIP'S MOST OBLIGED, AND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT,

E. FENTON.

A WISH TO THE NEW YEAR,

1705.

JANUS! great leader of the rolling year,

Since all that's past no vows can e'er restore,
But joys and griefs alike, once hurried o'er,
No longer now deserve a smile or tear;

Close the fantastic scenes-but grace
With brightest aspects thy fore-face,
While Time's new offspring hasten to appear,
With lucky omens guide the coming hours,
Command the circling Seasons to advance,
And form their renovated dance,

With flowing pleasures fraught, and bless'd by
friendly powers.

Thy month, O Janus! gave me first to know
A mortal's trifling cares below;

My race of life began with thee.

Thus far from great misfortunes free,
Contented, I my lot endure,
Nor Nature's rigid laws arraign,
Nor spurn at common ills in vain,

Which Folly cannot shun, nor wise Reflection cure.

But, oh!--more anxious for the year to come,
I would foreknow my future doom.
Then tell me, Janus, canst thou spy
Events that yet in embryo lie,
For me, in Time's mysterious womb?
Tell me-nor shall I dread to hear
A thousand accidents severe;
I'll fortify my soul the load to bear,
If love rejected add not to its weight,

But if the goddess, in whose charming eyes,
More clearly written than in Fate's dark book,
My joy, my grief, my all of future fortune, lies;
If she must, with a less propitious look,
Forbid my humble sacrifice,

Or blast me with a killing frown;
If, Janus, this thou seest in store,
Cut short my mortal thread, and now
Take back the gift thou didst bestow !
Here let me lay my burthen down,
And cease to love in vain, and be a wretch no more.

AN ODE TO THE SUN,
FOR THE NEW YEAR,
1707.

Augur & fulgente decorus arcu
Phoebus, acceptusque novem Camoenis,
Qui salutari levat arte fessos
Corporis artus ;-

Alterum in lustrum, meliúsque semper
Proroget ævum.

I.

BEGIN, celestial source of light,
To gild the new-revolving sphere;
And from the pregnant womb of Night,
Urge on to birth the infant Year.
Rich with auspicious lustre rise,
Thou fairest regent of the skies,
Conspicuous with thy silver bow!
To thee, a god, 'twas given by Jove
To rule the radiant orbs above,

To finish me in woes, and crush me down with fate. To Gloriana this below.

Hor.

With joy renew the destin'd race,
And let the mighty Months begin;
Let no ill omen cloud thy face,
Through all thy circle smile serene.
While the stern ministers of Fate
Watchful o'er pale Lutetia wait,
To grieve the Gaul's perfidious head;
The Hours, thy offspring, heavenly fair,
Their whitest wings should ever wear,
And gentle joys on Albion shed.

When Ilia bore the future fates of Rome,
And the long honours of her race began,
Thus, to prepare the graceful age to come,
They from thy stores in happy order ran.
Heroes, elected to the list of Fame,

Fix'd the sure columns of her rising state;
Till the loud triumphs of the Julian name
Render'd the glories of her reign complete,
Each year advanc'd a rival to the rest,

In comely spoils of war, and great achievements, drest.

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When Albion first majestic show'd,
High o'er the circling seas, her head,
Her the great Father smiling view'd,
And thus to bright Victoria said:
"Mindful of Phlegra's happy plain,
On which, fair nymph, you fix'd my reign,
This isle to you shall sacred be;
Her hand shall hold the 'rightful scale,
And crowds be vanquish'd, or prevail,
As Gloriana shall decree."

Victoria, triumph in thy great increase !
With joy the Julian stem the Tyber claims;
Young Ammon's might the Granic waves confess :
The Heber had a Mars, a Churchill Thames.
Roll, sovereign of the ptreams! thy rapid tide,
And bid thy brother floods revere the queen,
Whose voice the hero's happy hand employ'd
To save the Danube, and subdue the Seine;
And, boldly just to Gloriana's fame,
Exalt thy silver urn, and duteous homage claim.

III.

Advanc'd to thy meridian height,

On Earth, great god of Day, look down:
Let Windsor entertain thy sight,
Clad in fair emblems of renown:
And whilst in radiant pomp appear
The names to bright Victoria dear,
Intent the long procession view:
Confess none worthier ever wore
Her favours, or was deck'd with more,
Than she confers on Churchill's brow.

But oh withdraw thy piercing rays,
The nymph anew begins to moan,
Viewing the much-lamented space,
Where late her warlike William shone :
There fix'd by her officious hand,
His sword and sceptre of command,

To deathless Fame adopted, rest;
Nor wants there to complete her woe,
Plac'd with respectful love below,

The star that beam'd on Gloucester's breast
O Phœbus! all thy saving power employ,
Long let our vows avert the distant woe,
Ere Gloriana re-ascends the sky,

And leaves a land of orphans here below!
But when (so Heaven ordains) her smiling ray
Distinguish'd o'er the balance shall preside,
Whilst future kings her ancient sceptre sway,
May her mild influence all their councils guide
To Albion ever constant in her love,

Of sovereigns here the best, the brightest star above.

IV.

For lawless power, reclaim'd to right, And virtue rais'd by pious arms,

Let Albion be thy fair delight,

And shield her safe from threaten'd harms
With flowers and fruit her bosom fill,
Let laurel rise on every hill,

Fresh as the first on Daphne's brow:
Instruct her tuneful sons to sing,
And make each vale with Ræans ring,
To Blenheim and Ramilia due.

Secure of bright eternal, fame,
With happy wing the Theban swan,
Towering from Pisa's sacred stream,
Inspir'd by thee, the song began:
Through deserts of unclouded night,
When he harmonious took his flight,
The gods constrain'd the sounding spheres:
Still Envy darts her rage in vain,
The lustre of his worth to stain,
He growing whiter with his years.

But, Phœbus, god of numbers, high to raise
The honours of thy art, and heavenly lyre,
What Muse is destin'd to our sovereign's praise,
Worthy her acts, and thy informing fire?
To him for whom this springing laurel grows,
Eternal on the topmost heights of fame,
Be kind, and all thy Helicon disclose;
And all intent on Gloriana's name,
Let Silence brood o'er ocean, earth, and air,
As when to victor Jove thou sung'st the giant's

war.

In sure records each shining deed,
When faithful Clio sets to view,
Posterity will doubting read,
And scarce believe her annals true:
The Muses toil with art to raise
Fictitious monuments of praise,
When other actions they rehearse :
But half of Gloriana's reign,
That so the rest may credit gain,
Should pass unregister'd in verse.

High on its own establish'd base
Prevailing Virtue's pleas'd to rise;
Divinely deck'd with native grace,
Rich in itself with solid joys;
Ere Gloriana on the throne,
Quitting for Altion's rest her own,
In types of regal power was seen :
With fair pre-eminence confest,
It triumph'd in a private breast,
And made the princess more than queen.

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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, şaw'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 mournful 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 smooths 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 bis 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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VIII.

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

'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 fie, 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 baliny

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
tish swain.

As in his bower the dying shepherd lay,
The shepherd yet so young, and once so gay!
The nymphs that swim the stream, and range the
wood,

And haunt the flowery meads, around him stood. There tears down each fair cheek unbounded fell, And as he gasp'd, they gave a sad farewell. Softly," they cry'd, as sleeping flowers are clos'd

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By night, be thy dear eyes by Death compos'd:
A gentle fall may thy young beauties 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!

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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 row, 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,

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