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But that thy country's high affairs
Employ thy time, demand thy cares,
You shou'd renew your flight;
You only shou'd this theme pursue
Who can for William feel like you?
Or who like you can write ?
Then to rehearse the Hero's praise,
To paint this sunshine of his days,
· The pleasing task be mine
To think on all thy cares o'erpaid,
To view the Hero you have made,
That pleasing part be thine.
Who first should watch, and who call forth
This youthful Prince's various worth,
You had the publick voice;
Wisely his royal Sire confign'd
To you, the culture of his mind,
And England bleft the choice.
You taught him to be early known
By martial deeds of courage shewn:
From this, near Mona's flood,
By his victorious Father led,
He flesh'd his maiden sword, he shed,
And prov'd th' illustrious blood.
Of Virtue's various charms you taught,
With happiness and glory fraught,
How her unshaken pow'r
Is independent of success;
That no defeat can make it less,
No conquest make it more.
This, after Tournay's fatal day,
'Midit forrow, cares, and dire dismay,
Brought calm, and sure relief;
He scrutiniz'd his noble heart,
Found Virtue had perform'd her part,
And peaceful flept the chief.
From thee he early learnt to feel
The Patriot's warmth for England's weal;
(True Valour's nobleft spring)
To vindicate her Church distreft ;
To fight for Liberty oppreft ;
To perish for his King,
Yet say, if in thy fondest scope
Of thought, you ever dar'd to hope
That bounteous heav'n, so foon
Would pay thy toils, reward thy care,
Consenting bend to ev'ry pray'r,
And all thy wishes crown. VOL. IV.
We saw a wretch, with trait'rous aid,
Our King's and Church's rights invade;
And thine, fair Liberty!
We saw thy Hero fly to war,
Beat down Rebellion, break her spear,
And set the nations free.
Culloden's field, my glorious theme,
My rapture, vision, and my dream,
Gilds the young Hero's days:
Yet can there be one English heart
That does not give thee, Poyntz, thy part,
And own thy share of praise ?
Nor is thy fame to thee decreed
For life's short date : when William's head,
For victories to come,
The frequent laurel shall receive:
Chaplets for thee our sons shall weave,
And hang 'em on thy tomb.
ODE on the Death of MATZEL, a favourite
Bull-finch, address’d to Mr. ST-PE, to whom the Author had given the Reversion of it when he left Dresden.
By the Same.
"RY not my St- -e, 'tis in vain
To stop your tears, to hide your pain,
Give forrow and revenge their scope,
My present joy, your future hope,
Lies murder'd in his cage.
Matzel's no more, ye graces, loves,
Ye linnets, nightingales and doves,
Attend th' untimely bier ;
Let ev'ry sorrow be expreít,
Beat with your wings each mournful breast,
And drop the nat'ral tear.
In height of fong, in beauty's pride,
By fell Grimalkin's claws he died
But vengeance shall have way;
On pains and tortures I'll refine ;
Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine,
His nine wil ill repay.
For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine,
Who lov'd thy tuneful notes, fhall join
In thy funereal verse:
My painful talk shall be to write
Th' eternal dirge which they indite,
And hang it on thy hearse.
In vain I lov'd, in vain I mourn
My bird, who never to return
Is fled to happier shades,
Where Lesbia shall for him prepare
The place most charming, and most fair
Of all th' Elysian glades.
There shall thy notes in cypress grove
Sooth wretched ghosts that died for love;
There shall thy plaintive strain
Lull impious Phædra's endless grief,
To Procris yield fome short relief,
And soften Dido's pain.
VII. 'Till Proserpine by chance shall hear Thy notes, and make thee all her care,
And love thee with my love ; While each attendant's foul shall praise The matchless Matzel's tuneful lays,
And all his songs approve.