The blissful prospects, in my verse display'd,
May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd perfuade :
Ev'n thou to peace shalt speedier urge the way,
And more be haften'd by this short delay.

ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE.

THE haughty Gaul, in ten campaigns o'erthrown,

Now ceas'd to think the western world his own.
Oft had he mourn'd his boafting leaders bound,
And his proud bulwarks fmoking on the ground:
In vain with powers renew'd he fill'd the plain,
Made timorous vows, and brib'd the faints in vain ;
As oft his legions did the fight decline,

Lurk'd in the trench, and skulk'd behind the line.
Before his eyes the fancied javelin gleams,

At feats he starts, and feems dethron'd in dreams
On glory past reflects with fecret pain,

On mines exhaufted, and on millions flain.

To Britain's Queen the fceptred fuppliant bends, To her his crowns and infant race commends, Who grieves her fame with Chriftian blood to buy, Nor afks for glory at a price fo high.

At her decree, the war fufpended stands,
And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands,
Their open brows no threatening frowns difguife,
But gentler paffions fparkle in their eyes.

The Gauls, who never in their courts could find
Such temper'd fire with manly beauty join'd,

H 2

Doubt

Doubt if they're those, whom dreadful to the view
In forms fo fierce their fearful fancies drew;
At whofe dire names ten thousand widows prest
Their helpless orphans clinging to the breast.
In filent rapture each his foe furveys;

They vow firm friendship, and give mutual praise.
Brave minds, howe'er at war, are secret friends;
Their generous difcord with the battle ends;
In peace they wonder whence diffenfion rofe,
And ask how fouls fo like could e'er be foes.
Methinks I hear more friendly shouts rebound,
And focial clarions mix their fprightly found.
The British flags are furl'd, her troops disband,
And fcatter'd armies feek their native land.
The hardy veteran, proud of many a scar,
The manly charms and honours of the war,
Who hop'd to fhare his friends' illuftrious doom,
And in the battle find a foldier's tomb,
Leans on his fpear to take his farewell view,
And fighing bids the glorious camp adieu.

Ye generous fair, receive the brave with fmiles,
O'er-pay their fleepless nights, and crown their toils;
Soft beauty is the gallant foldier's due,

For you they conquer, and they bleed for you.
In vain proud Gaul with boastful Spain confpires,
When English valour English beauty fires;
The nations dread your eyes, and kings despair
Of chiefs fo brave, till they have nymphs fo fair.
See the fond wife, in tears of tranfport drown'd,
Hugs her rough lord, and weeps o'er every wound,

Hangs

Hangs on the lips that fields of blood relate,
And fmiles, or trembles, at his various fate.
Near the full bowl he draws the fancy'd line,
And marks feign'd trenches in the flowing wine,
Then fets th' invested fort before her eyes,
And mines, that whirl'd battalions to the skies
His little listening progeny turn pale,

And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.,

Such dire achievements fings the bard, that tells
Of palfrey'd dames, bold knights, and magic spells,
Where whole brigades one champion's arms o'erthrow,
And cleave a giant at a random blow,

Slay paynims vile, that force the fair, and tame
The goblin's fury, and the dragon's flame.

Our eager youth to diftant nations run,

To vifit fields, their valiant fathers won;
From Flandria's fhore their country's fame they trace,
Till far Germania fhews her blafted face.
Th' exulting Briton asks his mournful guide,
Where his hard fate the loft Bavaria try'd:
Where Stepney grav'd the ftone to Anna's fame,
He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar name;
Here fled the Houshold, there did Tallard yield,
Here Marlborough turn'd the fortune of the field,
Ou thofe fteep banks, near Danube's raging flood,
The Gauls thrice started back, and trembling ftood:
When, Churchill's arm perceiv'd, they ftood not long,
But plung'd amidst the waves, a desperate throng,
Crowds whelm'd on crowds dash'd wide the watery bed,
And drove the current to its diftant head.

As when by Raphael's, or by Kneller's hands
A warlike courfer on the canvas ftands,
Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore,
Or fet young Ammon on the Granic fhore;
If chance a generous fteed the work behold,
He fnorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold
So, Hocftet feen, tumultuous paffions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's foul,
In fancy'd fights he fees the troops engage,
And all the tempeft of the battle rage.

Charm me, ye powers, with fcenes lefs nobly bright, Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious Mufe delight, Content to fee the honours of the field

By plough-fhares level'd, or in flowers conceal'd.
O'er fhatter'd walls may creeping ivy twine,
And grafs luxuriant clothe the harmless mine.
Tame flocks afcend the breach without a wound,
Or crop the baftion, now a fruitful ground;
While fhepherds fleep, along the rampart laid,
Or pipe beneath the formidable shade.

Who was the man? Oblivion blaft his name,
Torn out, and blotted from the lift of fame!
Who, fond of lawless rule, and proudly brave,
First funk the filial subject to a flave,

His neighbour's realms by frauds unkingly gain'd,
In guiltless blood the facred ermine ftain'd,

Laid schemes for death, to flaughter turn'd his heart,
And fitted murder to the rules of art.

Ah! curft ambition, to thy lures we owe All the great ills, that mortals bear below.

Curft

Curft by the hind, when to the spoil he yields
His year's whole sweat, and vainly ripen'd fields ;
Curft by the maid, torn from her lover's fide,
When left a widow, though not yet a bride;
By mothers curft, when floods of tears they fhed,
And scatter ufelefs rofes on the dead.

Oh, facred Briftol! then, what dangers prove
The arts, thou fmil'ft on with paternal love?
Then, mix'd with rubbish by the brutal foes,
In vain the marble breathes, the canvas glows;
To fhades obfcure the glittering fword pursues
The gentle poet, and defenceless Muse.
A voice like thine, alone, might then affwage
The warrior's fury, and control his rage;
To hear thee speak, might the fierce Vandal stand,
And fling the brandifh'd fabre from his hand.

Far hence be driven to Scythia's ftormy fhore
The drum's harsh mufic, and the cannon's roar;
Let grim Bellona haunt the lawless plain,
Where Tartar clans and grizly Coffacks reign;.
Let the fteel'd Turk be deaf to matrons' cries,
See virgins ravish'd with relentless eyes,
To death gray heads and smiling infants doom,
Nor fpare the promife of the pregnant womb,
O'er wafted kingdoms fpread his wide command,
The favage lord of an unpeopled land.

Her guiltlefs glory juft Britannia draws
From pure religion, and impartial laws,
To Europe's wounds a mother's aid fhe brings,
And holds in equal fcales the rival kings: