With these amusements is thy friend detain'd,
Pleas'd and inftructed in a foreign land;
Yet oft a tender wish recals my mind
From present joys to dearer left behind:
O native ifle, fair Freedom's happiest seat!
At thought of thee my bounding pulfes beat;
At thought of thee my heart impatient burns,
And all my country on my foul returns.
When shall I fee thy fields, whofe plenteous grain
No pow'r can ravish from th' industrious swain ?
When kifs with pious love the facred earth,
That gave a BURLEIGH, or a RUSSEL birth?
When, in the shade of laws, that long have stood,
Prop'd by their care, or ftrengthen'd by their blood,
Of fearless independence wifely vain,
The proudest flave of Bourbon's race disdain ?
Yet oh! what doubt, what fad prefaging voice
Whispers within, and bids me not rejoice;
Bids me contemplate ev'ry state around,
From fultry Spain to Norway's icy bound;
Bids their loft rights, their ruin'd glories fee;
And tells me, Thefe, like England, once were Free.
Ambaffador at the Congrefs of SOISSONS, in the Year 1728.
Written at PARIS. By the Same.
Thou whofe friendship is my joy and pride
Whose virtues warm me, and whose precepts guide;
Thou, to whom greatnefs rightly understood,
Is but a larger power of being good;
Say, Poyntz, amidst the toils of anxious state,
Does not thy fecret foul defire retreat ?
Doft thou not wifh (the task of glory done)
Thy bufy life at length might be thy own;
That to thy lov'd Philofophy refign'd,
No care might ruffle thy unbended mind?
Juft is the wish. For fure the happiest meed,
To favour'd man by fmiling heav'n decreed,
Is to reflect at ease on glorious pains,
And calmly to enjoy what Virtue gains.
Not him I praise, who from the world retir'd,
By no enliv'ning gen'rous paffion fir'd,
On flow'ry couches flumbers life away,
And gently bids his active pow'rs decay ;
Who fears bright Glory's awful face to fee,
And fhuns Renown as much as Infamy.
But bleft is he, who exercis'd in cares,
To private Leisure publick Virtue bears;
Who tranquil ends the race he nobly run,
And decks Repose with trophies Labour won.
Him Honour follows to the secret shade,
And crowns propitious his declining head:
In his retreats their harps the Muses string,
For him in lays unbought spontaneous fing;
Friendship and Truth on all his moments wait,
Pleas'd with Retirement better than with State;
And round the bow'r where humbly great he lies,
Fair olives bloom, or verdant laurels rise.
So when thy Country shall no more demand
The needful aid of thy fustaining hand;
When Peace reftor'd fhall on her downy wing
Secure Repose and careless Leifure bring;
Then to the fhades of learned Eafe retir'd,
The world forgetting, by the world admir'd,
Among thy books and friends, thou shalt poffefs
Contemplative and quiet happiness;
Pleas'd to review a life in honour spent,
And painful merit paid with fweet content.
Yet tho' thy hours unclogg'd with forrow roll,
Tho' wisdom calm, and science feed thy foul;
One dearer bliss remains to be poffefs'd,
That only can improve and crown the rest—
Permit thy friend this fecret to reveal,
Which thy own heart perhaps would better tell;
'The point to which our sweetest passions move,
Is to be truly lov'd, and fondly love.
This is the charm that smooths the troubled breast,
Friend to our health, and author of our rest,
Bids ev'ry gloomy vexing paffion fly,
And tunes each jarring string to harmony.
Ev'n while I write, the name of Love inspires
More pleafing thoughts, and more enliv'ning fires;
Beneath his pow'r my raptur'd fancy glows.
And ev'ry tender verse more sweetly flows.
Dull is the privilege of living free;
Our hearts were never form'd for Liberty :
Some beauteous image well imprinted there,
Can best defend them from consuming care.
In vain to groves and gardens we retire,
And Nature in her rural works admire ;
Tho' grateful these, yet these but faintly charm,
They may Delight us, but can never Warm.
May fome fair eyes, my friend, thy bofom fire
With pleafing pangs of ever gay defire;
And teach thee that soft science, which alone
Still to thy fearching mind rests slightly known.
Thy foul, though great, is tender and refin'd,
To friendship fenfible, to love inclin'd;
And therefore long thou canst not arm thy breast
Against the entrance of fo sweet a guest.
Hear what th' infpiring Muses bid me telí,
For Heav'n fhall ratify what they reveal.
A chofen bride fhall in thy arms be plac'd,
With all th' attractive charms of beauty grac'd;
Whose wit and virtue fhall thy own express,
Diftinguish'd only by their fofter dress:
Thy greatness she, or thy retreat shall share,
Sweeten tranquillity, or foften care :
Her fmiles the taste of ev'ry joy fhall raife,
And add new pleasure to renown and praise;
Till charm'd you own the truth my verfe would prove,
That Happiness is near allay'd to Love.
VERSES to be written under a Picture
of Mr. POYNTZ.
UCH is thy form, O Poyntz! but who fhall find
A hand, or colours, to exprefs thy mind?
A mind unmov'd by ev'ry vulgar fear,
In a falfe world that dares to be fincere ;
Wife without art; without ambition great;
Tho' firm, yet pliant; active, tho' fedate;
With all the richeft ftores of Learning fraught;
Yet better still by native Prudence taught ;
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