They faw him deftin'd for fome greater day,
And in his looks the omens read of his imperial fway!
Nor do his civil virtues lefs appear,
To perfect the illustrious character;
To merit juft, to needy virtue kind,
True to his word, and faithful to his friend!
What 's well refolv'd, as firmly he pursues ;
Fix'd in his choice, as careful how to chufe!
Honour was born, not planted in his heart;
And virtue came by nature, not by art.
Albion forget thy forrows, and adore
That prince, who all the bleffings does restore,
That Charles, the faint, made thee enjoy before!
'Tis done; with turrets crown'd, I fee her rife,
And tears are wip'd for ever from her eyes!
LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS.
LONG has the tribe of poets on the ftage
Groan'd under perfecuting critics' rage,
But with the found of railing and of rhyme,
Like bees united by the tinkling chime,
The little ftinging infects swarm the more,
Their buzzing greater than it was before.
But, oh! ye leading voters of the Pit,
That infect others with your too much wit,
That well-affected members do feduce,
And with your malice poison half the house ;
Know, your ill-manag'd arbitrary fway
Shall be no more endur'd, but ends this day.
Rulers of abler conduct we will chufe,
And more indulgent to a trembling Mufe;
Women, for ends of government more fit,
Women fhall rule the Boxes and the Pit,
Give laws to Love, and influence to Wit.
Find me one man of sense in all your roll,
Whom fome one woman has not made a fool.
Ev'n bufinefs, that intolerable load
Under which man does groan, and yet is proud,
Much better they could manage would they pleafe;
'Tis not their want of wit, but love of cafe.
For, fpite of art, more wit in them appears,
Though we boaft ours, and they diffemble theirs:
Wit once was ours, and fhot up for a while,
Set fhallow in a hot and barren foil;
But when tranfplanted to a richer ground,
Has in their Eden its perfection found.
And 'tis but just they should our wit invade,
Whilft we fet up their painting patching trade;
As for our courage, to our fhame 'tis known,
As they can raise it, they can pull it down.
At their own weapons they our bullies awe,
Faith! let them make an anti-falick law;
Prefcribe to all Mankind, as well as Plays,
And wear the breeches, as they wear the bays.
TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND.
A DETESTATION OF CIVIL WAR.
FROM HORACE, EPOD. VII.
OH! whither do ye ruth, and thus prepare
To rouze again the fleeping war?
Has then fo little English blood been spilt
On fea and land with equal guilt?
Not that again we might our arms advance,
To check the infolent pride of France;
Not that once more we might in fetters bring
An humble captive Gallic king?
But, to the wish of the infulting Gaul,
That we by our own hands fhould fall.
Nor wolves nor lions bear fo fierce a mind;
They hurt not their own favage kind :
Is it blind rage, or zeal, more blind and strong,
Or guilt, yet stronger, drives you on?
Anfwer; but none can answer; mute and pale
They ftand; guilt does o'er words prevail :
'Tis fo: heaven's juftice threatens us from high;
And a king's death from earth does cry;
E'er fince the martyr's innocent blood was shed,
Upon our fathers, and on ours, and on our childrens'
On his TRANSLATION of LUCRETIUS.
WHAT to begin would have been madness thought,
Exceeds our praise when to perfection brought;
Who could believe Lucretius' lofty fong
Could have been reach'd by any modern tongue?
Of all the fuitors to immortal fame,
That by translations ftrove to raise a name,
This was the teft, this the Ulyffes' bow,
Too tough by any to be bent but you.
Carus himself of the hard task complains,
To fetter Grecian thoughts in Roman chains;
Much harder thine, in an unlearned tongue
To hold in bonds, fo eafy yet so strong,
The Greek philosophy and Latin song.
If then he boasts that round his facred head
Fresh garlands grow, and branching laurels spread,
Such as not all the mighty Nine before
E'er gave, or any of their darlings wore ;
What laurels fhould be thine, what crowns thy due,
What garlands, mighty Poet, fhould be grac'd by you!
Though deep, though wondrous deep, his fenfe does
flow,
Thy shining style does all its riches show;
So clear the ftream, that through it we descry
All the bright gems that at the bottom lie;
Here the troublers of our peace remove,
Ignoble fear, and more ignoble love :
Here we are taught how first our race began,
And by what steps our fathers climb'd to man;
To man as now he is---with knowledge fill'd
In arts of peace and war, in manners skill'd,
Equal before to fellow-grazers of the field!
Nature's first state, which, well tranfpos'd and own'd`
(For owners in all ages have been found),
Has made a modern wit fo much renown'd,
When thee we read, we find to be no more
Than what was fung a thousand years before.
Thou only for this noble task wert fit,
To fhame thy age to a just sense of wit,
By fhewing how the learned Romans writ.
To teach fat heavy clowns to know their trade,
And not turn wits, who were for porters made;
But quit falfe claims to the poetic rage,
For fquibs and crackers, and a Smithfield stage.
Had Providence e'er meant that, in defpight
Of art and nature, fuch dull clods fhould write,
Bavius and Mævius had been fav'd by Fate
For Settle and for Shadwell to translate,
As it so many ages has for thee
Preferv'd the mighty work that now we fee.
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