So great their fame, so numerous their train,
To name were endless, and to praise in vain;
But Herbert and great Oxford merit more;
Bold is their flight, and more fublime they foar;
So high their virtue as yet wants a name,
Exceeding wonder, and furpaffing fame:
Rife, glorious church, erect thy radiant head;
The form is paft, th' impending tempeft flød;
Had Fate decreed thy ruin or difgrace,
It had not given fuch fons fo brave a race;
When for deftruction heaven a realm defigns,
The fymptoms firft appear in flavish minds.
Thefe men would prop a finking nation's weight,
Stop falling vengeance, and reverse ev'n fate.
Let other nations boaft their fruitful foil,
Their fragrant fpices, their rich wine and oil;
In breathing colours, and in living paint,
Let them excel; their maftery we grant.
But to inftruct the mind, to arm the foul
With virtue which no dangers can control;
Exalt the thought, a fpeedy courage lend,
That horror cannot shake, or pleasure bend;
Thefe are the English arts, these we profefs,
To be the fame in mifery and fuccefs;
To teach oppreffors law, affift the good,
Relieve the wretched, and fubdue the proud.
Such are our fouls: but what doth worth avail
When kings commit to hungry priests the scale?
All merit 's light when they difpofe the weight,
Who either would embroil or rule the ftate;

Defame thofe heroes who their yoke refuse,
And blast that honefty they cannot use;
The ftrength and safety of the crown destroy,
And the king's power against himself employ;
Affront his friends, deprive him of the brave;
Bereft of thefe, he must become their flave.
Men, like our money, come the most in play,
For being bafe, and of a coarse allay.
The richest medals, and the pureft gold,
Of native value, and exacteft mould,
By worth conceal'd, in private closets shine,
For vulgar ufe too precious and too fine;
Whilft tin and copper with new stamping bright,
Coin of base metal, counterfeit and light,
Do all the bufinefs of the nation's turn,
Rais'd in contempt, us'd and employ'd in fcorn;
So fhining virtues are for courts too bright,
Whofe guilty actions fly the fearching light :
Rich in themselves, difdaining to afpire,
Great without pomp, they willingly retire;
Give place to fools, whofe rash misjudging sense
Increases the weak measures of their prince;
They blindly and implicitly run on,

Nor fee thofe dangers which the others fhun:
Who, flow to act, each business duly weigh,
Advife with freedom, and with care obey;
With wifdom fatal to their intereft, ftrive

To make their monarch lov'd, and nation thrive.
Such have no place where priests and women reign,
Who love fierce drivers, and a loofer rein.

ΑΝ

A N

EPISTLE

T

CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,

Occafioned by his Majefty's Victory in Ireland.

WHAT! fhall the king the nation's genius raife,

And make us rival our great Edward's days;

Yet not one Mufe, worthy a conqueror's name,
Attend his triumphs, and record his fame?
Oh, Dorset! you alone this fault can mend,
The Mufes' darling, confident, and friend;
The poets are your charge, and, if unfit,
You fhould be fin'd to furnish abler wit;
Oblig'd to quit your ease, and draw again,
To paint the greatest hero, the best pen.

A hero, who thus early doth out-shine
The ancient honours of his glorious line;
And, foaring more fublimely to renown,
The memory of their pious triumphs drown;
Whofe actions are deliver'd o'er to fame,
As types and figures of his greater name.
When fate fome mighty genius has defign'd,
For the relief and wonder of mankind,
Nature takes time to answer the intent,

And climbs, by flow degrees, the steep afcent:

She toils and labours with the growing weight,

And watches carefully the fteps of fate;
Till all the feeds of providence unite,
To fet the hero in a happy light;
Then, in a lucky and propitious hour,
Exerts her force, and calls forth all her power.
In Naffau's race fhe made this long effay;
Heroes and patriots prepar'd the way,

And promis'd, in their dawn, this brighter day;
A public fpirit distinguish'd all the line,

Succeffive virtues in each branch did fhine,

Till this last glory rofe, and crown'd the great design.
Bleft be his name! and peaceful lie his grave,
Who durft his native foil, loft Holland, fave!
But William's genius takes a wider scope,
And gives the injur'd, in all kingdoms, hope;
Born to fubdue insulting tyrants' rage,
The ornament and terror of the age;
The refuge where afflicted nations find
Relief from thofe oppreffors of mankind,

Whom laws reftrain not, and no oaths can bind.
Him, their deliverer Europe does confefs,
All tongues extol, and all religions bless;
The Po, the Danube, Boetis, and the Rhine,
United in his praife, their wonder join;
While, in the public caufe, he takes the field,
And fhelter'd nations fight behind his, shield.
His foes themselves dare not applause refuse :
And fhall fuch actions want a faithful Mufe?

Poets

}

Poets have this to boaft; without their aid,
The fresheft laurels nipp'd by malice, fade,
And virtue to oblivion is betray'd:

The proudeft honours have a narrow date,
Unless they vindicate their names from fate.
But who is equal to fuftain the part?

Dryden has numbers, but he wants a heart;
Injoin'd a penance, which is too severe

For playing once the fool, to perfevere.
Others, who knew the trade, have laid it down ;.
And, looking round, I find you stand alone.
How, Sir, can you, or any English Mufe,
Our country's fame, our monarch's arms, refufe?
'Tis not my want of gratitude, but skill,
Makes me decline what I can ne'er fulfil.
I cannot fing of conquefts as I ought,

And my

breath fails to fwell a lofty note.

I know my compafs, and my Muse's size,

She loves to fport and play, but dares not rise;

Idly affects, in this familiar way,

In eafy numbers loosely to convey,

What mutual friendship would at distance say.
Poets affume another tone and voice,

When victory's their theme, and arms their choice.
To follow heroes in the chace of fame,

Afks force and heat, and fancy wing'd with flame.
What words can paint the royal warrior's face ?
What colours can the figure boldly raise,
When, cover'd o'er with comely duft and smoke,
He pierc'd the foe, and thickest squadrons broke?