HE Gods, on thrones celeftial feated,
By Jove with bowls of nectar heated, All on Mount Edgecumbe turn'd their eyes; "That place is mine," great Neptune cries: "Behold! how proud o'er all the main "Those stately turrets feem to reign!
No views fo grand on earth you fee! "The mafter too belongs to me: "I grant him my domain to fhare, "I bid his hand my trident bear."
"The fea is yours, but mine the land,"
Pallas replies;" by me were plann’d
"Those towers, that hospital, those docks,
"That fort, which crowns those island rocks:
"The lady too is of my choir,
"I taught her hand to touch the lyre ;
"With every charm her mind I grac❜d,
"I gave her prudence, knowledge, taste."
Hold, madam," interrupted Venus,
"The lady must be shar'd between us :
"And furely mine is yonder grove,
"So fine, fo dark, fo fit for love;
"Trees, such as in th' Idalian glade,
Or Cyprian lawn, my palace shade."
Then Oreads, Dryads, Naiads, came;
Each Nymph alledg'd her lawful claim.
But Jove, to finish the debate,
Thus fpoke, and what he speaks is fate : "Nor god nor goddefs, great or small, "That dwelling his or hers may call; "I made Mount Edgecumbe for you all."
Think not that France fhall borrow all thy fame-
From British fires deriv'd thy genius came :
Its force, its energy, to these it ow'd, .
But the fair polish Gallia's clime bestow'd:
The Graces there each ruder thought refin'd,
And livelieft wit with foundeft fenfe combin'd.
They taught in sportive Fancy's gay attire
To dress the gravest of th' Aonian choir,
And gave to fober Wifdom's wrinkled cheek
The fmile that dwells in Hebe's dimple fleek.
Pay to each realm the debt that each may
afk:
Be thine, and thine alone, the pleasing task,
In pureft elegance of Gallic phrase
To cloathe the fpirit of the British lays.
Thus every flower which every Mufe's hand
Has rais'd profufe in Britain's favourite land,
By thee transplanted to the banks of Seine,
Its sweetest native odours fhall retain..
And when thy noble friend, with olive crown'd, -
In Concord's golden chain has firmly bound
The rival nations, thou for both fhalt raise
The grateful fong to his immortal praise.
Albion fhall think the hears her Prior fing;
And France, that Boileau ftrikes the tuneful ftring.
Then fhalt thou tell what various talents join'd,
Adorn, embellish, and exalt his mind;
Learning and wit, with fweet politeness grac'd;
Wisdom by guile or cunning undebas'd;
By pride unfullied, genuine dignity;
A nobler and fublime fimplicity,
Such in thy verse shall Nivernois be shewn :
France fhall with joy the fair resemblance own;
And Albion fighing bid her fons aspire
To imitate the merit they admire.
EPITAPH ON CAPTAIN GRENVILLE.
YE weeping Mufes, Graces, Virtues, tell
If, fince your all-accomplish'd Sydney fell,
You, or afflicted Britain, e'er deplor'd
A lofs like that these plaintive lays record!
Such spotless honour; fuch ingenuous truth,
Such ripen'd wisdom in the bloom of youth!
So mild, fo gentle, fo compos'd a mind,
To fuch heroic warmth and courage join'd:
He too, like Sydney, nurs'd in Learning's arms,
For nobler war forfook her fofter charms:
Like him, poffefs'd of every pleasing art,
The fecret wish of every female's heart:
Like him, cut off in youthful glory's pride,
He, unrepining, for bis country dy’d.
ON CAPTAIN CORNWALL, SLAIN OFF TOULON, 1743.
HOUGH Britain's genius hung her drooping head,
And mourn'd her ancient naval glory fied;
On that fam'd day, when France combin'd with Spain, Strove for the wide dominion of the main :
Yet, Cornwall! all with general voice agree
To pay the tribute of applause to thee.
When his bold chief, in thickest fight engag'd,
Unequal war with Spain's proud leader wag'd;
With indignation mov'd, he timely came,
To rescue from reproach his country's name:
Succefs too dearly did his valour crown;
He fav'd his leader's life, but lost his own.
Written at EATON-SCHOOL, 1729.
TELL me, ye fons of Phoebus, what is this
Which all admire, but few, too few, poffefs?
A virtue 'tis to ancient maids unknown,
And prudes who spy all faults except their own.
Lov'd and defended by the brave and wise,
Though knaves abuse it, and like fools despise.
Say, Wyndham, if 'tis poffible to tell,
What is the thing in which you most excel ?
Hard is the queftion, for in all you please;
Yet fure good-nature is your noblest praise;
Secur'd by this, your parts no envy move,
For none can envy him whom all must love.
This magic power can make ev'n folly please,
This to Pitt's genius adds a brighter grace,
And sweetens every charm in Cælia's face.
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