From Hampstead's airy fummit me
Her guest the city shall behold,
What day the people's ftern decree
To unbelieving kings is told,
When common men (the dread of fame)
Adjudg'd as one of evil name,
Before the fun, the anointed head.
Then seek thou too the pious town,
With no unworthy cares to crown
That evening's awful fhade.
Deem not I call thee to deplore
The facred martyr of the day,
By faft and penitential lore
To purge our ancient guilt away.
For this, on humble faith I reft
That still our advocate, the priest,
From heavenly wrath will fave the land:
Nor ask what rites our pardon gain,
Nor how his potent founds restrain
The thunderer's lifted hand.
No, Hardinge: peace to church and state!
That evening, let the Mufe give law :
While I anew the theme relate
Which my first youth inamor'd faw.
Then will I oft explore thy thought,
What to reject which Locke hath taught,
What to purfue in Virgil's lay :
Till hope afcends to loftiest things,
Nor envies demagogues or kings
Their frail and vulgar fway.
O vers'd in all the human frame,
Lead thou where'er my labor lies,
And English fancy's eager flame
To Grecian purity chastize :
While hand in hand, at wifdom's fhrine,
Beauty with truth I strive to join,
And grave affent with glad applause;
To paint the story of the foul,
And Plato's vifions to control
By Verulamian * laws.
Is it an offence to own
That our bofoms e'er incline
Toward immortal glory's throne?
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
* Verulam gave one of his titles to Francis Bacon, Novum Organum.
So can fancy's dream rejoice,
So conciliate reafon's choice,
As one approving word of her impartial voice.
If to spurn at noble praise
Be the pafs-port to thy heaven,
Follow thou thofe gloomy ways;
No fuch law to me was given,
Nor, I trust, fhall I deplore me
Faring like my friends before me;
Nor an holier place defire
Than Timoleon's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FRANCIS EARL OF HUNTINGDON.
THE wife and great of every clime,
Through all the spacious walks of Time,
Where'er the Mufe her power difplay'd,
With joy have liften'd and obey'd.
For, taught of heaven, the facred Nine
Perfuafive numbers, forms divine,
To mortal fenfe impart :
They beft the foul with glory fire;
They nobleft counfels, boldest deeds infpire;
And high o'er Fortune's rage inthrone the fixed heart.
Nor lefs prevailing is their charm
The vengeful bofom to disarm;
To melt the proud with human woe,
And prompt unwilling tears to flow.
Can wealth a power like this afford?
Can Cromwell's arts, or Marlborough's fword,
An equal empire claim?
No, Haftings. Thou my words will own :
Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath known;
Nor fhall the giver's love disgrace thy noble name.
And the bleft function of the Poet's tongue,
Ne'er fhalt thou blush to honour; to affert
From all that fcorned vice or flavish fear hath fung.
Nor fhall the blandishment of Tuscan strings
Warbling at will in pleasure's myrtle bower;
Nor fhall the fervile notes to Celtic kings
By flattering minstrels paid in evil hour,
Move thee to fpurn the heavenly Muse's reign.
A different ftrain,
From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams
(Thou well canft witness) meet the purged ear:
Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell
Rejoicing liften'd, godlike founds to hear;
To hear the fweet inftructress tell
(While men and heroes throng'd around)
How life its nobleft ufe may find,
How well for freedom be refign'd;
And how, by glory, virtue fhall be crown'd.
Such was the Chian father's ftrain
To many a kind domestic train,
Whose pious hearth and genial bowl
Had chear'd the reverend pilgrim's foul:
When, every hospitable rite
With equal bounty to requite,
He ftruck his magic strings;
And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth, And feiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth, And fill'd their musing hearts with vaft heroic things,
Now oft, where happy fpirits dwell,
Where yet he tunes his charming shell,
Oft near him, with applauding hands,
The genius of his country ftands.
To liftening gods he makes him known,
That man divine, by whom were sown
The feeds of Grecian fame :
Who first the race with freedom fir'd;
From whom Lycurgus Sparta's fons inspir'd;
From whom Platæan palms and Cyprian trophies came.
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