Dans un païs dont l' heritage
Eft fon antique bonne foi,
Peut s'addonner en paix a la vertu du fage
Dont Platon nous marque la loi.
Pour moi menacé du naufrage,
Je dois, en affrontant l' orage,
Penfer, vivre, et mourir en Roi.
Tranflated into English,
By JOHN GILBERT COOPER, Efq;
VOLTAIRE, believe me, were I now
In private life's calm ftation plac'd,
Let Heav'n for nature's wants allow,
With cold indiff'rence would I view
Changing Fortune's winged hafte,
And laugh at her caprice like you.
T' infipid farce of tedious ftate,
Imperial duty's real weight,
The faithlefs courtier's fupple bow,
The fickle multitude's carefs,
And the great Vulgar's Littleness,
By long experience well I know;
And, though a Prince and Poet born,
Vain blandishments of glory fcorn.
For when the ruthless fhears of Fate
Have cut my life's precarious thread,
And rank'd me with th' unconfeious dead,
What will't avail that I was great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of Fame
In Mem❜ry's temple chaunts my name?
One blissful moment whilft we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do Potentates receive
Of good, peculiarly their own?
Sweet Eafe, and unaffected Joy,
Domestic Peace, and fportive Pleasure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft filent scenes of lovely leisure,
To, what we Monarchs buy fo dear,
The thorny pomp of fcepter'd care.
My pain or blifs fhall ne'er depend
On fickle Fortune's cafual flight,
For, whether he's my foe or friend,
In calm repose I'll pass the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
I court her smile, or fear her frown.
But from our stations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,
And certain deeds each rank calls forth,
By which is measur'd human worth.
Voltaire, within his private cell
In realms where ancient honefty
Is patrimonial property,
And facred Freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all his peaceful mind,
Guided by Plato's deathless page,
In filent folitude refign'd
To the mild virtues of a Sage;
But I, 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Muft be, to face the tempeft's rage,
In thought, in life, in death a king.
At feeing Archbishop WILLIAMS's Monument
N that remote and folitary place,
Which the feas wash, and circling hills embrace,
John Williams was confecrated bifhop of Lincoln, Nov. 11. 1621. was tranflated to York Dec. 4. 1641. and died March 25. 1649. and was buried at Landegay near Bangor.
Where thofe lone walls amid the groves arise,
All that remains of thee, fam'd Williams, lies.
Thither, fequefter'd fhade, creation's nook,
The wand'ring Mufe her penfive journey took,
Curious to trace the statesman to his home,
And moralize at leifure o'er his tomb:
She came not, with the pilgrim, tears to fhed,
Mutter a vow, or trifle with a bead,
But such a sadness did her thoughts employ,
As lives within the neighbourhood of joy.
Reflecting much upon the mighty shade,
His glories, and his miseries, she said:
"How poor the lot of the once-honour'd dead!
Perhaps the duft is Williams, that we tread.
The learn'd, ambitious, politic, and great,
Statesman, and prelate, this alas! thy fate.
Could not thy Lincoln yield her paftor room,
Could not thy York fupply thee with a tomb?
Was it for this thy lofty genius foar'd,
Carefs'd by monarchs and by crowds ador'd?
For this, thy hand o'er rivals could prevail,
Grafping by turns the crofier and the ' feal?
Who dar'd on Laud's meridian pow'r to frown,
And on afpiring Buckingham look down.
b He was made lord keeper of the great feal July 20. 1621.
Clouds gather, and adverfity is thine.
Doom'd to behold thy country's fierce alarms,
What had thy trembling age to do with arms?
Thy lands dragoon'd, thy palaces in dust,
Why was thy life protracted to be curft?
Thy king in chains, thyfelf by lawless might
Stript of all pow'r, and exil'd from thy right.
Awhile the venerable hero ftood,
And stemm'd with quiv'ring limbs the boift'rous flood;
At length, o'ermatch'd by injuries and time,
Stole from the world and fought his native clime.
Cambria for him with moans her region fills:
She wept his downfal from a thousand hills:
Tender embrac'd her prelate though undone,
Stretch'd out her mother-rocks to hide her fon:
Search'd, while alive, each vale for his repaft,
And, when he died, receiv'd him in her breast.
Envied Ambition! what are all thy fchemes,
But waking mifery, or pleafing dreams,
Sliding and tottering on the heights of state!
The subject of this verfe declares thy fate.
Great as he was, you fee how fmall the gain,
A burial fo obfcure, a Muse so mean.
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