The doubtful hind mistakes the field
His fruitless toil fo lately till'd:
Here deep intrenchments funk, and vales appear,
The vain retreats of Gallic fear;
There new-created hills deform the plain,
Big with the carnage of the flain :
These monuments, when faction's fpight
Has fpit its poisonous foam in vain,
To endless ages shall proclaim
The matchlefs warrior's might,
The graves of flaughter'd foes fhall do his valour right.
These when the curious traveller
Amaz'd fhall view, and with attentive care
Trace the fad footsteps of deftructive war;
Succeffive bards fhall tell,
How Marlborough fought, how gafping tyrants fell.
Alternate chiefs confefs'd the victor's fame,
Pleas'd and excus'd, in their fucceffor's fhame.
In every change, in every form,
The Proteus felt his conquering arm :
Convinc'd of weakness, in extreme despair,
They lurk'd behind their lines, and wag'd a lazy war.
Nor lines nor forts could calm the foldier's fear,
Surpriz'd he found a Marlborough there.
Nature, nor art, his eager rage withstood,
He meafur'd diftant plains, he forc'd the rapid flood,
He fought, he conquer'd, he purfued.
In years advanc'd, with youthful vigour warm'd,
The work of ages in a day perform’d.
When kindly gleams diffolve the winter fnows
From Alpine hills, with fuch impetuous hafte
The icy torrent flows;
In vain the rocks oppose,
It drives along enlarg'd, and lays the regions waste.
Stop, goddefs, thy prefumptuous flight,
Nor foar to fuch a dangerous height,
Raife not the ghoft of his departed fame,
To pierce our confcious fouls with guilty fhame:
But tune thy harp to humbler lays,
Nor meditate offenfive praife.
To Mr. ADDISON, occafioned by his purchafing an Eftate in WARWICKSHIRE.
Ille dies, mihi cum liceat tua dicere facta! "En erit, ut liceat totum mihi ferre per orbem, "Sola Sophocleo tua carmina digna cothurno !"
O the gay town where guilty pleasure reigns, The wife good man prefers our humble plains : Neglected honours on his merit wait,
Here he retires when courted to be great,
The world refigning for this calm retreat.
His foul with wifdom's choiceft treasures fraught,
Here proves in practice each fublimer thought,
And lives by rules his happy pen has taught.
Great Bard! how fhall my worthless Muse afpire
To reach your praife, without your facred fire?
From the judicious critic's piercing eyes,
To the best-natur'd man fecure the flies.
When panting virtue her last efforts made,
You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid;
Prefumptuous Folly blufh'd, and Vice withdrew,
To vengeance yielding her abandon'd crew.
'Tis true, confederate wits their forces join,
Parnaffus labours in the work divine:
Yet these we read with too impatient eyes,
And hunt for you through every dark disguise;
In vain your modesty that name conceals,
Which every thought, which every word, reveals.
With like fuccess bright Beauty's Goddefs tries
To veil immortal charms from mortal eyes ;
Her graceful port, and her celestial mien,
To her brave fon betray the Cyprian queen ;
Odours divine perfume her rofy breast,
She glides along the plain in majesty confess'd.
Hard was the task, and worthy your great mind,
To please at once, and to reform mankind :
Yet, when you write, Truth charms with such address,
Pleads Virtue's cause with such becoming grace,
His own fond heart the guilty wretch betrays,
He yields delighted, and convinc'd obeys :
You touch our follies with fo nice a skill,
Nature and habit prompt in vain to ill.
Nor can it leffen the Spectator's praise,
That from your friendly hand he wears the bays;
His great defign all ages fhall commend,
But more his happy choice in fuch a friend.
So the fair queen of night the world relieves,
Nor at the fun's fuperior honour grieves,
Proud to reflect the glories the receives.
When dark oblivion is the warrior's lot,
His merits cenfur'd, and his wounds forgot;
When burnish'd helms and gilded armour ruft,
And each proud trophy finks in common duft :
Fresh blooming honours deck the poet's brows,
He shares the mighty bleffings he bestows,
His fpreading fame enlarges as it flows.
Had not your Muse in her immortal strain
Defcrib'd the glorious toils on Blenheim's plain,
Ev'n Marlborough might have fought, and Dormer
bled in vain.
When honour calls, and the just cause inspires,
Britain's bold fons to emulate their fires;
Your Muse these great examples fhall fupply,
Like that to conquer, or like this to die.
Contending nations ancient Homer claim,
And Mantua glories in her Maro's name;
Our happier foil the prize fhall yield to none,
Ardenna's groves fhall boast an Addison.
Ye filvan powers, and all ye rural gods,
That guard thefe peaceful fhades, and bleft abodes;
For your new gueft your choiceft gifts prepare,
Exceed his wishes, and prevent his prayer;
Grant him, propitious, freedom, health, and peace,
And as his virtues, let his stores increase.
His lavish hand no deity fhall mourn,
The pious bard fhall make a just return;
In lafting verse eternal altars raise,
And over-pay your bounty with his praise.
Tune every reed, touch every firing, ye fwains,
Welcome the ftranger to these happy plains,
With hymns of joy in folemn pomp attend
Apollo's darling, and the Mufes' friend.
Ye nymphs, that haunt the streams and fhady groves, Forget a while to mourn your abfent loves; In fong and sportive dance your joy proclaim, In yielding blushes own your rifing flame : Be kind, ye nymphs, nor let him figh in vain. Each land remote your curious eye has view'd, That Grecian arts, or Roman arms fubdued; Search every region, every diftant foil, With pleasing labour, and instructive toil : Say then, accomplish'd Bard! What god inclin'd To these our humble plains your generous mind? Nor would you deign in Latian fields to dwell, Which none know better, or defcribe fo well. In vain ambrofial fruits invite your stay, In vain the myrtle groves obstruct your way, And ductile streams that round the borders ftray. Your wifer choice prefers this fpot of earth, Diftinguish'd by th' immortal Shakespeare's birth; Where through the vales the fair Avona glides, And nourishes the glebe with fattening tides; Flora's rich gifts deck all the verdant foil, And plenty crowns the happy farmer's toil. Here, on the painted borders of the flood, The babe was born; his bed with rofes ftrow'd:
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