Nor dare repine, though early Friendship bleed, But when old age has filver'd o'er thy head, n One of the accufers of Socrates. An STEPHEN PO Y N T Z, Efq; &c. &c. By the Honourable Sir CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS, Kt. of the Bath. Senfere quid mens rite, quid indoles Dottrina fed vim promovet infitam, Relique cultus pectora roborant. I. HOR. Lib. IV. Od. 4 'HILST William's deeds and William's praise Each English breaft with transport raise, Each English tongue employ ; Say, Poyntz, if thy elated heart Affumes not a fuperior part, A larger share of joy? II. But that thy country's high affairs Employ thy time, demand thy cares, You should renew your flight; You You only should this theme pursue- Then to rehearse the Hero's praise, To think on all thy cares o'erpaid, Who first should watch, and who call forth This youthful Prince's various worth, You had the public voice; Wifely his royal Sire confign'd To you, the culture of his mind, And England bleft the choice. V. You taught him to be early known By martial deeds of courage fhewn: From this, near Mona's flood, By his victorious Father led, He flesh'd his maiden fword, he fhed, And prov'd th' illuftrious blood. VI. Of Virtue's various charms you taught, With happiness and glory fraught, How her unshaken pow'r Is independent of fuccefs; That no defeat can make it less, No conqueft make it more. VII. This, after Tournay's fatal day, 'Midft forrow, cares, and dire dismay, Brought calm, and fure relief; He fcrutiniz'd his noble heart, Found Virtue had perform'd her part, And peaceful slept the Chief. VIII. From thee he early learnt to feel The Patriot's warmth for England's weal; (True Valour's nobleft spring) To vindicate her Church diftreft; To fight for Liberty oppreft; To perish for his King. IX. Yet fay, if in thy fondest scope Of thought, you ever dar'd to hope That bounteous heaven fo foon Would Would pay thy toils, reward thy care, And all thy wishes crown? X. We faw a wretch, with trait'rous aid, Our King's and Church's rights invade: We faw thy Hero fly to war, Beat down Rebellion, break her spear, And set the nation free. XI. Culloden's field, my glorious theme, Yet can there be one English heart That does not give thee, Poyntz, thy part, And own thy share of praise? XII. Nor is thy fame to thee decreed For life's fhort date: when William's head, For victories to come, The frequent laurel shall receive: Chaplets for thee our fons shall weave, And hang 'em on thy tomb. ODE |