In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
The' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my
If in the stage I seek to sooth my care,
[sight; I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato, there; If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
His shade o'ertakes me in the lonely grove; "Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong, Clear'd some great truth, or raised some serious song;
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, A candid censor and a friend sincere ;
There taught us how to live, and (oh! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. Thou hill! whose brow the antique structures
Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears,
O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears!
How sweet were once thy prospects, fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air!
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide shadow and thy evening breeze!
His image thy forsaken bowers restore,
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;
No more the summer, in thy glooms allay'd,
Thy evening breezes and thy noonday shade.
From other ills, however Fortune frown'd,
Some refuge in the Muse's art I found;
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him who taught me how to sing;
And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn,
Betray that absence they attempt to mourn..
O! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,
And Craggs, in death, to Addison succeeds)
The verse begun to one lost friend prolong,
And weep a second in the' unfinish'd song!
These works divine which on his death-bed laid To thee, O Craggs! the' expiring Sage convey'd, Great but ill-omen'd monument of fame,
Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim;
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,
And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.
Bless'd pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues: each other's boast, farewell!
Farewell! whom join'd in fame, in friendship tried,
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.
FROM A LADY IN ENGLAND TO A GENTLEMAN AT
AVIGNON.
To thee, dear rover! and thy vanquish'd friends,
The health she wants thy gentle Chloe sends;
Though much you suffer, think I suffer more,
Worse than an exile on my native shore.
Companions in your master's flight you roam,
Unenvied by your haughty foes at home;
For ever near the Royal Outlaw's side
You share his fortunes and his hopes divide,
On glorious schemes and thoughts of empire dwell,
And with imaginary titles swell.
Say, for thou know'st I own his sacred line,
The passive doctrine and the right divine,
Say, what new succours does the Chief prepare? The strength of armies, or the force of prayer? Does he from Heaven or earth his hopes derive? From saints departed, or from priests alive?
Nor saints nor priests can Brunswick's troops withstand,
And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand. Heaven to our vows may future kingdoms owe, But skill and courage win the crowns below.
Ere to thy cause and thee my heart inclined,
Or love to party had seduced my mind,
In female joys I took a dull delight,
Slept all the morn and punted half the night;
But now, with fears and public cares possess'd,
The Church! the Church! for ever breaks my rest.
The Post-boy on my pillow I explore,
And sift the news of every foreign shore;
Studious to find new friends and new allies,
What armies march from Sweden in disguise;
How Spain prepares her banners to unfold,
And Rome deals out her blessings and her gold;
Then o'er the map my finger taught to stray,
Cross many a region marks the winding way;
From sea to sea, from realm to realm I rove,
And grow a mere geographer by love;
But still Avignon and the pleasing coast
That holds thee banish'd, claims my care the most:
Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes,
And span the distance that between us lies.
Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair,
Whilst on his side he reckons half the fair.
In Britain's lovely isle, a shining throng
War in his cause, a thousand beauties strong.
The' unthinking victors vainly boast their powers;
Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours.
We reason with such fluency and fire,
The beaux we baffle, and the learned tire;
Against the prelates plead the church's cause,
And from our judges vindicate the laws.
Then mourn not, hapless Prince! thy kingdoms lost,
A crown, though late, thy sacred brows may boast;
Heaven seems through us thy empire to decree ;
Those who win hearts have given their hearts to
thee.
Hast thou not heard that when profusely gay
Our well-dress'd rivals graced their sovereign's day,
We stubborn damsels met the public view
In loathsome wormwood and repenting rue?
What Whig but trembled when our spotless band
In virgin roses whiten'd half the land;
Who can forget what fears the foe possess'd
When oaken boughs mark'd every loyal breast!
Less scared near Medway's stream the Norman
stood
When cross the plain he spied a marching wood,
Till near at hand a gleam of swords betray'd
The youth of Kent beneath its wandering shade.
Those who the succours of the fair despise,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
Thy female hands, O Prince, by fortune cross'd!
At least more courage than thy men may boast.
Our sex has dared the mughouse chiefs to meet,
And purchased fame in many a well-fought street:
From Drury Lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the Town;
Fair patriots sallying oft have put to flight,
With all their poles, the guardians of the night;
And bore, with screams of triumph, to their side
The leader's staff in all its painted pride.
Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
To vend the discontented statesman's thought,
Though red with stripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore smitten for the love of sacred song;
The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade
Like Philomela, darkling in the shade.
Poor Trot attends, forgetful of a fare,
And hums in concert o'er his empty chair.
Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause,
His sword for James no brother sovereign draws;
The Pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms;
And though he hears his darling son's complaint,
Can hardly spare one tutelary saint,
But lists them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready money coins his gods.
The dauntless Swede, pursued by vengeful foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary snows
Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feast regale our garter'd youth again.
Safe, Bar-le-Duc! within thy silent grove
The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove ;
The knight who aims unerring from afar,
The' adventurous knight, now quits the silvan war;
Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd,
Or grunt secure beneath the chesnut shade.
Inconstant Orleans! (still we mourn the day
That trusted Orleans with imperial sway)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,
Far from the call of his desponding friends;
Such are the terms to gain Britannia's grace,
And such the terrors of the Brunswick race!
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