He softens the harsh rigour of the laws,
Blunts their keen edge, and grinds their harpy
And graciously he casts a pitying eye

On the sad state of virtuous poverty.

[claws;

Whene'er he speaks, Heavens! how the listening

throng

Dwells on the melting music of his tongue.

His arguments are emblems of his mien,
Mild, but not faint, and forcing, though serene;
And when the power of eloquence he'd try,
Here, lightning strikes you; there, soft breezes sigh.
To him you must your sickly state refer,
Your charter claims him as your visiter.
Your wounds he'll close, and sovereignly restore
Your science to the height it had before.

Then Nassau's health shall be your glorious aim;
His life should be as lasting as his fame.
Some princes' claims from devastation spring;
He condescends in pity to be king:

And when, amidst his olives placed, he stands, And governs more by candour than commands, Even then not less a hero he

appears, Then when his laurel diadem he wears.

< When Phœbus, or his Granville, but inspire Their sacred vehemence of poetic fire; To celebrate in song that godlike power, Which did the labouring universe restore; Fair Albion's cliffs would echo to the strain, And praise the arm that conquer'd, to regain The earth's repose, and empire o'er the main.

Still may the' immortal man his cares repeat, To make his blessings endless as they're great: Whilst malice and ingratitude confess

They've strove for ruin long without success.

When late, Jove's Eagle 16 from the pile shall rise
To bear the victor to the boundless skies,
Awhile the god puts off paternal care,

17

Neglects the earth, to give the heavens a star;
Near thee, Alcides 17, shall the hero shine;
His rays resembling, as his labours, thine.
'Had some famed patriot, of the Latian blood,
Like Julius great, and like Octavius good,
But thus preserved the Latian liberties,
Aspiring columns soon had reach'd the skies:
Loud Ios the proud capitol had shook,
And all the statues of the gods had spoke."

No more the sage his raptures could pursue: He paused; and Celsus with his guide withdrew.

16 Read the ceremony of the Apotheosis.

17 Hercules, a constellation near Ariadne's Crown.

CLAREMONT.

ADDRESSED TO THE

RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF CLARE,

AFTERWARDS DUKE OF NEWCASTLE.

Dryadum silvas, saltusque sequamur
Intactos; tua, Mæcenas, haud mollia jussa.

VIRG.

PREFACE.

THEY that have seen those two excellent Poems of Cooper's Hill and Windsor Forest; the one by Sir John Denham, the other by Mr. Pope; will show a great deal of candour if they approve of this. It was writ, upon giving the name of Claremont to a villa, now belonging to the Earl of Clare. The situation is so agreeable and surprising, that it inclines one to think, some place of this nature put Ovid at first upon the story of Narcissus and Echo. 'Tis probable he had observed some spring arising amongst woods and rocks, where echoes were heard; and some flower bending over the stream, and by consequence reflected from it. After reading the story in the

third book of the Metamorphoses, 'tis obvious to object (as an ingenious friend has already done) that the renewing the charms of a nymph, of which Ovid had dispossessed her,

vox tantùm atque ossa supersunt,

is too great a violation of poetical authority. I dare say the gentleman who is meant, would have been well pleased to have found no faults. There are not many authors one can say the same of. Experience shows us every day that there are writers who cannot bear a brother should succeed, and the only refuge from their indignation is by being inconsiderable: upon which reflection, this thing ought to have a pretence to their favour.

They who would be more informed of what relates to the ancient Britons, and the Druids their priests, may be directed by the quotations to the authors that have mentioned them.

CLAREMONT.

ways,

WHAT frenzy has of late possess'd the brain?
Though few can write, yet fewer can refrain.
So rank our soil, our bards rise in such store,
Their rich retaining patrons scarce are more:
The last indulge the fault the first commit;
And take off still the offal of their wit.
So shameless, so abandon'd are their
They poach Parnassus, and lay snares for praise.
None ever can without admirers live,
Who have a pension or a place to give.
Great ministers ne'er fail of great deserts;
The herald gives them blood; the poet, parts.
Sense is of course annex'd to wealth and power;
No Muse is proof against a golden shower.
Let but his lordship write some poor lampoon,
He's Horaced up in doggrel like his own.
Or, if to rant in tragic rage he yields,

False fame cries-'Athens!' honest truth-Moorfields !'

Thus fool'd, he flounces on through floods of ink ;
Flags with full sail; and rises but to sink.

Some venal pens so prostitute the bays,
Their panegyrics lash; their satires praise.
So nauseously, and so unlike they paint,
N's an Adonis; M-
-r, a saint.