To fee th' audacious foe, fo late fubdued,
Difpute thofe terms for which fo long they fued,
As if Britannia now were funk fo low,
To beg that peace she wonted to bestow.
Be far that guilt! be never known that shame!
That England fhould retract her rightful claim,
Or, ceafing to be dreaded and ador'd,
Stain with her pen the luftre of her fword,
Or doft thou give the winds afar to blow.
Each vexing thought, and heart-devouring woe,
And fix thy mind alone on rural scenes,
To turn the level'd lawns to liquid plains,
To raise the creeping rills from humble beds,
And force the latent springs to lift their heads,
On watery columns, capitals to rear,
That mix their flowing curls with upper air.
Or doft thou, weary grown, thefe works neglect,
No temples, ftatues, obelisks erect,
But catch the morning breeze from fragrant meads,
Or fhun the noontide ray in wholefome fhades,
Or flowly walk along the mazy wood,
To meditate on all that 's wife and good,
For nature bountiful in thee has join'd,
A perfon pleasing with a worthy mind,
Not given the form alone, but means, and art,
To draw the eye, or to allure the heart,
Poor were the praife in fortune to excel,
Yet want the way to use that fortune well.
While thus adorn'd, while thus with virtue crown'd,
At home in peace, abroad in arms renown'd,
Graceful in form, and winning in addrefs,
While well you think, what aptly you express,
With health, with honour, with a fair eftate,
A table free, and eloquently neat,
What can be added more to mortal blifs?
What can he want who ftands poffeft of this?
What can the fondeft wishing mother more
Of heaven attentive for her fon implore?
And yet a happiness remains unknown,
Or to philofophy reveal'd alone;
A precept, which unpractis'd renders vain
Thy flowing hopes, and pleasure turns to pain.
Should Hope and Fear thy heart alternate tear,
Or Love, or Hate, or Rage, or anxious Care,
Whatever paffions may thy mind infest,
(Where is that mind which paffions ne'er moleft?)
Amidft the pangs of fuch inteftine strife,
Still think the prefent day, the last of life;
Defer not till to-morrow to be wife,
To-morrow's fun to thee may never rife.
Or fhould to-morrow chance to cheer thy fight,
With her enlivening and unlook'd-for light,
How grateful will appear her dawning rays!
As favours unexpected doubly please.
Who thus can think, and who fuch thoughts pursues,
Content may keep his life, or calmly lofe;
All proofs of this thou may'st thyself receive,
When leifure from affairs will give thee leave,
Come, fee thy friend, retir'd without regret,
Forgetting care, or ftriving to forget;
In eafy contemplation foothing time
With morals much, and now and then with rhyme,
Not fo robuft in body, as in mind,
And always undejected, though declin'd;
Not wondering at the world's new wicked ways,
Compar'd with those of our fore-fathers days,
For virtue now is neither more or less,
And vice is only varied in the drefs;
Believe it, men have ever been the fame,
And all the golden age, is but a dream.
WRITTEN AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS,
Afterwards Lady of Sir THOMAS LYTTELTON.
LEAVE, leave the drawing-room,
Where flowers of beauty us'd to bloom
The nymph that's fated to o'ercome,
Now triumphs at the wells.
Her fhape, and air, and eyes,
Her face, the gay, the grave, the wife,
The beau, in spite of box and dice,
Acknowledge, all excels.
Ceafe, ceafe, to afk her name,
The crowned Mufe's nobleft theme,
Whofe glory by immortal fame,
Shall only founded be.
But if you long to know,
Then look round yonder dazzling row,
Who most does like an angel fhow,
You may be fure 'tis fhe.
See near thofe facred fprings,
Which cure to fell diseases brings,
(As ancient fame of Ida fings)
Three goddesses appear!
Wealth, glory, two poffeft;
The third with charming beauty bleft,
So fair, that heaven and earth confeft
She conquer'd every where.
Like her, this charmer now
Makes every love-fick gazer bow;
Nay, even old age her power allow,
And banish'd flames recall,
Wealth can no trophy rear,
Nor glory now the garland wear:
To beauty every Paris here
Devotes the golden ball.
On the Victorious Progrefs of Her MAJESTY's Arms under the Conduct of the Duke of MARLBOROUGH.
HE following Ode is an attempt towards restoring the regularity of the antient Lyric Poetry, which feems to be altogether forgotten or unknown by our English writers.
There is nothing more frequent among us, than a fort of poems intituled Pindaric Odes; pretending to be written in imitation of the manner and ftile of Pindar, and yet I do not know that there is to this day extant in our language, one Ode contrived after his model. What idea can an English reader have of Pindar (to whofe mouth, when a child, the bees brought
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