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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 surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim;
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,

And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.
Blest 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.

AN EPISTLE

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 pray'r?
Does he from Heaven or earth his hopes derive ?
From saints departed, or from priests alive?
Nor saints nor priests can Brunswick's troops with-
stand!

And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand.
Heav'n to our vows may future kingdoms owe,
But skill and courage win the crowns below.
Ere to thy cause and thee my heart inclin❜d,
Or love to party had seduc'd 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 possest,
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 pow'rs;
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. [lost,
Then mourn not, hapless Prince! thy kingdoms
A crown, though late, thy sacred brows may boast;
Heav'n seems through us thy empire to decree;
Those who win hearts have giv'n their hearts to
thee.

Hast thou not heard that when profusely gay
Our well-dress'd rivals grac'd 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 possest
When oaken boughs mark'd every loyal breast!
Less scar'd 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 bands, O Prince, by fortune crost!
At least more courage than thy men may boast.
Our sex has dar'd the mughouse chiefs to meet,
And purchas'd 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!

Was it for this the sun's whole lustre fail'd,
And sudden midnight o'er the moon prevail'd?
For this did Heav'n display to mortal eyes
Aërial knights and combats in the skies?
Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red,
And Thames driv'n backward,show'd his secret bed?
False auguries! the' insulting victors scorn!
Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn;

O portents! construed on our side in vain,
Let never Tory trust eclipse again.

Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye skies!
And Thames! henceforth to thy green borders rise
To Rome then must the Royal Wanderer go,
And fall a suppliant at the papal toe?

His life in sloth inglorious must he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in pray'r?

His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease,
The proffer'd purple and the hat may please.
Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race
To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace,
In solemn conclave sit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trusty vote?
Be summon'd to his stall in time of need.
And with his casting suffrage fix a creed?
Shall he in robes on stated days appear,
And English heretics curse once a-year?
Garnet and Faux shall he with prayers invoke?
And beg that Smithfield piles once more may smoke?
Forbid it, Heav'n! my soul to fury wrought

Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought.

From James and Rome I feel my heart decline, And fear, O Brunswick! 'twill be wholly thine; Yet still his share thy rival will contest, And still the double claim divides my breast.

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