Around thy throne shall faithful nobles wait,
These guard the church, and those direct the state.
TO BRISTOL, graceful in maternal tears,
The church her tow'ry forehead gently rears,
She begs her pious fon t' affert her cause,
Defend her rights, and reinforce her laws,
With holy zeal the facred work begin,
To bend the stubborn, and the meek to win.
Our OXFORD's earl in careful thought shall stand,
To raise his Queen, and fave a finking land.
The wealthiest glebe to rav'nous Spaniards known
He marks, and makes the golden world our own:
Content with hands unfoil'd to guard the prize,
And keep the store with undefiring eyes.
So round the tree, that bore Hefperian gold,
The facred watch lay curl'd in many a fold,
His eyes up-rearing to th' untafted prey,
The fleepless guardian wafted life away.
Beneath the peaceful olives, rais'd by you,
Her ancient pride fhall ev'ry art renew;
(The arts with you, fam'd HARCOURT, fhall defend,
And courtly BOLINGBROKE, the Muse's friend)
With piercing eye fome fearch where nature plays,
And trace the wanton through her darkfome maze;
Whence health from herbs; from feeds how groves begun,
How vital streams in circling eddies run.
Some teach, why round the fun the spheres advance,
In the fix'd measures of their mystic dance:
How tides, when heav'd by preffing moons, o'erflow,
And fun-born Iris paints her fhow'ry bow.
In happy chains our daring language bound,
Shall sport no more in arbitrary found,
But buskin'd bards henceforth fhall wifely rage,
And Grecian plans reform Britannia's stage :
'Till Congreve bids her smile, Augusta stands,
And longs to weep when flowing Rowe commands:
Britain's Spectators shall their strength combine,
To mend our morals, and our taste refine,
Fight virtue's caufe, ftand up in wit's defence,
Win us from vice, and laugh us into sense.
Nor, Prior, haft thou hush'd the trump in vain,
Thy lyre fhall now revive her mirthful strain,
New tales fhall now be told; if right I see,
The foul of Chaucer is reftor'd in thee.
Garth, in majestic numbers, to the stars
Shall raise mock-heroes, and fantastic wars ;
Like the young spreading laurel, Pope, thy name
Shoots up with strength, and rifes into fame
With Phillips shall the peaceful vallies ring,
And Britain hear a fecond Spenfer fing;
That much-lov'd youth, whom Utrecht's walls confine,
TO BRISTOL'S praises fhall his STRAFFORD'S join:
He too, from whom attentive OXFORD draws
Rules for just thinking, and poetic laws,
To growing bards his learned aid shall send,
The ftricteft critic, and the kindest friend.
Ev'n mine, a bashful Muse, whose rude effays
Scarce hope for pardon, not aspire to praise,
Cherish'd by you, in time may grow to fame,
And mine furvive with BRISTOL's glorious name.
Fir'd with the views this glitt'ring fcene displays,
And fmit with paffion for my country's praise,
My artless reed attempts this lofty theme,
Where facred Ifis rolls her ancient stream
In cloyfter'd domes, the great Philippa's pride,
Where learning blooms, while fame and worth preside,
Where the fifth Henry arts and arms was taught,
And Edward form'd his Creffy, yet unfought;
Where laurel'd bards have ftruck the warbling ftrings,
The feat of fages, and the nurse of kings.
Here thy commands, O Lancaster, inflame
My eager breaft to raise the British name;
Urge on my foul, with no ignoble pride,
To woo the Mufe whom Addison enjoy'd;
See that bold fwan to heav'n fublimely foar,
Pursue at distance, and his steps adore.
To the RIGHT HONOURABLE the
On the Death of Mr. ADDISON.
F, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath ftaid,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid;
Blame not her filence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires !
Slow comes the verfe, that real woe infpires:
Grief unaffected fuits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the dismal night, that gave
How filent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the manfions of the dead,
Thro' breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Thro' rows of warriors, and thro' walks of kings!
What awe did the flow folemn knell inspire;
The pealing organ, and the paufing choir;
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd;
And the last words, that duft to duft convey'd !
While speechless o'er thy clofing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend,
Oh gone for ever, take this long adieu
And sleep in peace, next thy lov❜d Montagu!
To ftrew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy facred fhrine;
Mine with true fighs thy, absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy ftone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a fong,
My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue,
My grief be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.
Oft let me range the gloomy ifles alone, (Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown)
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