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To far-fam'd Wife her flight unseen she sped,
And with gay prospects fill'd the craftsman's head,
Soft in his fancy drew a pleafing scheme,

And plan'd that landskip in a morning dream.
With the sweet view the fire of gardens fir'd,
Attempts the labour by the nymph inspir'd,
The walls and streets in rows of
yew defigns,
And forms the town in all its ancient lines;
The corner trees he lifts more high in air,

And girds the palace with a verdant square :

This perfon is mentioned with his partner by Mr. Addison, is The Spectator, No 477• "Wife and London are our heroic Poets: and "if, as a critic, I may fingle out any paffage of their works to comimend, fhall take notice of that part of the upper garden of Kenfington, which was at first nothing but a gravel pit. It must have "been a fine genius for gardening, that could have thought of forming fuch an unfightly hollow into fo beautiful an area, and to have hit the eye with fo uncommon and agreeable a fcene as that which it is "now wrought into. To give this particular spot of ground the greater “effect, they have made a very pleasing contrast; for as on one fide "of the walk you fee this hollow bafort, with its feveral little plan"tations lying fo conveniently under the eye of the beholder; on the "other fide of it there appears a feeming mount, made up of trees "rifing one higher than another in proportion as they approach the "centre. A spectator, who has not heard this account of it, would "think this circular mount was not only a real one, but that it had "been actually scooped out of that hollow space which I have before "mentioned. I never yet met with any one who has walked in this "garden, who was not ftruck with that part of it which I have here " mentioned."

Nor

Nor knows, while round he views the rifing scenes,
He builds a city as he plants his greens.

With a fad pleasure the aërial maid

This image of her ancient realm furvey'd ;
How chang'd, how fallen from its primæval pride!
Yet here each moon, the hour her lover dy'd,
Each moon his folemn obfequies she pays,
And leads the dance beneath pale Cynthia's rays;
Pleas'd in the fhades to head her fairy train,
And grace the groves where Albion's kinfmen reign.

AN

EPISTLE from a LADY in ENGLAND,

T

то A

GENTLEMAN at AVIGNON",

By the Same.

O thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends,
The health she wants, thy gentle Chloe fends
Though much you fuffer, think I fuffer more,
Worse than an exile on my native shore.

a A city belonging to the Holy See, in which the Pretender refiled after the rebellion in the year 1715. Dr. Johnson observes of this Epiftle, that it ftands high among party Poems; it expreffes contempt without coarseness, and fuperiority without infolence.

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Companions in your master's flight you roam,
Unenvy'd by your haughty foes at home;
For-ever near the royal out-law's fide,

You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide ;
On glorious fchemes, and thoughts of empire dwell,
And with imaginary titles fwell.

Say, (for thou know'ft I own his facred line,
The paffive doctrine, and the right divine)
Say, what new fuccours does the chief prepare?
The firength of armies? or the force of pray'r?
Does he from heav'n or earth his hopes derive?
From faints departed? or from priests alive?
Nor faints nor priests can Brunswick's troops withstand,
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 feduc'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 poffefs'd,
The church, the church, for ever breaks my rest.
The Poft boy on my pillow I explore,
And fift the news of every foreign fhore,
Studious to find new friends, and new allies;
What armies march from Sweden in disguise;

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How Spain prepares her banners to unfold,
And Rome deals out her bleffings, and her gold:
Then o'er the map my finger, taught to flray,
Cross many a region, marks the winding way;
From fea to fea, from realm to realm I rove,
And grow a mere geographer by love.
But ftill Avignon, and the pleafing coaft
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,
Whilft on his fide he reckons half the fair:
In Britain's lovely ifle à fhining throng
War in his caufe, a thousand beauties ftrong.
Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their pow'rs;
Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours.
We reason with fuch fluency and fire,
The beaux we baffle, and the learned tire,
Against her prelates plead the church's caufe,
And from our judges vindicate the laws.

Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms loft,
A crown, though late thy facred brow may boast;
Heav'n feems through us thy empire to decree,
Those who win hearts have giv'n their hearts to thee.
Haft thou not heard that, when profufely gay,
Our well-dress'd rivals grac'd their fov'reign's day.
We ftubborn damfels met the public view

In loathfome wormwood, and repenting rue ?
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What Whig but trembled, when our fpotlefs band
In virgin rofes whiten'd half the land!
Who can forget what fears the foe poffefs'd,
When oaken boughs mark'd every loyal breaft!
Lefs fear'd near Medway's ftream the Norman ftood,
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
'Ti!!, near at hand, a gleam of swords betray'd
The youth of Kent beneath its wand'ring fhade.
Thofe, who the fuccours of the fair defpife,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
The female bands, O prince by Fortune crofs'd,
At least more courage than thy men may boaft;
Our fex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet,
And purchase fame in many a well-fought ftrest.
From Drury-lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the town,
Fair patriots fallying oft have put to flight
With all their poles the guardians of the night,
And borne, with fcreams of triumph, to their fide
The leader's ftaff in all its painted pride.

Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note

To vend the difcontented ftatefman's thought.
Though red with ftripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore fmitten for the love of facred fong,

The tuneful fifters ftill purfue their trade,
Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,

And hums in concert o'er his empty chair.

Mean

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