THE

INSTALMENT.

то

THE RIGHT HON. SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER,

"Quæfitam Meritis."

MD CCXXVI.

HOR.

THE INSTALMENT.

W

ITH invocations fome. their breafts inflame;
I need no Muse, a Walpole is my theme.
Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise !
Our morning ftars! our boast in former days!
Which hovering o'er, your purple wings display,
Lur'd by the pomp of this diftinguish'd day,
Stoop, and attend: by one, the knee be bound;
One, throw the mantle's crimson folds around;
By that, the fword on his proud thigh be plac'd;
This, clafp the diamond-girdle round his wait;
His breast, with rays, let juft Godolphin spread;
Wife Burleigh plant the plumage on his head;
And Edward own, fince first he fixt the race,
None preft fair glory with a swifter pace.

When fate would call fome mighty genius forth
To wake a drooping age to godlike worth,
Or aid fome favourite king's illustrious toil,
It bids his blood with generous ardour boil;
His blood, from virtue's celebrated fource,
Pour'd down the fteep of time, a lengthen'd course;
That men prepar'd may just attention pay,
Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day,
When all the scatter'd merits of his line
Collected to a point, intenfely fhine.

See, Britain, fee thy Walpole shine from far, His azure ribbon, and his radiant star;

A ftar

A ftar that, with aufpicious beams, shall guide
Thy veffel fafe, through fortune's roughest tide.

If peace ftill fmiles, by this, fhall commerce steer
A finish'd course, in triumph round the sphere;
And, gathering tribute from each distant shore,
In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour.

If war 's ordain'd, this ftar fhall dart its beams
Through that black cloud, which rifing from the Thames,
With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is fent
To claim the feas, and awe the continent.
This fhall direct it, where the bolt to throw,
A ftar for us, a comet to the foe.

At this the Mufe fhall kindle, and afpire:
My breast, O Walpole, glows with grateful fire.
The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee,
Refresh the dry domains of poefy.

My fortune fhews, when arts are Walpole's care,
What flender worth forbids us to despair :
Be this thy partial fmile from cenfure free ;
'T was meant for merit, though it fell on me.
Since Brunswick's fmile has authoriz'd my Muse,
Chafte be her conduct, and fublime her views.
Falfe praises are the whoredoms of the pen,
Which prostitute fair fame to worthless men:
This prophanation of celestial fire

Makes fools despise, what wife men fhould admire.
Let those I praise to distant times be known,
Not by their author's merit, but their own.
If others think the task is hard, to weed
From verse rank flattery's vivacious feed,