There on the walls let thy juft labours fhine,
And Raphael live again in thy defign.
Yet ftay a while; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbiafs'd knows thy worth;
His judgment in thy master-strokes can trace
Titian's ftrong fire and Guida's fofter grace;
But, oh confider, ere thy works appear,
Canft thou unhurt the tongue of envy hear?
Cenfure will blame, her breath was ever spent
To blaft the laurels of the Eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rife,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes ?
Doors, windows, are condemn'd by paffing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandois with a liberal hand bestow,
Censure imputes it all to pomp and show;
When, if the motive right were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.
Had Pope with groveling numbers fill'd his page,
Dennis had never kindled into rage.
"Tis the fublime that hurts the Critic's ease;
Write nonsense, and he reads and fleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift and Pope unknown,
Poor flander-felling Curll would be undone.
He who would free from malice pass his days,
Muft live obfcure, and never merit praise.
But let this tale to valiant virtue tell
The daily perils of deferving well.
A crow was ftrutting o'er the ftubbled plain,
Juft as a lark defcending clos'd his ftrain.
The crow bespoke him thus with folemn grace,
Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd
What force of lungs! how clear! how fweet you fing!
And no bird foars upon a ftronger wing.
C
The lark, who scorn'd foft flatt'ry, thus replies,
True, I fing sweet, and on ftrong pinion rife
Yet let me pass my life from envy free,
For what advantage are these gifts to me?
My fong confines me to the wiry cage,
My flight provokes the faulcon's fatal rage.
But as you país, I hear the fowlers fay,
To fhoot at crows is powder flung away.
XCUSE me, Madam, if amidst your tears
A Muse intrudes, a Muse who feels your cares; Numbers, like mufick, can ev'n grief controul, And lull to peace the tumults of the foul.
If partners in our woes the mind relieve,
Confider for your lofs ten thousands grieve,
Th' affliction burthens not your heart alone;
When Marlbro' dy'd, a nation gave a groan.
Could I recite the dang'rous toils he chofe,
To blefs his country with a fixt repose,
Could I recount the labours he o'ercame
To raise his country to the pitch of fame,
His councils, fieges, his victorious fights,
To fave his country's laws and native rights,
No father (ev'ry gen'rous heart must own)
Has ftronger fondnefs to his darling fhown.
Britannia's fighs a double lofs deplore,
Her father and her hero is no more.
Does Britain only pay her debt of tears?
Yes. Holland fighs, and for her freedom fears.
When Gallia's monarch pour'd his wasteful bands,
Like a wide deluge, o'er her level lands,
She faw her frontier tow'rs in, ruin lie,
Ev'n Liberty had prun'd her wings to fly;
Then Marlbro' came, defeated Gallia fled,
And shatter'd Belgia rais'd her languid head,
In him fecure, as in her ftrongest mound-
That keeps the raging fea within its bound.
O Germany, remember Hockflet's plain, Where proftrate Gallia bled at ev'ry vein, Think on the refcue of th' Imperial throne, Then think on Marlbro's death without a groan! "Be wife, Apollo kindly whispers me. "How to his glory fhall thy numbers rife? "The force of verfe another theme might raife, "But here the merit must tranfcend the praise. "Haft thou, prefumptuous Bard, that godlike flame "Which with the Sun fhall last, and Marlbro's fame? "Then fing the man. But who can boast this fire? "Refign the task, and filently admire."
Yet, fhall he not in worthy lays be read?
Raife Homer, call up Virgil from the dead.
But he requires not the ftrong glare of verse,
Let punctual Hiftory his deeds rehearse,
Let Truth in native purity appear,
You'll find Achilles and Eneas there.
Is this the comfort which the Mufe beftows?
I but indulge and aggravate your woes.
A prudent friend, who feeks to give relief,
Ne'er touches on the spring that mov'd the grief.
Is it not barb'rous to the fighing maid
To mention broken vows and nymphs betray'd?
Would you the ruin'd merchant's foul appease,
With talk of fands and rocks and stormy feas?
Ev'n while I ftrive on Marlbro's fame to rise,
I call up forrow in a Daughter's eyes. -
Think on the laurels that his temples fhade, Laurels that (fpite of time) shall never fade; Immortal Honour has enroll'd his name, Detraction's dumb, and Envy put to fhame; Say, who can foar beyond his eagle flight? Has he not reach'd to glory's utmost height? What could he more, had Heaven prolong'd his date ? All human power is limited by fate.
Forbear. 'Tis cruel further to commend;
I wake your forrow, and again offend.
Yet fure your goodness must forgive a crime,
Which will be spread through ev'ry age and clime;
Though in your life ten thousand fummers roll,
And though you compass earth from pole to pole,
Where-e'er men talk of war and martial fame,
They'll mention Marlborough's and Cafar's name.
But vain are all the counsels of the Muse,
A foul, like yours, cou'd not a tear refuse:
Could you your birth and filial love forego,
Still fighs muft rife and gen'rous forrow flow;
For when from earth fuch matchless worth removes,
A great
mind fuffers. Virtue Virtue loves.
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