His Son was born the ravish'd Prey to claim,
And France fill trembles at an Harley's Name.
A Fort fo dreadful to our English Shore,
Our Fleets fcarce fear'd the Sands or Tempests more,
Whose vaft Expences to fuch Sums amount,
That the tax'd Gaul fcarce furnish'd out th' Account,
Whofe Walls fuch Bulwarks, fuch vaft Tow'rs restrain,
Its weakest Ramparts are the Rocks and Main,
His Boaft great Louis yields, and cheaply buys
Thy Friendship, Anna, with the mighty Prize.
Holland repining, and in Grief caft down,
Sees the new Glories of the British Crown:
Ah! may they ne'er provoke Thee to the Fight,
Nor Foes, more dreadful than the Gaul, invite,
Soon may they hold the Olive, foon affwage
Their fecret Murmurs, nor call forth thy Rage
To rend their Banks, and pour, at one Command,
Thy Realm, the Sea, o'er their precarious Land.
Henceforth be Thine, Vice-gerent of the Skies,
Scorn'd Worth to raise, and Vice in Robes chastife,
To dry the Orphan's Tears, and from the Bar
Chace the Brib'd Judge, and hufh the wordy War,
Deny the curft Blafphemer's Tongue to rage,
And turn God's Fury from an impious Age.
Bleft Change the Soldier's late destroying Hand
Shall rear new Temples in his native Land,
Mistaken Zealots fhall with Fear behold,
And beg Admittance in our facred Fold;
On her own Works the Pious Queen fhall fmile,
And turn her Cares upon her Fav'rite Ifle.
So the keen Bolt a Warrior Angel aims,
Array'd in Clouds, and wrapt in mantling Flames,
He bears a Tempeft on his founding Wings,
And his red Arm the forky Vengeance flings;
At length, Heav'n's Wrath appeas'd, he quits the War,
To roll his Orb, and guide his deftin'd Star,
To fhed kind Fate, and lucky Hours bestow,
And fmile propitious on the World below.
VOL. II.
M
Around thy Throne shall faithful Nobles wait,
Thefe guard the Church, and thofe direct the State.
To Bristol, graceful in maternal Tears,
The Church her Tow'ry Forehead gently rears,
She begs her pious Son t' affert her Caufe,
Defend her Rights, and re-inforce her Laws, t
With holy Zeal the facred Work begin,
To bend the Stubborn, and the Meek to win.
Our Oxford's Earl in careful Thought fhall ftand,
To raile 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 shall ev'ry Art renew,
(The Arts with you fam'd Harcourt fhall defend,
And courtly Bolingbroke the Mufe's Friend.)
With piercing Eye fome fearch where Nature plays,
And trace the Wanton through her darkfome Maze,
Whence Health from Herbs; from Seeds howGroves begun,
How vital Streams in circling Eddies run.
Some teach why round the Sun the Spheres advance,
In the fix'd Measures of their myftic Dance,
How Tides, when heav'd by preffing Moons, o'erflow,
And Sun-born Iris paints her fhow'ry Bow.
In happy Chains our daring Language bound,
Shall sport no more in arbitrary Sound,
But buskin'd Bards henceforth fhall wifely rage,
And Grecian Plans reform Britannia's Stage:
Till Congreve bids her fmile, Augufta ftands.
And longs to weep when flowing Rowe commands.
Britain's Spectators fhall their Strength combine
To mend our Morals, and our Tafte refine,
Fight Virtue's Caufe, ftand up in Wit's Defence,
Win us from Vice, and laugh us into Senfe.
Nor, Prior, haft thou hufh'd the Trump in vain,
Thy Lyre fhall now revive her mirthful Strain,
New Tales fhall now be told; if right I fee,
The Soul of Chaucer is rellor'd in thee.
Garth, in majeftick Numbers, to the Stars
Shall raife Mock-Heroes, and fantaftick Wars;
Like the young fpreading Laurel, Pope, thy Name
Shoots up with Strength, and rifes into Fame;
With Philips fhall the peaceful Vallies ring,
And Britain hear a fecond Spenfer fing.
That much-lov'd Youth, whom Utrecht's Walls confine,
To Bristol's Praifes fhall his Strafford's join:
He too, from whom attentive Oxford draws
Rules for juft Thinking, and Poetick Laws,
To growing Bards his learned Aid fhall lend,
The ftrictest Critick, and the kindeft Friend.
Ev'n mine, a bashful Mufe, whofe rude Effays
Scarce hope for Pardon, not afpire to Praife,
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 Scene difplays,
And fmit with Paffion for my Country's Praife,
My artless Reed attempts this lofty Theme,
Where facred Ifis rolls her ancient Stream;
In Cloifter'd Domes the great Philippa's Pride,
Where Learning blooms, while Fame and Worth prefide,
Where the Fifth Henry Arts and Arms was taught,
And Edward form'd his Crey, yet unfought,
Where Laurel'd Bards have ftruck the warbling Strings,
The Seat of Sages, and the Nurfe of Kings.
Here thy Commands, O Lancafter, inflame
My eager Breaft to raise the British Name,
Urge on my Soul, with no ignoble Pride,
To woo the Mufe, whom Addifon enjoy'd,,
See that bold Swan to Heav'n fublimely foar,
Purfue at Distance, and his Steps adore.
Ne forte pudorio rei
Sit Tibi Mufa Lyra folers, & Cantor Apollo.
HE Opera firft Italian Mafters taught,
Enrich'd with Songs, but innocent of Thoughts
Britannia's learned Theatre difdains
Melodious Trifles, and enervate Strains;
And blufhes, on her injur'd Stage to fee r
Nonfenfe well-tun'd, and fweet Stupidity.
No Charms are wanting to thy artful Song,
Soft as Corelli, and as Virgil ftrong.
From Words fo fweet new Grace the Notes receive,
And Mufic borrows Helps, fhe us'd to give.
Thy Stile hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing Numbers far excel the new.
Their Cadence in fuch eafy Sound convey'd,ses
That height of Thought may feem fuperfluous Aid
Yet in fuch Charms the noble Thoughts abound,
That needlefs feem the Sweets of eafy Sound.
Landskips how gay the bow'ry Grotto yields, ak
Which Thought creates, and lavish Fancy builds !
What Art can trace the vifionary Scenes,
The flow'ry Groves, and everlasting Greens,
The babling Sounds that mimic Echo plays,
The fairy Shade, and its eternal Maze?
Nature and Art in all their Charms combin'd,
And all Elyfium to one View confin'd!
No farther could Imagination roam,
'Till Vanbrugh fram'd, and Marlbro rais'd the Dome.
Ten thousand Pangs my anxious Bofom tear,
When drown'd in Tears I fee th' imploring Fair:
When Bards lefs foft the moving Words fupply,
A feeming Juftice dooms the Nymph to die;
But here she begs, nor can fhe beg in vain ;
(In dirges thus expiring Swans complain ;)
Each Verfe fo fwells expreffive of her Woes,
And ev'ry Tear in Lines fo mournful flows;
We, fpite of Fame, her Fate revers'd believe,
O'erlook her Crimes, and think the ought to live.
Let Joy falute fair Rofamonda's Shade,
And wreaths of Myrtle crown the lovely Maid.
While now perhaps with Dido's Ghoft the roves,
And hears and tells the Story of their Loves,
Alike they mourn, alike they blefs their Fate,
Since Love, which made 'em wretched, makes em great. Nor longer that relentless Doom bemoan,
Which gain'd a Virgil, and an Addifon.
Accept, great Monarch of the British Lays, The tribute Song an humble Subject pays. So tries the artlefs Lark her early Flight, And foars, to hail the God of Verse, and Light. Unrival'd as unmatch'd be ftill thy Fame, And thy own Laurels fhade thy envy'd Name: Thy Name, the boaft of all the tuneful Quire, Shall tremble on the Strings of ev'ry Lyre; While the charm'd Reader with thy Thought complies, Feels corresponding Joys or Sorrows rise, And views thy Rofamond with Henry's Eyes.
To the fame on his Tragedy of CATO.
TOO long hath Love engrofs'd Britannia's Stage,
And funk to Softnefs all our tragic Rage:
By that alone did Empires fall or rife,
And Fate depended on a fair one's Eyes:
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