Fatal that intestine jar,
Which produc'd our civil war!
Ever fince, how fad a race!
Senfelefs, violent, and base!
Feel a ftrange impulfe, a ftrong defire,
(For what vain thoughts will not a Muse inspire ?) To fing on lofty subjects, and to raise
My own low fame, by writing James's praise.
Oft' have we heard the wonders of his youth,
Obferv'd thofe feeds of fortitude and truth,
Which fince have spread so wide, so wondrous high,
The good distress'd beneath that shelter lie.
In arms more active than ev'n war requir'd,
And in the midft of mighty chiefs admir'd.
Of all heaven's gifts, no temper is fo rare,
As fo much courage mix'd with so much care.
When martial fire makes all the spirits boil,
And forces youth to military toil;
No wonder it fhould fiercely then engage;
Women themselves will venture in a rage:
But in the midst of all that furious heat,
While fo intent on actions brave and great,
For other lives to feel fuch tender fears,
And, careless of his own, to care for theirs;
Is that compofure which a hero makes,
And which illuftrious York alone partakes,
With that great man*, whose fame has flown fo far,
Who taught him first the noble art of war.
Oh, wondrous pair! whom equal virtues crown, Oh worthy of each other's vaft renown!
None but Turenne with York could glory share,
And none but York deferve fo great a mafter's care.
Scarce was he come to blefs his native ifle,
And reap the foft reward of glorious toil,
But, like Alcides, ftill new dangers call
His courage forth, and still he vanquish'd all.
At fea, that bloody fcene of boundless rage,
Where floating caftles in fierce flames engage
(Where Mars himself does frowningly command,
And by lieutenants only fights at land);
For his own fame howe'er he fought before,
For England's honour yet he ventur'd more.
In those black times, when, faction raging high, Valour and Innocence were forc'd to fly,
With York they fled; but not depreft his mind,
Still, like a diamond in the dust, it shin'd.
When from afar his drooping friends beheld
How in diftrefs he ev'n himself excell'd;
How to his envious fate, his country's frown,
His brother's will, he facrific'd his own;
They rais'd their hearts, and never doubted more
But that juft heaven would all our joys restore.
The Marefchal de Turenne.
So when black clouds furround heaven's glorious face, Tempeftuous darknefs covering all the place, If we difcern but the leaft glimmering ray Of that bright orb of fire which rules the day, The chearful fight our fainting courage warms; Fix'd upon that, we fear no future harms.
RETCHED mankind! void of both strength
Dextrous at nothing but at doing ill!
In merit humble, in pretenfions high,
Among them none, alas! more weak than I,
And none more blind: though still I worthlefs thought
The best I ever spoke, or ever wrote.
But zealous heat exalts the humbleft mind;
Within my foul fuch ftrong impulfe I find
The heavenly tribute of due praife to pay :
Perhaps 'tis facred, and I must obey.
Yet fuch the fubjects, various, and fo high,
Stupendous wonders of the Deity!
Miraculous effects of boundless power!
And that as boundless goodness shining more!
All these fo numberlefs my thoughts attend,
Oh where fhall I begin, or ever end?
But on that theme which ev'n the wife abuse,
So facred, fo fublime, and fo abftrufe,
Abruptly to break off, wants no excufe.
While others vainly ftrive to know Thee more,
Let me in filent reverence adore;
Wishing that human power were higher rais'd,
Only that thine might be more nobly prais'd!
Thrice happy angels in their high degree,
Created worthy of extolling Thee!
ALTERATION OF JULIUS CESAR.
TOPE to mend Shakespeare! or to match his style!
'Tis fuch a jeft would make a Stoic fimile.
Too fond of fame, our poet foars too high,
Yet freely owns he wants the wings to fly:
So fenfible of his prefumptuous thought,
That he confeffes while he does the fault :
This to the fair will no great wonder prove,
Who oft' in blushes yield to what they love.
Of greatest actions, and of noblest men,
This ftory most deserves a poet's pen :
For who can with a fcene more juftly fam'd,
When Rome and mighty Julius are but nam'd!
That ftate of heroes who the world had brav'd!
That wondrous man who fuch a ftate inflav'd!
Yet loth he was to take fo rough a way,
And after govern'd with fo mild a sway,
At distance now of feventeen hundred
Methinks a lovely ravisher appears;
Whom, though forbid by virtue to excufe,
A nymph might pardon, and could scarce refufe.
CHORUSES IN JULIUS CÆSAR.
WHITHER is Roman honour gone?
Where is your ancient virtue now?
That valour, which so bright has fhone,
And with the wings of conqueft flown,
Muft to a haughty master bow:
Who, with our toil, our blood, and all we have befide,
Gorges his ill-got power, his humour, and his pride.
Fearless he will his life expofe;
So does a lion or a bear.
His very virtues threaten those,
Who more his bold ambition fear.
How ftupid wretches we appear,
Who round the world for wealth and empire roam,
Yet never, never think what flaves we are at home!
Did men for this together join,
Quitting the free wild life of Nature?
What other beast did e'er defign
The fetting up his fellow-creature,
And of two mischiefs chufe the greater?
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