To him in great form, without any delay,
(Though a zealous fanatic) presented the bay.
All the wits stood astonish'd at hearing the god
So gravely pronounce an election fo odd;
And though Prior and Pope only laugh'd in his face,
Moft others were ready to fink in the place.
Yet fome thought the vacancy open was kept,
Concluding the bigot would never accept :
But the hypocrite told them, he well understood,
Though the function was wicked, the ftipend was good.
At laft in rush'd Eufden, and cry'd, "Who fhall have it,
"But I, the true laureat, to whom the king gave it?"
Apollo begg'd pardon, and granted his claim;
But vow'd, though, till then he ne'er heard of his name.
INCE in vain our parfons teach,
Hear, for once, a poet preach.
Vice has loft its very name,
Skill and cozenage thought the same ;
Only playing well the game.
Foul contrivances we fee
Call'd but ingenuity:
Ample fortunes often made
Out of frauds in every trade,
Which an aukward child afford
Enough to wed the greateft lord.
The mifer ftarves to raise a fon,
But, if once the fool is gone,
Years of thrift fscarce ferve a day,
Rake-hell fquanders all away.
Hufbands feeking for a place,
Or toiling for their pay;
While their wives undo their race
By petticoats and play :
Breeding boys to drink and dice,
Carrying girls to comedies,
Where mama's intrigues are fhown,
Which ere long will be their own.
Having first at fermon flept,
Tedious day is weekly kept
By worse hypocrites than men,
Till Monday comes to cheat again.
Ev'n among the nobleft-born,
Moral virtue is a fcorn;
Gratitude, but rare at best,
And fidelity a jest.
All our wit but party-mocks,
All our wisdom raising stocks:
Counted folly to defend
Sinking fide, or falling friend.
Long an officer may serve,
Prais'd and wounded, he may ftarve:
No receipt, to make him rife,
Like inventing loyal lies:
We, whofe ancestors have fhin'd
In arts of peace, and fields of fame, To ill and idleness inclin'd,
Now are grown a public fhame.
Fatal that inteftine 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 praife.
Oft' have we heard the wonders of his youth,
Obferv'd those feeds of fortitude and truth,
Which fince have spread fo wide, fo wondrous high,
The good diftrefs'd beneath that shelter lie.
In arms more active than ev'n war requir'd,
And in the midst 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 fpirits boil,
And forces youth to military toil;
No wonder it should fiercely then engage;
Women themselves will venture in a rage:
But in the midft 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 vast renown!
None but Turenne with York could glory fhare,
And none but York deferve fo great a master's care.
Scarce was he come to bless his native ifle,
And reap the foft reward of glorious toil,
But, like Alcides, still new dangers call
His courage forth, and still he vanquish'd all.
At fea, that bloody scene 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 distress 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 just heaven would all our joys restore.
*The Marefchal de Turenne.
So when black clouds furround heaven's glorious face,
Tempestuous darkness covering all the place,
If we difcern but the least 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 and kill!
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 worthless thought The beft I ever fpoke, or ever wrote.
But zealous heat exalts the humbleft mind; Within my foul fuch ftrong impulfe I find The heavenly tribute of due praise 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 fhining more!
All these fo numberless my thoughts attend,
Oh where shall 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 excuse.
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