Well as I can my tedious part I bear,

And wait for my difmiffion without fear JOD VA
Seldom I mark mankind's detefted ways,
Not hearing cenfure, nor affecting praife;
And, unconcern'd, my future ftate I truft
To that fole Being, merciful and juft.

An Addrefs of the STATUES at STOWE, to Lord COBHAM, on his Return to his Gardens.

F

ROM every Muse and every art thy own,

Thy bow'rs our theatres, thy mind our throne !..

Hail to thy virtues manumiz'd from ftate

Hail to thy leifure to be wifely great.

Fetter'd by duties and to forms enflav'd,

How timely have thy years a remnant fav'd!
To taste that freedom which thy fword maintain❜d,
And lead in letter'd ease, a life unpain'd:

So Scipio (Carthage fall'n) refign'd his plume,
And fmil'd at the forgetfulness of Rome.

O greatly bless'd! whose evening fweeteft fhines,
And, in unclouded flowness, calm declines!
While free reflection with reverted eye,

Wan'd from hot noon-tide and a troubled sky,

Divides

Divides life well: the largest part, long known
Thy country's claim; the last and best thy own.
Here while detach'd, thy felf-fupported foul
Refumes dominion, and escapes controul;
Moves with a grandeur, monarchs wish in vain,
Above all fears, ftorms, dangers, hopes or pain;
A glance fometimes from thy fafe fummit throw,
And fee the dufty world look dim below:

Through the dark throng difcern huge flaves of pride
Should'ring unheeded Happiness afide;

Thwarted and push'd and lab'ring into name,
And dignify'd with all the dirt of fame;
Then with a smile fuperior, turn away,

And lop th' exub'rance of fome ftraggling spray;
Wind through thy mazes to ferene delight,

And from the bursting bubbles fhade thy fight.

Yet where thou fhin'ft, like heav'n behind a cloud, Moving like light, all piercing, though not loud; The Muse fhall find thee in thy bleft retreat, And breathe this honeft wifh at Cobham's feet: Fresh as thy lakes, may all thy pleasures flow! And breezy like thy groves, thy paffions blow! Wide as thy fancy, be thy spreading praise ! And long and lovely as thy walks, thy days!

An

L

ET others hail the rifing fun,

I bow to that whofe courfe is run,
Which fets in endless night;

Whose rays benignant blefs'd this ifle,
Made peaceful Nature round us fmile
With calm, but cheerful light.

No bounty paft provokes my praise,
No future profpects prompt my lays,
From real grief they flow;

I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears,
My forrows fall with Britain's tears,

And join a nation's woe.

POPE.

See

See as you pass the crowded street,
Defpondence clouds each face you meet,
All their loft friend deplore:
You read in every pensive eye,
You hear in every broken figh,
That Pelham is no more.

If thus each Briton be alarm'd,
Whom but his distant influence warm'd,
What grief their breasts must rend
Who in his private virtues blefs'd,

By Nature's dearest tyes poffefs'd

The Hufband, Father, Friend!

What! mute ye bards? no mournful verfe,
No chaplets to adorn his hearfe,

To crown the good and just?

Your flowers in warmer regions bloom,
You seek no pensions, from the tomb,

No laurels from the duft.

When pow'r departed with his breath,
The fons of Flatt'ry fled from death:

Such infects fwarm at noon.

Not

Not for herself my Mufe is griev'd,

She never nor e'er receiv'd,

One ministerial boon.

Hath fome peculiar ftrange offence,
Against us arm❜d Omnipotence,
To check the nation's pride?
Behold th' appointed punishment!
At length the vengeful bolt is fent,
It fell when Pelham dy'd!

Uncheck'd by fhame, unaw'd by dread,
When Vice triumphant rears her head,
Vengeance can fleep no more;

The evil angel stalks at large,

The good fubmits, refigns his charge,
And quits th' unhallow'd fhore.

The fame fad morn to church and state,

(So for our fins 'twas fix'd by fate)

A double stroke was giv'n;

The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of a late Lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham.

Black