:

As if religion had engrofs'd the whole,
And heaven remain'd the object of his foul.
Defcend, my mufe; here ftop thy pleafing flight,
For mournful profpects, gloomy fhades of night.
Attend the last expiring scene of life,
A painful conflict, and unequal ftrife:
Where nature languishes beneath the weight
Of racking torments, and approaching fate.
With matchlefs patience, and undaunted mind,
He bore his anguish, and his foul refign'd:
As he the glorious profpe&t kept in view,
And our old world rejected for the new.

The bounteous heavens their fruitful bleffings
fhed,

And chafte Lucina crown'd his nuptial bed:
From whence a fair and numerous offspring came,
The happy pledges of a mutual flame.
From warlike Hudard, founder of his race,
Twenty renown'd defcents his lineage grace:
And from his loins complete the number fprung,
For every ancestor a smiling young.

The happy husband of a matchlefs dame,
Endear'd by virtues, and unblemish'd fame:
No guilty paffion ever claim'd a part,
The confort of his bed engrofs'd his heart.
As two fair tapers burn with equal flame,
Their heat proportion'd, and their light the fame :
And though by flow degrees they both decline,
Both to the laft with the fame luftre fhine:
Such equal flames infpir'd the happy pair,
Mutual their paffions, and the fame their care:
Though years expir'd, and youth confum'd away,
Their fond affections never felt decay.

As when the fun our hemifphere refigns, He leaves us light, and by reflection fhines: And when the gloomy interval is o'er, He rifes bright and glorious as before. Such likenefs in his fucceffor we find, Left as the image of himself behind; With all the virtues of his race endued; The happy father's in the fon renew'd. Methinks I fee a pompous tomb arise, Beauteous the form, magnificent the fize: Enchas'd with ore, with well-wrought marble made,

Worthy the artist, and the glorious fhade.

Crowds of officious angels weep around, With lamps extinguish'd, and their robes unbound! With heads reclin'd, and drooping wings they

mourn,

Form'd to fuftain, and grace the ponderous urn.
In abject postures, and a flowing dress,
Poftures that love and tenderness express:
The facred Nine furround the spacious tomb,
And spread infectious forrows o'er the dome;
Their lyres unftrung are thrown neglected by,
And scatter'd wreaths in just disorder lie.

High in the midft is his effigies plac'd,
The boast of art, with every beauty grac'd.
Advancing age in every line appears,

And fhades his brow with honourable years:
Juft to his form, his looks diffembled right,
With joy detain the fond fpectator's fight.
Defcending Phœbus crowns the upper scene,
His arm extended with triumphant greeĥ :

TO THE MEMORY

OF A FAIR YOUNG LADY, 1697. WHEN black with fhades this mourning vault appears,

And the relenting marble flows with tears; Think then what griefs a parent's bofom wound, Whofe fatal lofs enrich'd this hallow'd ground.

Strew lilies here, and myrtle wreaths prepare, To crown the fading triumphs of the fair: Here blooming youth and charming beauties lie, Till earth refigns them to their native sky; Like china laid for ages to refine, And make her body, like the foul, divine.

Unmingled may the fragrant duft remain, No common earth the facred fweets profane; But let her urn preserve its virgin store, Chafte and unfully'd as fhe liv'd before!

TO MYRA;

WRITTEN IN HER CLEOPATRA,

HERE, lovely Myra, you behold
The wonders beauty wrought of old,
In every mournful page appears
Whilft thefe feign'd tragic tales you view,
The nymph's disdain, and lover's tears.
Fondly you weep, and think them true;
Lament the hero's flighted flame,
Yet praife the fair ungrateful dame.

But rather heal the wounds you give;
For youths unknown no longer grieve,
The flaves your eyes have ruin'd, mourn,
And pity flames with which your lovers burn,
Oh, hadst thou liv'd in former days,
Thus fame had fung lov'd Myra's praise :
The triumphs of thy haughty reign,
Thy matchlefs form and cold difdain :
Thy beauties had remain'd as long
The theme of every poet's fong:
Then Myra's conquefts had been wrote,
And Cleopatra died forgot.

ADVICE TO A LOVER

For many unfuccefsful years,
At Cynthia's feet I lay ;

Battering them often with my tears,

I figh'd, but durft not pray.
No proftrate wretch, before the shrine
Of fame lov'd faint above,
E'er thought his goddess more divine,
Or paid more awful love.

Still the difdainful nymph look'd down
With coy infulting pride;
Receiv'd my paffion with a frown,

Or turn'd her head aside.
Then Cupid whifper'd in my ear,
"Ufe more prevailing charms;
You modest whining fool, draw near,
And clasp her in your arms.
With eager kiffes tempt the maid,
From Cynthia's feet depart;
The lips he brifkly muft invade,

That would poffef, the heart." With that I fhook off all the flave, My better fortunes tried; When Cynthia in a moment gave What the for years denied.

ON THE

CONQUEST OF NAMUR.

A PINDARIC ODE.

Humbly infcribed to his moft Sacred and Victorious Majefty. 1695

ONCE more, my mufe, refume thy lyre!

Of heroes, arms, and lofty triumphs fing: Strike, boldly ftrike th' unpractis'd string; 'Tis William's acts my foaring thoughts infpire, And animate my breaft with nobler fire. My daring hand the willing lyre obeys,

Untaught it founds the hero's praife: Each tuneful ftring repeats the victor's name, And echoes back the loud applause of fame.

No longer, mufe, the bleft Maria mourn, With trophies now her brighter fhrine adorn: Now fing her hero's fame in lofty strains, Worthy the captive Male, and Namur's vanquifh'd plains.

Nature ne'er brought a fierce destroyer forth, Of that portentous fize and growth : But ftill, to poize the balance of the age, She introduc'd a hero on the stage. Injurious Lewis like a torrent grows, A rapid torrent that the bank o'erflows, And robs our western world of its repofe; In vain th' imperial eagle tops his courfe,

In vain confederate arms oppofe:

On you (great prince!) th' infefted nations wait, And from your fword attend a milder fate. 'The injur'd Belgians William's aid implore, A numerous army wastes their fhore: Embark, my mufe, upon the British fleet, And on the ready hero wait. He flies, like Jove, to meet the Theban dame, When arm'd with lightning's pointed flame, And in his hand th' avenging thunder bore: The terror of his enfigns ftill confefs his power.

Quick of dispatch, preventing fear, As cowards cautious, bolder than despair: Silent, yet fwift as light, his active foul Reaches at once the barriers and the diftant goal. What labour will the hero choofe!

What action worthy of a muse!

T'employ the hundred bufy tongues of fame, And make her hundred mouths too few to found his name.

Namur's the goal in honour's race, Tempting the prize, but fatal is the chafe : At once a lovely and amazing fight, Striking the eye with terror and delight. Founded on rocks th' imperial fortress stands, And all around the diftant plain commands : Beauty and ftrength their utmost force impart, 'Tis wrought by nature, and improv'd with art; An awful pile! immoveable as fate,

Fix'd like the folid rock that proudly bears its weight.

A thousand brazen mouths the walls furround, That vomit flames, with fatal fury wound : Death shines with terror through each smoking

cloud,

Like lightning fwift, and as the thunder loud,

Not the fam'd Colchean fleece could boast
So dread a guard, fo terrible an host:
Naffau attempts a nobler enterprise,

The danger's more, and richer is the prize; Alone his arms can fuch a power engage, Destroy with fiercer flames, and thunder back their rage.

Why are the rapid Sambre's ftreams fo flow!
The tardy Mafe forgets to flow

Their lagging waves upon the turrets gaze,
Proud to reflect their Namur's awful face;

Whilst to th' astonish'd fhores they tell,
Those wondrous walls are inacceffible.

The lofty Ilion towers for beauty fam'd,
And sacred walls, though rais'd by hands divine,
Though mercenary gods her turrets fram'd,
In ftrength and form inferior were to thine;
Walls, that nor Grecian arms; nor arts could
gain,

And the divine Achilles form'd in vain.
Your greater arms, Naffau were then unknown,
Where'er your bellowing engines flake,
Where'er your more deftructive bombs are
thrown,

Nature and art in vain refistance make, Nor durft the powers that built defend their fhatter'd town.

Two rival armies now poffefs the field,
In all the horrid pomp of war:
With fhining arms and brighter heroes far,
Though both with different looks, and different
paffions fill'd.

Betwixt both hosts the stake of honour lies,
The object that employs their eyes,
arms and
How to defend, or how to gain the prize.

The Britons are a warlike race,

In arms expert, and fam'd for arts in peace: Your matchlefs deeds, Naffàu, they imitate, Like you they death purfue, and rush on certain fate. 3 C iiij

Not all the bellowing engines of the war, Amidst the storm can British minds affright:

Nor fulphur's blafting flames deter,

That glare through clouds of smoke with horrid light;

Though bullets there defcend in fcalding showers, And those the cannon fpare, the ambush'd flame devours.

In fatal caverns now the teeming earth

Labours with a destructive birth:

The loud volcanos ftretch their flaming jaws,
And every dreadful blast a host destroys;
This wreck of war the upper regions share,
Whilft arms, and men, and rocks lie fcatter'd in
the air.

Yet death in every form the Britons face,
And march with an undaunted pace:
Their faithlefs fteps to various ruins lead,
They walk in fepulchres, on graves they tread;
Whilft rocks and mountains rooted from the
[wound.

ground,

Inter the hosts they flay, are tombs to those they

With horrid groans diftorted nature's rent,
Loud as the peals that fhake the firmament :
Whilst roaring ordnance confirm the found,
And mimic thunder bellows under ground.

Thus on Trinacria's mournful fhores,
With ruin big the raging Ærna roars:
The rifing smoke obfcures the darken'd sky,
Whilft high as heaven its flaming entrails fly;
Mountains and rocks its fury hurls around,
Spreading with ruins o'er the defolate ground.

Whence fpring those flowing rays of light! That pierce through war's obfcurer night? Or does the fuppliant flag difplay` Its cheerful beams of white? See like the phofphorus of peace, The fhades retire before thofe facred rays, Which introduce the bright victorious day. The trumpet's interceding voice I hear, Now foft and tun'd unto the ear:

The drums in gentler parlees beat, The drums and trumpets both entreat; Whilft war's alarms are charm'd with mufic's voice,

And all the bloody fcene of death withdraws. Fam'd Boufflers felf confents to fear, Even Boufflers dreads the British thunderer: He fues for mercy whilft he feels his power, And with a trembling hand fubfcribes him conqueror.

1.

And here your worthies fhall your triumphs grace,

In war you guard, your ornaments in peace:
Heroes are William's and the muse's care,
Partake their labours, and their laurels fhare.
Let willing fame her trumpet found,
Great Ormond's name fhall all her breath em-
ploy,

And fill the echoing fhores with joy : Whilft each officious wind conveys the found, And wafts it all th' attentive world around.

In bloody camps he early gain'd renown,
Early the diftant goal of honour won:
What toils, what labours has the hero bore!
Not the fam'd Offory encounter'd more :
Of whom the Belgic plains fuch wonders tell,
Who liv'd fo lov'd, and fo lamented fell.

Triumphant prince! thou patron of the
mufe,
[views:
Unweary'd thee fhe fings, thy acts with wonder
Renown'd in war thy Rhedecina's pride!
Thou dost o'er wit, and glorious camps prefide
To thee the care of arms and arts belong,
Whose fame fhall live to ages in heroic fong.
For all thy victories in war,

You, valiant Cutts, th' officious mufes crown, For you triumphant wreaths prepare, Immortal as your fame, and fair as your renown. Well did you execute your great command, And fcatter deaths with a destructive hand: What wonders did your fword perform, When urging on the fatal ftorm,

Undaunted, undismay'd!

Up to the walls enclos'd with flames you led, And overlook'd the works on mighty heaps of dead.

If you the hero and the poet meet,

Your fword is fatal, but your numbers fweet. When in Maria's praise your lyre was ftrung, You charm'd the heavenly nymph to whom you fung.

Oh honour! more than all thy bays, Than all the trophies fame and conquest raise, To 've charm'd Maria's breaft, and gain'd Maria's praife.

Indulge one grateful labour more, my muse, A fubject friendship bids thee chouse : Let Codrington's lov'd name infpire thy thought, With such a warmth and vigour as he fought: In vain thou doft of arms and triumphs fing, Unless he crown thy verle, and tune thy founding ftring.

In

Victorious youth! your Charwell's greatest pride, Whom glorious arms, and learned arts divide: Whilft imitating great Naffau you fight, His perfon guard, and conquer in his fight : Too fwift for fame your early triumphs grow, And groves of laurel fhade your youthful brow. you the mufes and the graces join, The glorious palm, and dea:hlefs laurels thine: Like Phoebus felf your charming mufe hath fyng, [ftrung. Like his your warlike bow and tuneful lyre is But who, fam'd William's valour dares express, No mufe can' foar so high, nor fancy paint, Each image will appear too faint: Too weak 's the pencil's art, and all the pow'r

His cheerful looks a gayer drefs put on,

His eyes with decent fury fhone: Dangers but ferv'd to heighten every grace, And add an awful terror to the hero's face.

Where'er in arms the great Naffau appears,
Th' extreme of action's there:
Himself the thickeft danger fhares,
Himself th' informing foul that animates the war.
Heroes of old in wondrous armour fought,

By fome immortal artist wrought:
Achilles' arms, and Ajax' feven-fold fhield,
Were proof against the dangers of the field.
But greater William dares his breast expose

Unarm'd, unguarded to his foes :

A thousand deaths and ruins round him fled, But durft not violate his facred head; For angels guard the prince's life and throne, Who for his empire's fafety thus neglects his own. Had he in ages paft the fceptre fway'd, When facred rites were unto heroes paid; His ftatue had on every altar ftood, His court a temple been, his greater self a god.

Now tune thy lyre, my mufe, now raise thy voice,

Let Albion hear, her diftant fhores rejoice:
Thy solèmn Pæans now prepare,
Sweet as the hymns that fill'd the air,

When Phoebus' felf return'd the Python's con

queror.

When every grove, with a triumphant song, Confefs'd the victor as he pafs'd along : Whilft with the trophies every hill was crown'd, And every echoing vale difpers'd his fame around As loud the Britifh fhores their voices raise, And thus united fing the godlike William's prais What the fam'd Merlin's facred verfe of old, And Noftradam's prophetic lines foretold; To thee, oh happy Albion, 's fhown, And, in Nassau, the promise is out-done. Behold a prince indulgent heaven has fent, Thy boundless wishes to content :

A prophet great indeed, whose powerful hand Shall vanquish hofts of plagues, and heal the groaning land.

The great Naffau now leads thy armies forth, And shows the world the British worth Beneath his conduct they fecurely fight, Their cloud by day, their guardian flame by night His bounty too fhall every bard inspire, Reward their labours, and protect their lyre; For poets are to warlike princes dear,

And they are valiant William's care: His victories inftru&t them how to write, William's the glorious theme and patron of theit wit.

ESOP TO THE KING.

Vi
ICTORIOUS prince! form'd for fupreme com-
mand,

Worthy the empire of the feas and land!
Whilft impious faction fwells with native pride,
Parties diftract the ftate, and church divide!
And fenfeless libels, with audacious style,
Infult thy fenate, and thy power revile !
Vouchsafe to hear th' admired truths of old,
Which birds and beafts in fportive tales unfold;
To curb the infolent, advance the good,
And quell the tagings of the multitude.
O fam'd for arms, and matchlefs in renown!
Permit old fop to approach thy throne:
To you the labours of his mufe belong;
Accept the humble, but inftructive fung.

FABLE I.

THE RIVER AND THE FOUNTAINS,

A RIVER, infolent with pride,
The fountain and its springs defied;

That fountain, from whose watery bed
Th' ungrateful flood was daily fed.

And thus the rabble waves began:
"We're the delight of gods and man!
How charming do our banks appear!
How fwift the stream, the flood how clear!

"See how, by nature's bounty firong,
We whirl our legion waves along >>
In soft meanders winding play,
And glitter in the face of day.

"But thou, poor fountain, filly foul!**
Thy head abfconding in a hole,
Run'ft meddling on from place to place,
Afham'd to show thy dirty face;
In rocks and gloomy caverns found,
Thou creep'it inglorious under ground :
hear? henceforth your lords obey!
We the grand waves affume the sway."

D' you

"Well, angry firs, the fountain cry'd, And how's your ftreams to be supply'd? Ye fenfelefs fools, that would command, Should I withdraw my bounteous hand,

1

Or backward turn my watery store,
That hour you'd ceafe, and be no more.
Go ask that bluftering fop the wind,
That puts this whimfy in your mind,
And makes your factious furges rife,
If he'll recruit you with fupplies.

"And when to native mud you turn,
Such as a common-fewer would fcorn,
Too late you'll curfe this frantic w him,
When carriers' fteeds fhall pifs a nobler ftream.

THE MORAL.

Unhappy Britain! I deplore thy fate, When juries pack'd, and brib'd, infult thy ftate : Like waves tumultuous, infolently wife, They tutor kings, and fenators advise; Whilft old republicans direct the ftream,

Not France and Rome, but monarch's their aim :

Fools rode by knaves! and paid as they deferve, Defpis'd whilft us'd! then left to hang or ftarve.

FABLE II.

THE LION'S TREATY OF PARTITION.

A MIGHTY lion heretofore,
Of monftrous paws and dreadful roar,
Was bent upon a chase:
Inviting friends and near allies
Frankly to share the sport and prize,
During the hunting-fpace.

The lynx and royal panther came,
The boar and wolf of Wolfingham,
The articles were thefe :

Share and fhare like, whate'er they got,
The dividend upon the fpot,

And fo depart in peace.

A royal hart, delicious meat!
Detin'd by inauspicious fate,

Was ftarted for the game:

The hunters run him one and all,
The chafe was long, and, at the fall,
Each enter'd with his claim.

One lov'd a haunch, and one a fide,
This ate it powder'd, t' other dried,
Each for his share alone :

Old grey beard then began to roar,
The whiskers twirl'd bully'd, and swore,
The hart was all his own.

"And thus I prove my title good;
My friend deceas'd fprung from our blood,
Half's mine as we're ally'd:
My valour claims the other part;
In short I love a hunted hart:
And who dares now divide?"

The bilk'd confederates they ftare,
And cry'd, " old gentleman, deal fair,
For once be just and true."
Quoth he, and, looking wondrous grum,
of Behold my paws, the word is mum;
And fo, meffieurs, adieu!"

THE MORAL.

Tyrants can only be reftrain'd by might,
Power's their confcience, and the sword their right:
Allies they court, to compass private ends,
But at the dividend difclaim their friends.
Yet boaft not, France, of thy fuccefsful fraud,
Maintain'd by blood, a torment whilft enjoy'd:
Imperial Cæfar drives the form along,
And Naffau's arms avenge the public wrong.

FABLE III.

THE BLIND WOMAN AND HER DOCTORS.

A WEALTHY matron, now grown old,
Was weak in every part:
Afflicted fore with rheums and cold,
Yet pretty found at heart.

But most her eyes began to fail,
Depriv'd of needful light:
Nor could her fpectacles avail,
To rectify their fight.

Receipts the try'd, fhe doctors fee'd,
And spar'd for no advice

Of men of fkill, or quacks for need
That practife on fore eyes.

Salves they daub'd on, and plaifters both,
And this, and that was done :

Then flannels, and a forehead-cloth,
To bind and keep them on.

Her house, though fmall, was furnish'd neat,
And every room did shine

With pictures, tapestry, and plate,

All rich, and wondrous fine.

Whilft they kept blind the filly foul,

Their hands found work enough!
They pilfer'd plate, and goods they stole,
Till all was carry'd off.

When they undam'd their patient's eyes,
And now pray how's your fight:
Cries t' other. this was my advice,
I knew 't would fet you right.

Like a fuck pig the woman ftar'd,
And up and down fhe run:

With naked houfe and walls quite fcar'd,
She found herself undone.

"Doctors, quoth fhe, your cure's my pain,
For what are eyes to me :
Bring falves and forehead-cloths again,
I've nothing left to fee."

THE MORAL.

See, injur'd Britain, thy unhappy cafe,
Thou patient with diftemper'd eyes:
State-quacks but nourish the disease,
And thrive by treacherous advice,
If fond of the expensive pain,

When eighteen millions run on score:
Let them clap mufflers on again,
And phyfic thee of eighteen more.