It on whole Countries ftands, and now
Land will be wanting for the Plow.
Those remnants too the Boors forfake,
Frith muft the Nations undertake.
As in a Plague the Fields fhall defart lye,
Whift all Men to the mighty Peft-house fly.

II.

If any Tree is to be seen,

'Tis Myrtle, Bays, and Ever-green;
Lime-trees, and Plane, for Pleasure made,
Which for their Fruit bear only Shade.
Such as do Female Men content,

With Ufelefs Shew and Barren Scent.
The British Oak will fhortly be as rare,
As Orange-trees here once, or Cedars were.

III.

Not by thefe Arts, my Mafters, fure,
Your Fathers did thofe Lands procure;
They preferr'd Use to empty Shew,
No foft'ning French Refinements knew.
Themselves, their Houfe, their Table, plain,
Noble, and richly clad their Train.

Temp'rance did Health without Phyficians keep,
And Labour crown'd hard Beds with eafie Sleep.
IV.

To th' Publick rich, in private poor,
Th' Exchequer held their greatest Store:
They did adorn their Native Place

With Structures, which their Heirs deface,

They in large Palaces did dwell,,

Which we to Undertakers fell.

Stately Cathedrals they did found,

Whofe Ruins now deform the Ground:

Churches

Churches and Colleges, endow'd with Lands,
Whose poor Remains fear Sacrilegious Hands.

ODE XVI.

By Mr. O TWA Y.

Otium Dives rogat, &c.

Printed in the First Mifcellany, Page 181.

IN Storms, when Clouds the Moon do hide,

I'

And no kind Stars the Pilot guide,
Shew me at Sea the Boldeft there,
Who does not wish for Quiet here.

For Quiet (Friend) the Soldier fights,
Bears weary Marches, Sleepless Nights;
For this feeds hard, and lodges cold.
Which can't be bought with Hills of Gold.

Since Wealth and Power too weak we find
To quell the Tumults of the Mind;

Or from the Monarch's Roofs of State,
Drive thence the Cares that round him wait:

Happy the Man with little bleft!
Of what his Father left, poffeft:
No bafe Defires corrupt his Head,
No Fears difturb him in his Bed.

What then in Life, which foon must end,
Can all our vain Designs intend?
From Shore to Shore why fhould we run,
When none his tiresome Self can fhun?

For

For baneful Care will ftill prevail,

And overtake us under Sail,

'Twill dodge the Great Man's Train behind,

Out-run the Roe, out-fly the Wind.

If then thy Soul rejoice to day,
Drive far to-Morrow's Cares away:
In Laughter let them all be drown'd:
No Perfect Good is to be found.

One Mortal feels Fate's fudden Blow, Another's ling'ring Death comes flow; And what of Life they take from thee, The Gods may give to punish me..

Thy Portion is a Wealthy Stock,
A Fertile Glebe, a Fruitful Flock,
Horfes and Chariots for thy Eafe,
Rich Robes to deck and make thee please..

For me a little Cell I chufe,

Fit for my Mind, fit for my Mufe;
Which foft Content does beft adorn,
Shunning the Knaves and Fools I fcorn

Then to the Gods the Seaman cries,

Wishing himself at Quiet here.
II.

For Peace the Soldier takes up Arms,
For Peace he boldly ventures Life:
For that he follows War's Alarms,

Hoping to gain by Toil and Strife,

III.

That Quiet and Content of Mind,
Which is not to be bought or fold;
Quiet, which none as yet cou'd find
In Heaps of Jewels or of Gold.
IV.

For neither can Wealth, Pow'r, or State
Of Courtiers, or of Guards the Rout,
Or gilded Roof, or brazen Gate,

The Troubles of the Mind keep out.

V.

That Man alone is happy here,

Whofe All will just himself maintain; His Sleep is not disturb'd with Fear,

Or broke with fordid Thirst of Gain.

vi.

Then why do we, fince Life's fo fhort,
Lay our Defigns for what's to come?
Why to another Air refort,

Forfaking this our native Home?

VII.

Trouble will at our Heels be ftill,

Swift as the Roe-Buck, or the Wind;

Twill follow us against our Will,
For none can leave himself behind.

I

VIII. What

VIII.

What does our Wand'ring then avail,
Care will not be forgot or loft;
'Twill reach us tho' we're under fail;
And find us on another Coaft.

IX.

Man, with his present State content,
Shou'd leave to Providence the reft:
Ufing the time well Heav'n has lent,
For no one's here entirely bleft.
X.

Achilles yielding foon to Fate

Was fnatch'd from off his mortal Stage,

Typhon enjoy'd a longer Date,

And labour'd under ling'ring Age.

XI.

So, if it pleafe the Fates, you may
Refign your Soul to fudden Death;
Whilft I, perhaps, behind must stay,
To breathe a longer share of Breath.
XII.

You round you daily do behald

Your thriving Flocks, and fruitful Land;
What bounteous Fortune has bestow'd
On you, with no Penurious Hand.

XIII.

A little Country Seat by Heaven

Is what's alotted unto me:
A Genius too the Gods have given,.
Not quite averfe to Poetry::
And a firm fteady Soul, that is above
Either the Vulgar's Hatred, or their Love.

ODE