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ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN ANNE...THE INSTALMENT.

And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore,
Became our title to the regal store.

Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot,
And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit.

Ye numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd,
When first the dreadful blast of fame arriv'd,
Say what a shock, what agonies you felt,
How did your souls with tender anguish melt!
That grief which living Anna's love suppress'd,
Shook like a tempest every grateful breast.
A second fate our sinking fortunes tried!
A second time our tender parents died!
Heroes returning from the field we crown,
And deify the haughty victor's frown.
His splendid wealth too rashly we admire,
Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire:
Wisely to spend, is the great art of gain;
And one reliev'd transcends a million slain.
When time shall ask, where once Ramillia lay,
Or Danube flow'd that swept whole troops away,
One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry,
Shall rise a fountain of eternal joy.

But ah! to that unknown and distant date
Is virtue's great reward push'd off by fate;
Here random shafts in every breast are found,
Virtue and merit but provoke the wound.
August in native worth and regal state,
Anna sate arbitress of Europe's fate;
To distant realms did every accent fly,
And nations watch'd each motion of her eye.
Silent, nor longer awful to be seen,
How small a spot contains the mighty queen!
No throng of suppliant princes mark the place,
Where Britain's greatness is compos'd in peace:
The broken earth is scarce discern'd to rise,
And a stone tells us where the monarch lies.
Thus end maturest honours of the crown!
This is the last conclusion of renown!

So when with idle skill the wanton boy
Breathes through his tube; he sees, with eager joy,
The trembling bubble, in its rising small;
And by degrees expands the glittering ball.
But when, to full perfection blown, it flies
High in the air, and shrines in various dyes,
The little monarch, with a falling tear,
Sees his world burst at once, and disappear.
'Tis not in sorrow to reverse our doom,
No groans unlock th' inexorable tomb!
Why then this fond indulgence of our woe!
What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow!
Yes, this advantage; from our deep distress
We learn how much in George the gods can bless.
Had a less glorious princess left the throne,
But half the hero had at first been shown:
An Anna falling all the king employs,
To vindicate from guilt our rising joys:
Our joys arise and innocently shine,
Auspicious monarch! what a praise is thine!
Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne!
Nor let thy country think thee all her own.
Of thy delay how oft did we complain!
Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main.
With prayer we smooth the billows for thy fleet;
With ardent wishes fill thy swelling sheet;
And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore,
We bending bless'd the Gods, and ask'd no more.
What hand but thine should conquer and compose,
Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes?
Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim,
And by his rival's greatness give him fame?

Now in some foreign court he may sit down,
And quit without a blush the British crown.
Secure his honour, though he lose his store,
And take a lucky moment to be poor.

507

Nor think, great sir, now first, at this late hour,
In Britain's favour, you exert your power;
To us, far back in time, I joy to trace
The numerous tokens of your princely grace.
Whether you chose to thunder on the Rhine,
Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine;
In the more scenes your genius was display'd,
The greater debt was on Britannia laid:
They all conspir'd this mighty man to raise,
And your new subjects proudly share the praise.
All share; but may not we have leave to boast
That we contemplate, and enjoy it most?
This antient nurse of arts, indaig'd by fate
On gentle Isis' bank, a calin retreat;
For many rolling ages justly fam'd,
Has through the world her loyalty proclaim'd;
And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!)
Her blood and treasure to support the throne!
For England's church her latest accents strain'd;
And freedom with his dying hand retain'd.
No wonder then her various ranks agree
In all the fervencies of zeal for thee.

What though thy birth a distant kingdom boast,
And seas divide thee from the British coast?
The crown's impatient to enclose thy head:
Why stay thy feet? the cloth of gold is spread.
Our strict obedience through the world shall tell
That king's a Briton, who can govern well!

THE INSTALMENT.

ΤΟ

THE RIGHT HON. SIR ROBERT WALPOLE,

KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER.

Quæsitam Merit s.

HOR.

WITH invocations some their breasts inflame;
I need no Muse, a Walpole is my theme.
Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise!
Our morning stars! our boast in former days!
Which hovering o'er. your purple wings display,
Lur'd by the pomp of this distinguish'd day,
Stoop, and attend: by one, the knee be bound;
One, throw the mantle's crimson folds around;
By that, the sword on his proud thigh be plac'd;
This, clasp the diamond-girdle round his waist;
His breast, with rays, let just Godolphin spread;
Wise Burleigh plant the plumage on his head;
And Edward own, since first he fix'd the race,
None press'd fair glory with a swifter pace.
When fate would call some mighty genius forth
To wake a drooping age to gollike worth,
Or aid some favourite king's illustrious toil,
It bids his blood with generous ardour boil;
His blood, from virtue's celebrated source,
Pour'd down the steep of time, a lengthen'd course;
That men prepar'd may just attention pay,
Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day,
When all the scatter'd merits of his line
Collected to a point, intensely shine.

See, Britain, see thy Walpole shine from far,
His azure ribbon, and his radiant star;
A star that, with auspicious beams, shall guide
Thy vessel safe, through fortune's roughest tide.

If peace still smiles, by this shall commerce steer A finish'd course, in triumph round the sphere; And, gathering tribute from each distant shore, In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour.

If war's ordain'd, this star shall dart its beams Through that black cloud which rising from the Thames,

With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is sent
To claim the seas, and awe the continent.
This shall direct it where the bolt to throw,
A star for us, a comet to the foe.

At this the Muse shall kindle, and aspire: My breast, O Walpole, glows with grateful fire. The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee, Refresh the dry domains of poesy.

My fortune shows, when arts are Walpole's care,
What slender worth forbids us to despair:
Be this thy partial smile from censure free;
"I was meant for merit, though it fell on me.
Since Brunswick's smile has authoris'd my Muse,
Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views.
False praises are the whoredoms of the pen,
Which prostitute fair fame to worthless men:
This profanation of celestial fire

Makes fools despise, what wise men should admire.

Let those I praise to distant times be known,
Not by their author's merit, but their own.
If others think the task is hard, to weed
From verse rank flattery's vivacious seed,
And rooted deep; one means must set them free,
Patron! and patriot! let them sing of thee.

While vulgar trees ignobler honours wear,
Nor those retain, when winter chills the year;
The generous Orange, favourite of the Sun,
With vigorous charms can through the seasons
runs

Defies the storm with her tenacious green;
And flowers and fruits in rival pomp are seen :
Where blossoms fall, still fairer blossoms spring;
And midst their sweets the feather'd.poets sing.
On Walpole, thus, may pleas'd Britannia view
At once her ornament and profit too;
The fruit of service, and the bloom of fame,
Matur'd, and gilded by the royal beam.
He, when the nipping blasts of envy rise,
Its guilt can pity, and its rage despise;
Lets fall no honours, but, securely great,
Unfaded holds the colour of his fate:

No winter knows, though ruffling factions press;
By wisdom deeply rooted in success;
One glory shed, a brighter is display'd';
And the charm'd Muses shelter in his shade.
O how I long, enkindled by the theme,

In deep eternity to lanch thy name!
Thy name in view, no rights of verse I plead,
But what chaste Truth indites, old Time shall read.
"Behold! a man of ancient faith and blood,
Which, soon, beat high for arts, and public good;
Whose glory great, but natural appears,
The genuine growth of services and years;
No sudden exhalation drawn on high,
And fondly gilt by partial majesty:
One bearing greatest toils with greatest ease,
One born to serve us, and yet born to please:
Whom, while our rights in equal scales he lays,
The prince may trust, and yet the people praise;

Knight of the Bath, and then of the Garter,

His genius ardent, yet his judgment clear,
His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere,
His counsel guides, his temper cheers our isle,
And, smiling, gives three kingdoms cause to smile.”
Joy then to Britain, blest with such a son,
To Walpole joy, by whom the prize is won;
Who nobly-conscious meets the smiles of fate;
True greatness lies in daring to be great.
Let dastard souls, or affectation, run
To shades, nor wear bright honours fairly won;
Such men prefer, misled by false applause,
The pride of modesty to virtue's cause.
Honours, which make the face of virtue fair,
'Tis great to merit, and 't is wise to wear;
'Tis holding up the prize to public view,
Confirms grown virtue, and inflames the new;
Heightens the lustre of our age and clime,
And sheds rich seeds of worth for future time.
Proud chiefs alone, in fields of slaughter fam'd,
Of old, this azure bloom of glory claim'd,
As when stern Ajax pour'd a purple flood,
The violet rose, fair daughter of his blood.
Now rival wisdom dares the wreath divide,
And both Minervas rise in equal pride;
Proclaiming loud, a monarch fills the throne,
Who shines illustrious not in wars alone.

Let fame look lovely in Britannia's eyes;
They coldly court desert, who fame despise.
For what's ambition, but fair virtue's sail?
And what applause, but her propitious gale?
When swell'd with that, she fleets before the wind
To glorious aims, as to the port design'd;
When chain'd, without it, to the labouring oar,
She toils she pants! nor gains the flying shore,
From her sublime pursuits, or turn'd aside
By blasts of envy, or by fortune's tide :
For one that has succeeded ten are lost,
Of equal talents, ere they make the coast.

Then let renown to worth divine incite,
With all her beams, but throw those beams aright.
Then merit droops, and genius downward tends,
When godlike glory, like our land, descends.
Custom the garter long confin'd to few,
And gave to birth, exalted virtue's due:
Walpole has thrown the proud enclosure down;
And high desert embraces fair renown.
Though rival'd, let the peerage smiling see
(Smiling, in justice to their own degree,)
This proud reward by majesty bestow'd

On worth like that whence first the peerage flow'd.
From frowns of fate Britannia's bliss'd to guard,
Let subjects merit, and let kings reward.
Gods are most gods by giving to excel,
And kings most like them, by rewarding well.
Though strong the twanging nerve, and drawn
aright,

Short is the winged arrow's upward flight;
But if an eagle it transfix on high,
Lodg'd in the wound, it soars into the sky.

Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays,
And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise;
Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame,
Not lifted by my genius, but my theme.

No more for in this dread suspense of fate, Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate Weigh peace and war, now Europe's eyes are bent

On mighty Brunswick, for the great event,
Brunswick of kings the terrour or defence!
Who dares detain thee at a world's expense >

AN EPISTLE.

TO THE

RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

MDCCXII.

-Parnassia laurus

Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra. VIRG.

WHEN Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone,
And great Augustus rul'd the globe alone,
While suppliant kings in all their pomp and state,
Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace gate;
Horace did oft the mighty man detain,
And sooth'd his breast with no ignoble strain;
Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string;
And taught the Roman genius how to sing.

Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue,
Who know no want of Cæsar, finding you;
The Muse's friend is pleas'd the Muse should press
Through circling crowds, and labour for access,
That partial to his darling he may prove,
And shining throngs for her reproach remove,
To all the world industrious to proclaim
His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame.
Long has the western world reclin'd her head,
Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead;
Fell discord through her borders fiercely rang'd,
And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang'd;
By land and sea its utmost rage employ'd;
Nor Heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd.

In vain kind summers plenteous fields bestow'd, In vain the vintage liberally flow'd; Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chas'd, And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste; The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring, The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring; Time was distinguish'd by the sword and spear, Not by the various aspects of the year; The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky, And bloodshed told us when the Sun was nigh. But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen, When such as you are near her glorious queen!) Now peace, though long repuls'd, arrives at last, And bids us smile on all our labours past; Bids every nation cease her wonted moan, And every monarch call his crown his own: To valour gentler virtues now succeed; No longer is the great man born to bleed; Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle shall tell,* Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell: Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame, And without trembling we resound his naine.

[flows;

No more the rising harvest whets the sword, No longer waves uncertain of its lord; Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim, Nor chance of battle change the master's name. Each stream unstain'd with blood more smoothly The brighter Sun a fuller day bestows; All Nature seems to wear a cheerful face, And thank great Anna for returning peace. The patient thus, when on his bed of pain, No longer he invokes the godsin vain, But rises to new life; in every field He finds Elysium, rivers nectar yield; Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please, And borrow beauties from his late discase.

Nor is it peace alone, but such a peace, As more than bids the rage of battle cease.

Death may determine war, and rest succeed,
'Cause nought survives on which our rage may feed:
In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes,
And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose.
See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance,
Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France;
So well receiv'd, so welcome, so at home,
(Blest change of fate) in Bourbon's stately dome;
The monarch pleas'd, descending from his throne,
Will not that Anna call him all her own;
He claims a part, and looking round to find
Something might speak the fulness of his mind,
A diamond shines, which oft had touch'd him near,
Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear;
Now first with joy beheld, well plac'd on one,
Who makes him less regret his darling son;
So dear is Anna's minister, so great,
Your glorious friend in his own private state.
To make our nations longer two, in vain
Does Nature interpose the raging main:
The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows,
For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows:
From conflicts pass'd each other's worth we find,
And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd;
Each wound receiv'd, now pleads the cause of love,
And former injuries endearments prove.
What Briton but must prize th' illustrious sword,
That cause of fear to Churchill could afford?
Who sworn to Bourbon's sceptre, but must frame
Vast thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard
Thus generous hatred in affection ends, [tame?
And war, which rais'd the foes, completes the friends.
A thousand happy consequences flow
(The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow);
Commerce shall lift her swelling sails, and roll
Her wealthy fleets secure from pole to pole;
The British merchant, who with care and pain
For many moons sees only skies and main;
When now in view of his lov'd native shore,
The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er,
Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find,
Nor curse the mercy of the sea and wind;
By hardest fate condemn'd to serve a foe,
And give him strength to strike a deeper blow.
Sweet Philomela providently flies

To distant woods and streams, for such supplies,
To feed her young, and make them try the wing,
And with their tender notes attempt to sing:
Mean while, the fowler spreads his secret snare,
And renders vain the tuneful mother's care.
Britannia's bold adventurer of late,
The foaming ocean plow'd with equal fate.

Goodness is greatness in its utmost height,
And power a curse, if not a friend to right:
To conquer is to make dissension cease,
That man may serve the King of kings in peace.
Religion now shall all her rays dispease,
And shine abroad in perfect excellence;
Else we may dread some greater curse at hand,
To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land:
Now war is weary, and retir'd to rest;
The meagre famine, and the spotted pest,
Deputed in her stead, may blast the day,
And sweep the relics of the sword away.

When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne, Jove in the fulness of his glory shone; Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword, Was born to raise a temple to the Lord. Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle,

Those mighty souls, whom military care
Diverted from their only great affair,
Shall bend their full united force, to bless
Th' almighty Author of their late success.
And what is all the world subdued to this?
The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss;
But there are conquests to great Anna known,
Above the splendour of an carthly throne;
Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within
The scanty bounds of matter to begin;
Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run
Beyond this darkness of the stars and Sun.
And shall whole ages past be still, stili but begun.
Heroic shades! whom war has swept away,
Look down, and smile on this auspicious day:
Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell,
Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell;

Then deep into eternity retire,

Of greater things than peace or war inquire;
Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know
What farther passes in the world below.

[blood

The bravest of mankind shall now have leave
To die but once, ner piece-meal seek the grave:
On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet
Sad melancholy numbers in each street
(Owners of bones dispers'd on Flandria's plain,
Or wasting in the bottom of the main);
To turn us back from joy, in tender fear,
Lest it an insult of their woes appear,
And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their
Perhaps preserv'd, who starve, or beg for food.
Devotion shall run pure, and disengage
From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage.
On Heaven without a sin we now may call,
And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall;
Be Christians while we pray, nor in one breath
Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death.

But O! I view with transport arts restor'd,
Which double use to Britain shall afford;
Secure her glory purchas'd in the field,
And yet for future peace sweet motives vie'd:
While we contemplate on the painted wall,
The pressing Briton, and the flying Gaul,
In such bright images, such living grace,
As leave great Rapbac] but the second place;
Our checks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise,
And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes;
Much we shall triumph in our battles past,
And yet consent those battles prove our last;
Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive,
We lose the means to keep that fame alive.

In silent groves the birds delight to sing,
Or near the margin of a secret spring:
Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve,
Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.

But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string,

Or breathing canvass, when the Muses sing?
The Muse, my lord, your care above the rest,
With rising joy dilates my partial breast;
The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar,
Ere Greece her godlike poets taught to soar;
Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead,
And all her warlike neighbours round her bled;
For Janus shut, her 13 Peans rung,
Before an Ovid er a Vigil sung.

A thousand various forms the Muse may wear,
(A thousand various forms become the fair ;)
But shines in none with more majestic mien,
Than when in state she draws the purple scene;

Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage,
And mourning beauty melt the crowded stage;
Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use
The noblest virtues time did e'er produce;
Leaves fam'd historians' boasted art behind;
They keep the soul alone, and that's confin'd,
Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks:
The hero's presence detp impression makes;
The scenes his soul and body reunite,
Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight;
Make our contemporary him that stood
High in renown, perhaps before the flood;
Make Nestor to this age advice afford,
And Hector for our service draw his sword.
More glory to an author what can bring,
Whence nobler service to his country spring,
Than from those labours, which, in man's despight,
Possess him with a passion for the right ?
With honest magic make the knave inclin'd
To pay devotion to the virtuous mind;
Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove,
And with her wants and anguish fall in love?

Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan,
And does not wish the glorious pain his own?
Lend but your understanding, and their skill
Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will:
Nor is the short-liv'd conquest quickly past;
Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast.

How often have I seen the generous bowl With pleasing force unlock a secret soul, And steal a truth, which every sober hour (The prose of life) had kept within her power! The grape victorious often has prevail'd, When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, fail'd: Yet when the spirit's tumult was allay'd, She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd; But mourn'd too late, nor longer could deny, And on her own confession charge the lie.

Thus they, whom neither the prevailing love
Of goodness here, or mercy from above,
Or fear of future pains, or human laws
Could render advocates in virtue's cause,
Caught by the scene have unawares resign'd
Their wonted disposition of the mind:
By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale,
As circling glasses on our senses steal;
Till throughly by the Muses' banquet warm'd,
The passions tossing, all the soul alarm'd,
They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage,
Ilise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage,
Assistance to wrong'd innocence to bring,
Or turn the poiniard on some tyrant king.
How can they cool to villains? how subside
To dregs of vice, from such a godlike pride?
To spoiling orphans how to day return,
Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn?
In this gay school of virtue, whom so fit
To govern, and control the world of wit,

As Talbot, Lan-downe's friend, has Britain known?
Tum polish'd Italy has call'd her own;
He in the lap of elegance was bred,
And trac'd the Muses to their fountain head:
But mich we hope, he will enjoy at home
What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome.
Nor fear I mention of the court of France,
When I the British genius would advance;
There too has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste;
Yet still we dare invite him to our feast:
For Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress
Of Oroonoko, and presume him less:

What though we wrong him? Isabella's woe
Waters those bays that shall for ever grow.
Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse,
The drama glories in the British Muse.
The French are delicate, and nicely lead
Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread;
Our genius more affects the grand, than fine,

Our strength can make the great plain action shine:
They raise a great curiosity indeed,
From his dark maze to see the hero freed;
We rouse th' affections, and that hero show
Gasping beneath some formidable blow:
They sigh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care
We heighten into terrour and despair;

Strike home, the strongest passions boldly touch,
Nor fear our audience should be pleas'd too much.
What's great in Nature we can greatly draw,
Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law.
The fate of Cæsar is a tale too plain
The tickle Gallic taste to entertain;
Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove
The golden arras with gay flowers of love:

We know Heaven made him a far greater man
Than any Cæsar, in a human plan,
And such we draw him, nor are too refin'd,
To stand affected with what Heaven design'd.
To claim attention, and the heart invade,
Shakspeare but wrote the play th' Almighty made.
Our neighbour's stage-art too bare-fac'd betrays,
"T is great Corneille at every scene we praise;
On Nature's surer aid Britannia calls,
None think of Shakspeare till the curtain falls;
Then with a sigh returns our audience home,
From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome,
France yields not to the glory of our lines,
But manly conduct of our strong designs;
That oft they think more justly we must own,
Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown:
Greece thought but justly, they think justly too;
We sometimes err by striving more to do.
So well are Racine's meanest persons taught,
But change a sentiment, you make a fault;
Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame:
When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame.

And yet in Shakspeare some bing still I find,
That makes me less esteem all human-kind;
He made one nature, and another found,
Both in his page with master-strokes abound:
His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle,
Bid us no longer at our nurses smile;
Of lost historians we almost complain,
Nor think it the creation of his train.
Who lives, when his Othello's in a trance?
With his great Talbot1 too he conquer'd France.
Long we may hope brave Talbot's blood will run
In great descendauts, Shakspeare has but one;
And him, my lord, permit me not to name,
But in kind silence spare his rival's shame :-
Yet I in vain that author would suppress.
What can't be greater, cannot be made less:
Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim,
And to himself great Agamemnon name.
Should Shakspeare rise unbless'd with Talbot's
smile,

But if that reigning star propitious shine,
And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine;
Fen I, by far the meanest of your age,
Shall not repent my passion for the stage.
Thus did the will-almighty disallow,

No human force could pluck the golden bough,
Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command,
And spar'd the labour of the weakest hand.

Auspicious fate! that gives me leave to write
To you, the Muses' glory and delight;
Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise,
And mortify an author with your praise:
Praise wounds a noble mind, when 't is not due,
But censure's self will please, my lord, from you;
Faults are our pride and gain, when you descend
To point them out, and teach us how to mend.
What though the great man set his coffers wide,
That cannot gratify the poet's pride;
Whose inspiration, if 't is truly good,
Is best rewarded, when best understood.
The Muses write for glory, not for gold,
'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold:
The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves
To speak a sense of what the Muse deserves;
The Muse, which from her Lansdowne fears no

wrong,

Best judge, as well as subject, of her song.
Should this great theme allure me farther still,
And I presume to use your patience ill,
The world would plead my cause, and none but you
Will take disgust at what I now pursue:
Since what is mean my Muse can't raise, I'll choose
A theme that's able to exalt my Muse.

For who, not void of thought, can Granville name,
Without a spark of his immortal flame?
Whether we seek the patriot, or the friend,
Let Bolingbroke, let Anna recommend;
Whether we choose to love or to admire,
Yon melt the tender, and th' ambitious fire.
Such native graces without thought abound,
And such familiar glories spread around,
As more incline the stander-by to raise
His value for himself, than you to praise.
Thus you be friend the most heroic way,
Bless all, on none an obligation lay;
So turn'd by Nature's hand for all that's well,
'Tis scarce a virtue when you most excel.

Though sweet your presence, graceful is your
mien,

You to be happy want not to be seen;
Though priz'd in public, you can smile alone,
Nor court an approbation but your own:

In throngs, not conscious of those eyes that gaze
In wonder fix'd, though res lute to please;
You, were all blind, would still deserve applause;
The world's your glory's witness, not its cause;
That lies beyond the limits of the day,
Angels behold it, and their God obey.

You take delight in others' excellence;
A gift, which Nature rarely does dispense:
Of all that breathe 't is you, perhaps, alone
Would be well pleas'd to see yourself outdone.
You wish not those, who show your name re pect,
So little worth, as might excuse neglect;

E'en Shakspeare's self would curse this barren Nor are in pain lest merit you should know;

isle :

Nor shun the well-deserver as a foe;

A troublesome acquaintance, that will claim

1 An ancestor of the duke of Shrewsbury, who To be well us'd, or dye your cheek with shame. conquered France, drawn by Shakespeare.

YOUNG,

You wish your entry's good; that told so well Your power, are known, th' event I accd a, tell.

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