Easy the conduct, simple the design,
Striking the moral, and the soul divine:
Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed;
O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your creed:
Thus virtue's seeds, at once, and laurel's, grow;
Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Despreau:
And when your genius exquisitely shines,
Live up to the full lustre of your lines:
Parts but expose those men who virtue quit ;
A fallen angel is a fallen wit;

And they plead Lucifer's detested cause,
Who for bare talents challenge our applause.
Would you restore just honours to the pen?
From able writers rise to worthy men. [strain?
"Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would re-
Who's this," they cry, "so vainly schools the vain?
Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete?
As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat?"
Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt,
And challenge all mankind to find one fault?
With huge examens overwhelm my page,
And darken reason with dogmatic rage?
As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme,
In prose a duller could excuse the crime?
Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing
Is gravely to harangue on what we sing.

At that tribunal stands the writing tribe,
Which nothing can intimidate or bribe,
Time is the judge; Time has nor friend nor foe;
False fame must wither, and the true will grow.
Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy;
For if I fall, by my own pen I die;
While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain,
To wound immortals, or to slay the slain.

Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread Of twenty pamphlets level'd at my head, Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain, Of recent form, to serve me this campaign! And safely hope to quit the dreadful field Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield; Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray Is all his might, and damns me-for a day. As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite, So war their quilis, when sons of dulness write.

As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides, Te grace old Ocean's court, in triumph rides, Though rich his source, he drains a thousand springs, Nor scorns the tribute each small rivulet brings.

So thou shalt, hence, absorb each feeble ray, Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day; Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse, Since no mean interest shall profane the Muse, No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend, Nor flattery taint the freedom of the friend.

When first a generous mind surveys the great, And views the crowds that on their fortune wait Pleas'd with the show (though little understood) He only seeks the power, to do the good; Thinks, till he tries, 't is godlike to dispose, And gratitude still springs, where bounty sows; That every grant sincere affection wins, And where our wants have end, our love begins: But those who long the paths of state have trod, Learn from the clamours of the murmuring crowd, Which cramm'd, yet craving still, their gates besiege,

'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige.

This of thy conduct seems the nicest part, The chief perfection of the statesman's art, To give to fair assent a fairer face,

Or soften a refusal into grace:

But few there are that can be truly kind,
Or know to fix their favours on the mind;
Hence, some, whene'er they would oblige, offend,
And while they make the fortune, lose the friend;
Still give, unthank'd; still squander, not hestow;
For great men want not, what to give, but how.

The race of men that follow courts, 't is true,
Think all they get, and more than all, their due;
Still ask, but ne'er consult their own deserts,
And measure by their interest, not their parts:
From this mistake so many men we see
But ill become the thing they wish'd to be;
Hence discontent, and fresh demands arise,
More power, more favour in the great man's eyes;
All feel a want, though none the cause suspects,
But hate their patron, for their own defects;
Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts,
And, when he gives them places, gives them parts.

As these o'erprize their worth, so sure the great May sell their favour at too dear a rate; When merit pines, while clamour is preferr'd, And long attachment waits among the herd; When no distinction, where distinction 's due, Marks from the many the superior few; When strong cabal constrains them to be just, And makes them give at last-because they must; What hopes that men of real worth should prize, What neither friendship gives, nor merit buys? The man who justly o'er the whole presides, His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides; Knows when to stop with grace, and when ad

vance,

Nor gives through importunity or chance;
But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd,
When favours are extorted, not bestow'd.
When, safe on shore ourselves, we see the crowd
Surround the great, importunate, and loud;
Through such a tumult, 'tis no easy task
To drive the man of real worth to ask:
Surrounded thus, and giddy with the show,
'Tis hard for great men, rightly to bestow;
From hence so few are skill'd, in either case,
To ask with dignity, or give with grace,

Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts, Consult our genius, and neglect our hearts; Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius flings, They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings, Mark out the flights by which themselves begun, And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun; Till we forget the hand that made us great, And grow to envy, not to emulate : To emulate, a generous warmth implies, To reach the virtues, that make great men rise; But envy wears a mean malignant face, And aims not at their virtues-but their place. Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence ! When every favour is a fresh offence, By which superior power is still imply'd, And, while it helps their fortune, hurts their pride. Slight is the hate, neglect or hardships breed; But those who hate from envy, hate indeed.

"Since so perplex'd the choice, whom shall we trust?"

Methinks I hear thee cry-The brave and just ;
The man by no mean fears or hopes control'd,
Who serves thee from affection, not for gold.

We love the honest, and esteem the brave,
Despise the coxcomb, but detest the knave;
No show of parts the truly wise seduce,
To think that knaves can be of real use.
The man,
who contradicts the public voice,
And strives to dignify a worthless choice,
Attempts a task that on that choice reflects,
And lends us light to point out new defects.
One worthless man, that gains what he pretends,
Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends:
And since no art can make a counterpass,
Or add the weight of gold to mimic brass,
When princes to bad ore their image join,
They more debase the stamp, than raise the coin.

Be thine the care, true merit to reward,
And gain the good-nor will that task be hard;
Souls form'd alike so quick by nature blend,
An honest man is more than half thy friend.

Him, no mean views, or haste to rise, shall

sway,

Thy choice to sully, or thy trust betray:
Ambition, here, shall at due distance stand;
Nor is wit dangerous in an honest hand:
Besides, if failings at the bottom lie,
We view those failings with a lover's eye;
Though small his genius, let him do his best,
Our wishes and belief supply the rest.

Let others barter servile faith for gold,
His friendship is not to be bought or sold:
Fierce opposition he, unmov'd, shall face,
Modest in favour, daring in disgrace,
To share thy adverse fate alone, pretend;
In power, a servant; out of power, a friend.
Here pour thy favours in an ample flood,
Indulge thy boundless thirst of doing good:
Nor think that good to him alone confin'd;
Such to oblige, is to oblige mankind.

If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace, The brave to cherish, and the good to grace; Long shalt thou stand from rage and faction free, And teach us long to love the king, through thee: Or fall a victim dangerous to the foe,

And make him tremble when he strikes the blow;
While honour, gratitude, affection join
To deck thy close, and brighten thy decline;
(Illustrious doom!) the great, when thus displac'd,
With friendship guarded, and with virtue grac'd,

In awful ruin, like Rome's senate, fall,
The prey and worship of the wondering Gaul.
No doubt, to genius some reward is due,
(Excluding that, were satirizing you ;)
But yet, believe thy undesigning friend,
When truth and genius for thy choice contend,
Though both have weight when in the balance cast,
Let probity be first, and parts the last.

On these foundations if thou dar'st be great,
And check the growth of folly and deceit ;
When party rage shall droop through length of days,
And calumny be ripen'd into praise,

Then future times shall to thy worth allow
That fame, which envy would call flattery now.
Thus far my zeal, though for the task unfit,
Has pointed out the rocks where others split;
By that inspir'd, though stranger to the Nine,
And negligent of any fame-but thine,
I take the friendly, but superfluous part;
You act from nature what I teach from art.

FROM man's too curious and impatient sight,
The future, Heaven involves in thickest night.
Credit gray hairs: though freedom much we boast,
Some least perform, what they determine most.
What sudden changes our resolves betray !
To morrow is a satire on to day,
And shows its weakness. Whom shall men believe,
When constantly themselves, themselves deceive?

Long bad I bid my once-lov'd Muse adieu;
You warm old age; my passion burns anew.
How sweet your verse! how great your force of mind!
What power of words! what skill in dark mankind!
Polite the conduct; generous the design;
And beauty files, and strength sustains, each line.
Thus Mars and Venus are, once more, beset;
Your wit has caught them in its golden net.

But what strikes home with most exalted grace
Is, haughty genius taught to know its place;
And, where worth shines, its humbled crest to bend,
With zeal devoted to that godlike end.
When we discern so rich a vein of sense,
Through the smooth flow of purest eloquence;
'Tis like the limpid streams of Tagus roll'd
O'er boundless wealth, o'er shining beds of gold.

But whence so finish'd, so refin'd a piece?
The tongue denies it to old Rome and Greece;
The genius bids the moderns doubt their claim,
And slowly take possession of the fame.
But I nor know, nor care, by whom 'twas writ,
Enough for me that 't is from human wit,
That sooths my pride: all glory in the pen
Which has done honour to the race of men.

But this have others done; a like applause
An ancient and a modern Horace draws'.
But they to glory by degrees arose,
Meridian lustre you at once disclose.

1 Boileau.

"T is continence of mind, unknown before,
To write so well, and yet to write no more.
More bright renown can human nature claim,
Than to deserve, and fly immortal fame ?

Next to the godlike praise of writing well,
Is on that praise with just delight to dwell.
O, for some God my drooping soul to raise !
That I might imitate, as well as praise;
For all commend: e'en foes your fame confess;
Nor would Augustus' age have priz'd it less;
An age, which had not held its pride so long,
But for the want of so complete a song.

A golden period shall from you commence : Peace shall be sign'd 'twixt wit and manly sense; Whether your genius or your rank they view, The Muses find their Halifax in you. Like him succeed! nor think my zeal is shown For you; 'tis Britain's interest, not your own; For lofty stations are but golden snares, Which tempt the great to fall in love with cares.

I would proceed, but age has chill'd my vein, 'Twas a short fever, and I'm cool again. Though life I hate, methinks I could renew Its tasteless, painful course, to sing of you. When such the subject, who shall curb his flight? When such your genius, who shall dare to write? In pure respect, I give my rhyming o'er, And, to commend you most, commend no more.

Adieu, whoe'er thou art! on death's pale coast Ere long I'll talk thee o'er with Dryden's ghost; The bard will smile. A last, a long farewell! Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell; There wait the friendly stroke that sets me free, And think of immortality and thee

My strains are number'd by the tuneful Nine; Each maid presents her thanks, and all present thee mine.

VERSES SENT BY LORD MELCOMBE
TO DOCTOR YOUNG,

NOT LONG BEFORE HIS LORDSHIP'S DEATH'.

KIND companion of my youth,
Lov'd for genius, worth, and truth!
Take what friendship can impart,
Tribute of a feeling heart;
Take the Muse's latest spark2,
Ere we drop into the dark.

He, who parts and virtue gave,
Bad thee look beyond the grave:
Genius soars, and virtue guides;
Above, the love of God presides.
There's a gulf 'twixt us and God;
Let the gloomy path be trod :
Why stand shivering on the shore?
Why not boldly venture o'er?
Where unerring virtue guides,
Let us have the winds and tides:
Safe, through seas of doubts and fears,
Rides the bark which Virtue steers.

1 A Poetical Epistle from the late lord Melcombe to the earl of Bute, with corrections by the author of the Night Thoughts, was published in 4to, 1776.

2 See Mr. Cust's Life of Young.

SEA-PIECE:

CONTAINING

I. THE BRITISH SAILOR'S EXULTATION. II. HIS PRAYER BEFORE ENGAGEMENT.

THE DEDICATION.

TO MR. VOLTAIRE.

My Muse, a bird of passage, flies
From frozen clime to milder skies;
From chilling blasts she seeks thy cheering beam,
A beam of favour, here denied ;
Conscious of faults, her blushing pride
Hopes an asylum in so great a name.

To dive full deep in ancient days',
The warriors' ardent deeds to raise,
And monarch's aggrandize ;-the glory, thine;
Thine is the drama, how renown'd!
Thine, epic's loftier trump to sound ;-
But let Arion's sea-strung harp be mine:

But where's his dolphin? Know'st thou, where?
May that be found in thee, Voltaire!
Save thou from harm my plunge into the wave:
How will thy name illustrious raise
My sinking song! Mere mortal lays,
So patronis'd, are rescued from the grave.

"Tell me," say'st thou, "who courts my smile? What stranger stray'd from yonder isle!" No stranger, sir! though born in foreign climes; On Dorset downs, when Milton's page, With Sin and Death, provok'd thy rage, Thy rage provok'd, who sooth'd with gentle rhymes ?

Who kindly couch'd thy censure's eye,
And gave thee clearly to descry

Sound judgment giving law to fancy strong?
Who half inclin'd thee to confess,

Nor could thy modesty do less,
That Milton's blindness lay not in his song?

But such debates long since are flown;
For ever set the suns that shone
On airy pastimes, ere our brows were grey:
How shortly shall we both forget,
To thee, my patron, I my debt,
And thou to thine for Prussia's golden key!

The present, in oblivion cast,

Full soon shall sleep, as sleeps the past; Full soon the wide distinction die between

The frowns and favours of the great; High flush'd success, and pale defeat; The Gallic gaiety, and British spleen.

Ye wing'd, ye rapid moments! stay!Oh friend! as deaf as rapid, they; Life's little drama done, the curtain falls Dost thou not hear it? I can hear, Though nothing strikes the listening ear ; Time groans his last! Eternal loudly calls! Nor calls in vain; the call inspires Far other counsels and desires, Than once prevail'd; we stand on higher ground; What scenes we see !-Exalted aim! With ardours new, our spirits flame; Ambition blest! with more than laurels crown'd.

'Annals of the emperor Charles XII, Lewis XIV.

ODE THE FIRST.

THE BRITISH SAILOR'S EXULTATION.
IN lofty sounds let those delight

Who brave the fee, but fear the fight;
And, bold in word, of arms decline the stroke:
'Tis mean to boast; but great to lend
To foes the counsel of a friend,
And warn them of the vengeance they provoke.

From whence arise these loud alarms?

Why gleams the south with brandish'd arms? War, bath'd in blood, from curst ambition springs: Ambition! mean, ignoble pride! Perhaps their ardours may subside, When weigh'd the wonders Britain's sailor sings.

Hear, and revere.-At Britain's nod, From each enchanted grove and wood Hastes the huge oak or shadeless forest leaves;

The mountain pines assume new forins,

Spread canvass-wings, and fly through storms, And ride o'er rocks, and dance on foaming waves.

She nods again: the labouring Earth
Discloses a tremendous birth;

In smoking rivers runs her molten ore;

Thence monsters of enormous size,
And hideous aspect, threatening rise,

Flame from the deck, from trembling bastions roar.
These ministers of fate fulfil,

On empires wide, an island's will,

[powers!

When thrones unjust wake vengeance; know, ye
In sudden night, and ponderous balls,
And floods of flame, the tempest falls,
When brav'd Britannia's awful senate lowers.
In her grand council she surveys,
In patriot picture, what may raise,
Of insolent attempts, a warm disdain;

From hope's triumphant summit thrown,
Like darted lightning, swiftly down
The wealth of Ind, and confidence of Spain.
Britannia sheaths her courage keen,
And spares her nitrous magazine;
Her cannon slumber, till the proud aspire,

And leave all law below them; then they blaze!
They thunder from resounding seas,
Touch'd by their injur'd master's soul of fire.

Then furies rise! the battle raves!

And rends the skies! and warms the waves! And calls a tempest from the peaceful deep, In spite of Nature, spite of Jove, While all serene, and hush'd above, Tumultuous winds in azure chambers sleep.

A thousand deaths the bursting bomb Hurls from her disembowel'd womb; Chain'd, glowing globes, in dread alliance join'd, Red-wing'd by strong, sulphureous blasts, Sweep, in black whirlwinds, men and masts; And leave singed, naked, blood-drown'd, decks be

hind.

Dwarf laurels rise in tented fields;
The wreath immortal ocean yields;

There war's whole sting is shot, whole fire is spent,
Whole glory blooms: how pale, how tame,
How lambent is Bellona's flame!
How her storms languish on the continent!

2 House of lords.

From the dread front of ancient war Less terrour frown'd; her scythed car, Her castled elephant, and battering beam, Stoop to those engines which deny

Superior terrours to the sky,

And boast their clouds, their thunder, and their flame.

The flame, the thunder, and the cloud,
The night by day, the sea of blood,

Hosts whirl'd in air, the yell of sinking throngs,
The graveless dead, an ocean warm'd,
A firinament by mortals storm'd,
To patient Britain's angry brows belongs.
Or do I dream? Or do I rave?
Or see I Vulcan's sooty cave,

Where Jove's red bolts the giant brothers frame?
Those swarthy gods of toil and heat
Loud peals on mountain anvils heat,
And panting tempests rouse the roaring flame.

Ye sons of Etna! hear my call;
Unfinish'd let those baubles fall,

Yon shield of Mars, Minerva's helmet blue:

Your strokes suspend, ye brawny throng!
Charm'd by the magie of my song,
Drop the feign'd thunder, and attempt the true.

Begin and first take rapid flight 3,
Fierce flame, and clouds of thickest night,
And ghostly terrour, paler than the dead;

Then borrow from the north his roar,

Mix groans and deaths; one phial pour Of wrong'd Britannia's wrath; and it is made; Gaul starts and trembles-at your dreadful trade.

ODE THE SECOND:

IN WHICH IS THE

SAILOR'S PRAYER BEFORE ENGAGEMENT.
So form'd the bolt, ordain'd to break
Gaul's haughty plan, and Bourbon shake;
If Britain's crimes support not Britain's foes,
And edge their swords: O power divine!
If blest by thee the bold design,
Embattled hosts a single arm o'erthrows.

Ye warlike dead, who fell of old
In Britain's cause, by fame enroll'd
In deathless annal! deathless deeds inspire;
From oozy beds, for Britain's sake,
Awake, illustrious chiefs! awake;
And kindle in your sons paternal fire.

The day commission'd from above,
Our worth to weigh, our hearts to prove,
If war's full shock too feeble to sustain;
Or firm to stand its final blow,
When vital streams of blood shall flow,
And turn to crimson the discolour'd main;

That day 's arriv'd, that fatal hour!--
"Hear us, O hear, Almighty Power!
Our guide in counsel, and our strength in fight!
Now war's important die is thrown,
If left the day to man alone,
How blind is wisdom, and how weak is might!

* Alluding to Virgil's description of thunder.

"Let prostrate hearts, and awful fear, And deep remorse, and sighs sincere For Britain's guilt, the wrath divine appease; A wrath, inore formidable far Than angry Nature's wasteful war, The whirl of tempests, and the roar of seas. "From out the deep, to thee we cry, To thee, at Nature's helm on high! Steer thou our conduct, dread Omnipotence! To thee for succour we resort; Thy favour is our only port;

Our only rock of safety, thy defence.

"O thou, to whom the lions roar,

And, not unheard, thy boon implore!

Thy throne our bursts of cannon loud invoke:

Thou canst arrest the flying ball;

Or send it back and bid it fall

A Pindaric carries a formidable sound; but there

"Britain in vain extends her care
To climes remote, for aids in war;
Still farther must it stretch to crush the foe;
There's one alliance, one alone,
Can crown her arms, or fix her throne;
And that alliance is not found below.

"Ally Supreme! we turn to thee;
We learn obedience from the sea;

With seas, and winds, henceforth, thy laws fulfil:
'Tis thine our blood to freeze, or warm;
To rouse, or hush, the martial storm;
And turn the tide of conquest, at thy will.

"Tis thine to beam sublime renown,
Or quench the glories of a crown;

is as natural as Anacreon, though not so familiar. As a fixt star is as much in the bounds of Nature, as a flower of the field, though less obvious, and of greater dignity. This is not the received notion of Pindar; I shall therefore soon support at large that hint which is now given.

Trade is a very noble subject in itself; more proper than any for an Englishman; and particularly seasonable at this juncture,

We have more specimens of good writing in every province, than in the sublime; our two famous epic poems excepted. I was willing to make an attempt where I had fewest rivals.

If, on reading this ode, any man has a fuller idea

Or pluck it from the bleeding heart:

There we cast anchor, we confide in thee.

"Thou, who hast taught the north to roar, And streaming lights nocturnal pour 2, Of frightful aspect! when proud foes invade, Their blasted pride with dread to seize, Bid Britain's flags, as meteors, blaze; And George depute to thunder in thy stead.

"The right alone is bold and strong; Black, hovering clouds appal the wrong With dread of vengeance: Nature's awful sire! Less than one moment shouldst thou frown, Where is puissance and renown? Thrones tremble, empires sink, or worlds expire.

"Let George the just chastise the vain : Thou, who durst curb the rebel main, To mount the shore when boiling billows rave! Bid George repel a bolder tide, The boundless swell of Gallic pride; And check ambition's overwhelming wave.

"And when (all milder means withstood) Ambition, tam'd by loss of blood, Regains her reason; then, on angel's wings,

Let Peace descend, and shouting greet, With peals of joy, Britannia's fleet, How richly freighted! It, triumphant, brings The poise of kingdoms, and the fate of kings."

1 Russia. 2 Aurora borealis.

than before; or a stronger impression from it, or a warmer concern for it, I give up to the critic any further reputation.

We have many copies and translations that pass for originals. This ode I humbly conceive is an original, though it professes imitation. No man can be like Pindar, by imitating any of his particular works; any more than like Raphael, by copying the cartoons. The genius and spirit of such great men must be collected from the whole; and when thus we are possessed of it, we must exert its energy in subjects and designs of our own. Nothing is so unpindarical as following Pindar on the foot. Pindar is an original, and he must be so too, who would be like Pindar in that which is his greatest praise. Nothing so unlike as a close copy, and a noble original.

As for length, Pindar has an unbroken ode of six hundred lines. Nothing is long or short in writing, but relatively to the demand of the subject, and the manner of treating it, A distich may be long, and a folio short. However, I have broken this ode into Strains, each of which may be considered as a separate ode if you please. And if the variety and fullness of matter be considered, I am rather apprehensive of danger from brevity in this ode, than from length. But lank writing is what I think ought most to be declined, if for nothing else, for our plenty of it.

The ode is the most spirited kind of poetry, and the Pindaric is the most spirited kind of ode; this I speak at my own very great peril: but truth has an eternal title to our confession, though we are sure to suffer by it.