The sight of adverse Gaul we fear no more,
But pleas'd see Dunkirk, now a guiltless shore;
In vain great Neptune tore the narrow ground,
And meant his waters for Britannia's bound;
Her giant genius takes a mighty stride,
And sets his foot beyond the encroaching tide;
On either bank the land its master knows,
And in the midst the subject ocean flows.

So near proud Rhodes, across the raging flood,
Stupendous form! the vast Colossus stood,
(While at one foot their thronging gallies ride,
A whole hour's sail scarce reach the further side)
Betwixt his brazen thighs, in loose array,
Ten thousand streamers on the billows play.

By Harley's counsels, Dunkirk, now restor'd
To Britain's empire, owns her ancient lord.
In him transfus'd his godlike father reigns,
Rich in the blood which swell'd that patriot's veins,
Who, boldly faithful, met his sovereign's frown,
And scorn'd for gold to yield th' important town,
His son was born the ravish'd prey to claim,
And France still trembles at an Harley's name,
A fort so dreadful to our English shore,
Our fleets scarce fear'd the sands or tempests more,
Whose vast expenses to such sums amount,
That the tax'd Gaul scarce furnish'd out th' account,
Whose walls such bulwarks, such vast towers restrain,
Its weakest ramparts are the rocks and main,
His boast great Louis yields, and cheaply buys
Thy friendship, Anna, with the mighty prize.
Holland repining, and in grief cast down,
Sees the new glories of the British crown:
Ah! may they ne'er provoke thee to the fight,
Nor foes, more dreadful than the Gaul, invite.
Soon may they hold the olive, soon asswage
Their secret murmurs, nor call forth thy rage
To rend their banks, and pour, at one command,
Thy realm, the sea, o'er their precarious land.

Henceforth be thine, vice-gerent of the skies, Scorn'd worth to raise, and vice in robes chastise, To dry the orphan's tears, and from the bar, Chace the brib'd judge, and hush the wordy war, Deny the curst blasphemer's tongue to rage, And turn God's fury from an impious age. Blest change! the soldier's late destroying hand Shall rear new temples in his native land; Mistaken zealots shall with fear behold, And beg admittance in our sacred fold; On her own works the pious queen shall smile, And turn her cares upon her favourite isle.

So the keen bolt a warrior angel aims, Array'd in clouds, and wrapt in mantling flames; He bears a tempest on his sounding wings, And his red arm the forky vengeance flings; At length, Heaven's wrath appeas'd, he quits the war, To roll his orb, and guide his destin'd star, To shed kind fate, and lucky hours bestow, And smile propitious on the world below.

Around thy throne shall faithful nobles wait, These guard the church, and those direct the state. To Bristol, graceful in maternal tears,

The Church her towery forehead gently rears;
She begs her pious son t' assert her cause
Defend her rights, and reenforce her laws,
With holy zeal the sacred work begin,
To bend the stubborn, and the meek to win.

Our Oxford's earl in careful thought shall stand, To raise his queen, and save a sinking land.

The wealthiest glebe to ravenous Spaniards known
He marks, and makes the golden world our own,
Content with hands unsoil'd to guard the prize,
And keep the store with undesiring eyes.

So round the tree, that bore Hesperian gold,
The sacred watch lay curl'd in many a fold,
His eyes up-rearing to th' untasted prey,
The sleepless guardian wasted life away.

Beneath the peaceful olives, rais'd by you,
Her ancient pride, shall every art renew,
(The arts with you fam'd Harcourt shall defend,
And courtly Bolingbroke the Muse's friend.)
With piercing eye some search where Nature plays,
And trace the wauton through her darksoine maze,
Whence health from herbs; from seeds how groves
How vital streams in circling eddies run. [begun,
Some teach why round the Sun the spheres advance,
In the fix'd measures of their mystic dance,
How tides, when heav'd by pressing moons, o'erflow,
And sun-born Iris paints her showery bow.
In happy chains our daring language bound,
Shall sport no more in arbitrary sound,
But buskin'd bards henceforth shall wisely rage,
And Grecian plans reform Britannia's stage:
Till Congrove bids her smile, Augusta stands
And longs to weep when flowing Rowe commands.
Britain's Spectators shall their strength combine
To mend our morals and our taste refine,
Fight virtue's cause, stand up in wit's defence,
Win us from vice, and laugh us into sense.
Nor, Prior, hast thou hush'd the trump in vain,
Thy lyre shall now revive her mirthful strain,
New tales shall now be told; if right I see,
The soul of Chaucer is restor d in thee.
Garth, in maje tic numbers, to the stars
Shall raise mock heroes, and fantastic wars;
Like the young spreading laurel, Pope,thy name
Shoots up with strength, and rises into fame;
With Philips shall the peaceful valles ring,
And Britain hear a second Spenser sing.
That much-lov'd youth,whom trecht's walls confine,
To Bristol's praises shall his Strafford's join:
He too, from whom attentive Oxford draws
Rules for just thinking, and poetic laws,
To growing bards his learned aid shall lend,
The strictest critic, and the kindest friend.
Ev'n mine, a bashful Muse, whose rude essays
Scarce hope for pardon, not aspire to prai-e,
Cherish'd by you, in time may grow to fame,
And mine survive with Bristol's glorious name.

Fir'd with the views this glittering scene displays, And smit with passion for my country's praise, My artless reed attempts this lofty theme, Where sacred Isis rolls her ancient stream; In cloister'd domes, the great Philippa's pride, [side, Where Learning blooms, while Fame and Worth preWhere the fifth Henry arts and arms was taught, And Edward form'd his Cressy, yet unfought, Where laurel'd bards have struck the warbling strings, The seat of sages, and the nurse of kings. Here thy commands, O Laucaster, inflame My eager breast to raise the British name, Urge on my soul, with no ignoble pride, To woo the Muse, whom Addison enjoy'd, See that bold swan to Heaven sublimely soar, Pursue at distance, and his steps adore.

A third awakes some druid, to foretel
Each future triumph, from his dreary cell.
Exploded fancies! that in vain deceive,
While the mind nauseates what she can't believe.
My Muse th' expected hero shall pursue
From clime to clime, and keep him still in view;
His shining march describe in faithful lays,
Content to paint him, nor presume to praise;
Their charms, if charms they have, the truth supplies,
And from the theme unlabour'd beauties rise.

By longing nations for the throne design'd,
And call'd to guard the rights of human-kind;
With secret grief his god-like soul repines,
And Britain's crown with joyless lustre shines,
While prayers and tears his destin'd progress stay,
And crowds of mourners choke their sovereign's way.
Not so he march'd, when hostile squadrons stood
In scenes of death, and fir'd his generous blood;
When his hot courser paw'd th' Hungarian plain,
And adverse legions stood the shock in vain.
His frontiers past, the Belgian bounds he views,
And cross the level fields his march pursues.
Here, pleas'd the land of freedom to survey,
He greatly scorns the thirst of boundless sway.
O'er the thin soil, with silent joy, he spies
Transplanted woods, and borrow'd verdure rise;
Where every meadow, won with toil and blood
From haughty tyrants and the raging flood,
With fruit and flowers the careful hind supplies,
And clothes the marshes in a rich disguise.
Such wealth for frugal hands doth Heaven decree,
And such thy gifts, celestial Liberty!

Through stately towns, and many a fertile plain, The pomp advances to the neighbouring main, Whole nations croud around with joyful cries, And view the hero with insatiate eyes.

In Haga's towers he waits till eastern gales Propitious rise to swell the British sails. Hither the fame of England's monarch brings The vows and friendships of the neighbouring kings; Mature in wisdom, his extensive mind Takes in the blended interests of mankind, The world's great patriot. Calm thy anxious breast, Secure in him, O Europe, take thy rest; Henceforth thy kingdoms shall remain confin'd By rocks or streams, the mounds which Heaven design'd;

The Alps their new-made monarch sha!! restrain, Nor shall thy hills, Pirene, rise in vain.

But see! to Britain's isle the squadrons stand, And leave the sinking towers, and lessening land. The royal bark bounds o'er the floating plain, Breaks through the billows, and divides the main. O'er the vast deep, great monarch, dart thine eyes, A watery prospect bounded by the skies:

Ten thousand vessels, from ten thousand shores,
Bring gums and gold, and either India's stores;
Behold the tributes hastening to thy throne,
And see the wide horizon all thy own.

Still is it thine; though now the chearful crew
Hail Albion's cliffs; just whitening to the view.
Before the wind with swelling sails they ride,
Till Thames receives them in his opening tide.
The monarch hears the thundering peals around,
From trembling woods and echoing hills rebound,
Nor misses yet, amid the deafening train,
The roarings of the hoarse-resounding main.
As in the flood he sails, from either side
He views his kingdom in his rural pride;

A various scene the wide-spread landscape yields,
O'er rich enclosures and luxuriant fields;
A lowing herd each fertile pasture fills,
And distant flocks stray o'er a thousand hills.
Fair Greenwich, hid in woods, with new delight,
Shade above shade, now rises to the sight;
His woods ordain'd to visit every shore,
And guard the island which they grac'd before.
The Sun now rolling down the western way,
A blaze of fires renews the fading day;
Unnumber'd barks the regal barge infold,
Brightening the twilight with its beamy gold;
Less thick the finny shoals, a countless fry,
Before the whale or kingly dolphin fly.
In one vast shout he seeks the crouded strand,
And in a peal of thunder gains the land.

Welcome, great stranger, to our longing eyes,
Oh! king desir'd, adopted Albion cries.
For thee the East breath'd out a prosperous breeze,
Bright were the suns, and gently swell'd the seas.
Thy presence did each doubtful heart compose,
And factions wonder'd that they once were foes.
That joyful day they lost each hostile naine,
The same their aspect, and their voice the same.

So two fair twins, whose features were design'd At one soft moment in the mother's mind, Show each the other with reflected grace, And the same beauties bloom in either face; The puzzled strangers which is which inquire; Delusion grateful to the smiling sire.

From that fair hill, where hoary sages boast To name the stars, and count the heavenly host, By the next dawn doth great Augusta rise, Proud town! the noblest scene beneath the skies. O'er Thames her thousand spires their lustre shed, And a vast navy hides his ample bed,

A floating forest. From the distant strand

line of golden carrs strikes o'er the land: Britannia's peers in pomp and rich array, Before their king triumphant, lead the way. Far as the eye can reach, the gaudy train, A bright procession, shines along the plain.

So, haply through the heaven's wide pathless ways A comet draws a long extended blaze; From east to west burns through the ethereal frame, And half heaven's convex glitters with the flame.

Now to the regal towers securely brought,
He plans Britannia's glories in his thought;
Resumes the delegated power he gave,
Rewards the faithful, and restores the brave.
Whom shall the Muse from out the shining throng
Select, to heighten and adorn her song?
Thee, Halifax. To thy capacious mind,
O man approv'd, is Britain's wealth consign'd.
Her coin, while Nassau fought, debas'd and rude,
By thee in beauty and in truth renew'd,
An arduous work! again thy charge we see,
And thy own care once more returns to thee.
O! form'd in every scene to awe and please,
Mix wit with pomp, and dignity with ease:
Though call'd to shine aloft, thou wilt not scor
To smile on arts thyself did once adorn :
For this thy name succeeding time shall praise,
And envy less thy garter, than thy bays.

The Muse, if fir'd with thy enlivening beams,
Perhaps shall aim at more exalted themes,
Record our monarch in a nobler strain,
And sing the opening wonders of his reign;

1 Mr. Flamstead's house.

Bright Carolina's heavenly beauties trace,
Fler valiant consort, and his blooming race.
A train of kings their fruitful love supplies,
A glorious scene to Albion's ravish'd eyes;
Who sees by Brunswick's hand her sceptre sway'd,
And through his line from age to age convey'd.

AN IMITATION

OF THE PROPHECY OF NEREUS.

FROM HORACE. BOOK II. ODE XV. Dicam insigne, recens, adhuc

Indictum ore alio: non secus in jugis Ex somnis stupet Euias

Hebrum prospiciens, & nive candidam Thracen, ac pede barbaro

Lustratam Rhodopen,

As Mar his round one morning took,
(Whom some call earl, and some call duke)
And his new brethren of the blade,
Shivering with fear and frost, survey'd,
On Perth's bleak hills he chanc'd to spy
An aged wizard six foot high,
With bristled hair and visage blighted,
Wall-ey'd, bare-haunch'd, and second-sighted.
The grizly sage in thought profound
Beheld the chief with back so round,
Then roll'd his eve-balls to and fro
O'er his paternal hills of snow,
And into these tremendous speeches
Broke forth the prophet without breeches.
"Into what ills betray'd, by thee,
This ancient kingdom do I see!
Her realmas un-peopled and forlorn!
Wae's me! that ever thou wert born!
Proud English loons (our clans o'ercome)
On Scottish pads shall amble home;
I see them drest in bonnets blue
(The spoils of thy rebellious crew);
I see the target cast away,

And chequer'd plaid become their prey,
The chequer'd plaid to make a gown
For many a lass in London town.

"In vain thy hungry mountaineers
Come forth in all thy warlike geers,
The shield, the pistol, durk, and dagger,
In which they daily wont to swagger,
And oft have sally'd out to pillage
The hen-roosts of some peaceful village,
Or, while their neighbours were asleep,
Have carry'd off a low-land sheep.

"What boots thy high-born host of beggars,
Mac-leans, Mac-kenzies, and Mac-gregors,
With popish cut-throats, perjur'd ruffians,
And Foster's troop of raggamuffins?

"In vain thy lads around thee bandy,
Inflam'd with bag-pipe and with brandy.
Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty,
With heart so true, and voice so rusty,
(A loyal soul) thy troops aflight,
While hoarsely he demands the fight?
Dost thou not generous lay dread,
The bravest hand, the wisest head?
Indaunted dost thou bear th' alarms
Of hoary Athol sheath'd in armis ?

Hor.

'Douglas, who draws his lineage down
From Thanes and peers of high renown,
Fiery, and young, and uncontrol'd,
With knights, and squires, and barons bold,
(His noble houshold-band) advances,
And on the milk-white courser prances.
Thee Forfar to the combat dares,
Grown swarthy in Iberian wars;
And Monroe, kindled into rage,
Sourly defies thee to engage;

He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many,
And horse to boot--if thou hadst any.

"But see Argyll, with watchful eyes,
Lodg'd in his deep entrenchments lies,
Couch'd like a lion in thy way,
He waits to spring upon his prey;
While, like a herd of timorous deer,
Thy army shakes and pants with fear,
Led by their doughty general's skill,
From frith to frith, from hill to hill.

"Is thus thy baughty promise paid
That to the Chevalier was made,
When thou didst oaths and duty barter,
For dukedom, generalship, and garter?
Three moons thy Jemmy shall command,
With Highland sceptre in his hand,
Too good for his pretended birth,

Then down shall fall the king of Perth.
"'Tis so decrecd: for George shall reign,
And traitors bé forsworn in vain.
Heaven shall for ever on him smile,
And bless him still with an Argyll.
While thou, pursued by vengeful foes,
Condemn'd to barren rocks and snows,
And hinder'd passing Inverlocky,
Shall burn the clan, and curse poor Jocky."

AN EPISTLE

FROM A LADY IN ENGLAND TO A GENTLEMAN AT AVIGNON

To thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends,
The health, she wants, thy gentle Chloe sends.
Though much you suffer, think I suffer more,
Worse than an exile on my native shore.
Companions in your master's flight you roam,
Unenvy'd by your haughty foes at home;
For ever near the royal outlaw's side
You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide,
On glorious schemes, and thoughts of empire dwell,
And with imaginary titles swell,

Say, for thou know'st I own his sacred line,
The passive doctrine, and the right divine,
Say, what new succours does the chief prepare?
The strength of armies? or the force of prayer?
Does he from Heaven or Earth his hopes derive?
From saints departed, or from priests alive? [stand,
Nor saints nor priests can Brunswick's troops with-
And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand;
Heaven to our vows may future kingdoms owe,
But skill and courage win the crowns below.
The to thy cause, and thee, my heart inclin'd,
Or love to party had seduc'd my mind,
In female joys I took a dull delight,
Slept all the morn, and punted half the night:

But now,

with fears and public cares possest,
The church, the church, for ever breaks my rest.
The postboy on my pillow I explore,

And sift the news of every foreign shore,
Studious to find new friends, and new allies;
What armies march from Sweden in disguise;
How Spain prepares her banners to unfold,
And Rome deals out her blessings, and her gold:
Then o'er the map my finger, taught to stray,
Cross many a region marks the winding way;
From sea to sea, from realm to realm I rove,
And grow a mere geographer by love:
But still Avignon, and the pleasing coast
That holds thee banish'd, claims my care the most:
Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes,
And span the distance that between us lies.

Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair,
Whilst on his side he reckons half the fair:
In Britain's lovely isle a shining throng
War in his cause, a thousand beauties strong.
Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their powers;
Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours.
We reason with such fluency and fire,
The beaux we baffle, and the learned tire,
Against her prelates plead the church's cause,
And from our judges vindicate the laws.
Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms lost;
A crown, though late, thy sacred brows may boast;
Heaven seems through us thy empire to decree;
Those who win hearts, have given their hearts to thee.
Hast thou not heard that when, profusely gay,
Our well-drest rivals grac'd their sovereign's day,
We stubborn damsels met the public view
In loathsome wormwood, and repenting rue?
What Whig but trembled, when our spotless band
In virgin roses whiten'd half the land!
Who can forget what fears the foe possest,
When oaken-boughs mark'd every loyal breast'
Less scar'd than Medway's stream the Norinan stood,
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
Till, near at hand, a gleam of swords betray'd
The youth of Kent beneath its wandering shade?
Those who the succours of the fair despise,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
Thy female bards, O prince by fortune crost,
At least more courage than thy men can boast :
Our sex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet,
And purchas'd fame in many a well-fought street,
From Drury-Lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the town,
Fair patriots sallying oft have put to flight
With all their poles the guardians of the night,
And bore, with screams of triumph, to their side
The leader's staff in all its painted pride.
Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
To vend the discontented statesman's thought,
Though red with stripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade,
Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.

Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause, His sword for James no brother sovereign draws. The pope himself, surrounded with alarins, To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms, And though he hears his darling son's complaint, Can hardly spare one tutelary saint, But I'sts them all to guard his own abodes, And into ready money coins his gols.

The dauntless Swede, pursued by vengeful foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary snows;
Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feasts regale our garter'd youth again.
Safe, Bar-le-Duc, within thy silent grove
The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove:
The knight, who aims unerring from afar,
Th' adventurous knight, now quits the sylvan war:
Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd,
Or grunt secure beneath the chesnut shade.
Inconstant Orleans (still we mourn the day,
That trusted Orleans with imperial sway)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,
Far from the call of his desponding friends.
Such are the terms, to gaini Britannia's grace!
And such the terrours of the Brunswick race!

Was it for this the Sun's whole lustre fail'd,
And sudden midnight o'er the Moon prevail'd!
For this did Heaven display to mortal eyes
Aerial knights and combats in the skies!
Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red!
And Thames driv'n backward show'd his secret bed!
False auguries! th' insulting victor's scorn!
Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn!
O portents construed on our side in vain!
Let never Tory trust eclipse again!

Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye skies!
And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise!
To Rome then must the royal wanderer go,
And fall a suppliant at the papal toe?
His life in sloth inglorious must he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in prayer?
His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease,
The proffer'd purple and the hat may please.
Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race
To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace,
In solemn conclave sit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trusty vote!
Be summon'd to his stall in time of need,
And with his casting suffrage fix a creed!
Shall he in robes on stated days appear,
And English heretics curse once a year!
Garnet and Faux shall he with prayers invoke,
And beg that Smithfield piles once more may smoke!
Forbid it, Heaven! my soul, to fury wrought,
Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought.

From James and Rome I feel my heart decline,
And fear, O Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine;
Yet still his share thy rival will contest,

And still the double claim divides my breast.
The fate of James with pitying eyes I view,
And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due:
To James my passion and my weakness guide,
But reason sways me to the victor's side.
Though griev'd I speak it, let the truth appear!
You know my language, and my heart, sincere.
In vain did falsehood his fair fame disgrace?
What force had falsehood, when he show'd his face!
In vain to war our boastful clans were led ;
Heaps driv'n on heaps, in the dire shock they fled:
France shuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame
A second Dunkirk in another name:

In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows;
Spite of feign'd fears and artificial cries,
The pious town sees fifty churches rise:
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And sits more firmly on his shaken throne.

To my sad thought no beam of hope appears
Through the long prospect of succeeding years.