The son, aspiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his sire: another and the same.
He, blest in lovely Carolina's arms,
To future ages propagates her charms:
With pain and joy at strife, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face;
Half sickening at the sight, too well I spy
The father's spirit through the mother's eye:
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And strive to hate their innocence in vain.

O princess! happy by thy foes confest!
Blest in thy husband! in thy children blest!
As they from thee, from them new beauties born,
While Europe lasts, shall Europe's thrones adorn.
Transplanted to each court, in times to come,
Thy sinile celestial and unfading bloom,
Great Austria's sons with softer lines shall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race.
The fair descendants of thy sacred bed,
Wide-branching o'er the western world shall spread,
Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot
To earthward bending of itself takes root,
Till, like their mother plant, ten thousand stand
In verdant arches on the fertile land;
Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove,
Or hunt, at large, through the wide echoing grove.
O thou, to whom these mournful lines I send,
My promis'd husband, and my dearest friend;
Since Heaven appoints this favour'd race to reign,
And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain ;
Must I be wretched, and thy flight partake?
Or wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's sake,
Tir'd out at length, submit to fate's decree?
If not to Brunswick, O return to me!
Prostrate before the victor's mercy bend:
What spares whole thousands, may to thee extend.
Should blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blame,
Great Brunswick's virtue shall secure thy fame :
Say these invite thee to approach his throne,
And own the monarch, Heaven vouchsafes to own:
The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve;
Say this to them; but swear to me 'twas love.

They fix each haughty monarch's doom, And bless whole ages yet to come. Henceforth great Brnnswick shall decree What flag must awe the Tyrrhene sea; From whom the Tuscan grape shall glow, And fruitful Arethusa flow.

See in firm leagues with Thames combine The Seine, the Maese, and distant Rhine! Nor, Ebro, let thy single rage

With half the warring world engage.
Oh! call to mind thy thousands slain,
And Alinanara's fatal plain;
While yet the Gallic terrours sleep,
Nor Britain thunders from the deep.

PROLOGUE

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1713.

[free,

WHAT kings henceforth shall reign, what states be
Is fixt at length by Anna's just decree :
Whose brows the Muse's sacred wreath shall fit
Is left to you, the arbiters of wit.
With beating hearts the rival poets wait,
Till you, Athenians, shall decide their fate;
Secure, when to these learned seats they come,
Of equal judgment, and impartial doom.

Poor is the player's fame, whose whole renown
Is but the praise of a capricious town;
While, with mock-majesty, and fancy'd power,
He struts in robes, the monarch of an hour.
Oft wide of nature must he act a part,
Make love in tropes, in bombast break his heart:
In turn and simile resign his breath,
And rhyme and quibble in the pangs of death.
We blush, when plays like these receive applause ;
And laugh, in secret, at the tears we cause;
With honest scorn our own success disdain,
A worthless honour, and inglorious gain.

[due,

No trifling scenes at Oxford shall appear; Well, what we blush to act, may you to hear. To you our fam'd, our standard plays we bring, The work of poets, whom you taught to sing: Though crown'd with fame, they dare not think it Nor take the laurel till bestow'd by you. Great Cato's self, the glory of the stage, Who charms, corrects, exalts, and fires the age, Begs here he may be try'd by Roman laws; To you, O fathers, he submits his cause; He rests not in the people's general voice, Till you, the senate, have confirm'd his choice. Fine is the secret, delicate the art,

re!

To wind the passions, and command the heart;
For fancy'd ills to force our tears to flow,
And make the generous soul in love with woe;
To raise the shades of heroes to our view;
Rebuild fall'n empires, and old time renew.
How hard the task! how rare the godlike rage
None should presume to dictate for the stage,
But such as boast a great extensive mind,
Emich'd by Nature, and by Art refin'd;
Who from the ancient stores their knowledge bring,
And tasted early of the Muses' spring.
May none pretend upon her throne to sit,
But such as, sprung from you, are born to wit:
Chosen by the mob, their lawless claim we slight:
Yours is the old hereditary right.

THOUGHTS

OCCASIONED BY THE SIGHT OF AN ORIGINAL PICTURE

OF

KING CHARLES I.

TAKEN AT THE TIME OF HIS TRIAL.

INSCRIBED TO

GEORGE CLARKF, Esq.

Animum pictura pascit inani Multa gemens, largoque humectat flumine vultum. VIRG.

CAN this be he could Charles, the good, the great,

Be sunk by Heaven to such a dismal state!
How meagre, pale, neglected, worn with care!
What steady sadness, and august despair!
In those sunk eyes the grief of years I trace,
And sorrow seems acquainted with that face.
Tears, which his heart disdain'd, from me o'erflow,
Thus to survey God's substitute below,
In solemn anguish, and majestic woe.

When spoil'd of empire by unhallow'd hands,
Sold by his slaves, and held in impious bands;
Rent from, what oft had sweeten'd anxious life,
His helpless children, and his bosom wife;
Doom'd for the faith, plebeian rage to stand,
And fall a victim for the guilty land;
Then thus was seen, abandon'd and forlorn,
The king, the father, and the saint to mourn.—
How could'st thou, artist, then thy skill display?
Thy steady hands thy savage heart betray:
Near thy bold work the stunn'd spectators faint,
Nor see unmov'd, what thou unmov'd could'st paint.
What brings to mind each various scene of woe,
Th' insulting judge, the solemn-mocking show,
The horrid sentence, and accursed blow.

Where then, just Heaven, was thy unactive hand, Thy idle thunder, and thy lingering brand! Thy adamantine shield, thy angel wings, And the great genii of anointed kings! Treason and fraud shall thus the stars regard! And injur'd virtue meet this sad reward! So sad, none like, can Time's old records tell, Though Pompey bled, and poor Darius fell. All names but one too low-that one too high: All paralle's are wrongs, or blasphemy.

O Power Supreme! How secret are thy ways! Yet man, vain man, would trace the mystic maze, With foolish wisdom, arguing, charge his God, His balance hold, and guide his angry rod; New-mould the spheres, and mend the sky's design, And sound th' immense with his short scanty line. Do thou, my soul, the destin'd period wait, When God shall solve the dark decrees of fate, His now unequal dispensations clear, And make all wise and beautiful appear; When suffering saints aloft in beams shall glow, And prosperous traitors gnash their teeth below. Such boding thoughts did guilty conscience dart, A pledge of Hell to dying Cromwell's heart: Then this pale image seem'd t' invade his room, Gaz'd him to stone, and warn'd him to the tomb. While thunders roll, and nimble lightnings play, And the storm wings his spotted soul away. [mand A blast more bounteous ne'er did Heaven comTo scatter blessings o'er the British land. Not that more kind, which dash'd the pride of Spain, And whirl'd her crush'd Armada round the mala;

Not those more kind, which guide our floating towers,

Waft gums and gold, and made far India ours:
That only kinder, which to Britain's shore
Did mitres, crowns, and Stuart's race restore,
Renew'd the church, revers'd the kingdom's doom,
And brought with Charles an Anna yet to come.
O Clarke, to whom a Stuart trusts her reign
O'er Albion's fleets, and delegates the main;
Dear, as the faith thy loyal heart hath sworn,
Transmit this piece to ages yet unborn.
This sight shall damp the raging ruffian's breast,
The poison spill, and half-drawn sword arrest;
To soft compassion stubborn traitors bend,
And, one destroy'd, a thousand kings defend.

HORSES and hounds, their care, their various race;
The numerous beasts, that range the rural chase,
The huntsman's chosen scenes, his friendly stars,
The laws and glory of the sylvan wars,
I first in British verse presume to raise ;
A venturous rival of the Roman praise.
Let me, chaste queen of woods, thy aid obtain,
Bring here thy light-foot nymphs, and sprightly train:
If oft, o'er lawns, thy care prevents the day
To rouse the foe, and press the bounding prey,
Woo thine own Pha bus in the task to join,
And grant me genius for the bold design.
In this soft shade, O sooth the warrior's fire,
And fit his bow-string to the trembling lyre;
And teach, while thus their arts and arins we sing,
The groves to echo, and the vales to ring.
* *
*

*

*

*

*

*

*

* *

*

*

**

*

Thy care be first the various gifts to trace, The minds and genius of the latrant race. In powers distinct the different clans excel, In sight, or swiftness, or sagacious smell; By wiles ungenerous some surprise the prey, And some by courage win the doubtful day. Seest thou the gaze-hound! how with glance severe. From the close herd he marks the destin'd deer! How every nerve the greyhound's stretch displays, The hare preventing in her airy maze; The luckless prey how treacherous tumblers gain, And dauntless wolf-dogs shake the lion's mane; O'er all, the blood-hound boasts superior skill, To scent, to view, to turn, and boldly kill ! His fellows' vain alarms rejects with scorn, True to the master's voice, and learned horn. His nostrils oft, if ancient Fame sing true, Trace the sly felon through the tainted dew; Once snuff'd, he follows with unalter`d aim, Nor odours lure him from the chosen game; Deep mouth'd he thunders, and inflam'd he views, Springs on relentless, and to death pursues.

Some hounds of manners vile (nor less we find Of fops in hounds, than in the reasoning kind) Puff'd with conceit run gladding o'er the plain, And from the scent divert the wiser train; For the foe's footsteps fondly snuff their own, And mar the music with their senseless tone;

Start at the starting prey, or rustling wind,
And, hot at first, inglorious lag behind.

A sauntering tribe! may such my foes disgrace!
Give me, ye gods, to breed the nobler race.
Nor grieve thou to attend, while truths unknown
I sing, and make Athenian arts our own.

Dost thou in hounds aspire to deathless fame ?
Learn well their lineage and their ancient stem.
Each tribe with joy old rustic heralds trace,
And sing the chosen worthies of their race;
How his s're's features in the son were spy'd,
When Die was made the vigorous Ringwood's bride.
Less sure thick lips the fate of Austria doom,
Or eagle noses rul'd almighty Rome.

Good shape to various kinds old bards confine, Some praise the Greek, and some the Roman line; And dogs to beauty make as differing claims, As Albion's nymphs, and India's jetty dames. Immense to name their lands, to mark their bounds, And paint the thousand families of hounds: First count the sands, the drops where oceans flow, Or Gauls by Marlborough sent to shades below, The task be mine, to teach Britannia's swains, My much-lov'd country, and my native plains. Such be the dog, I charge, thou mean'st to train, His back is crooked, and his belly plain, Of fillet stretch'd, aud huge of haunch behind, A tapering tail, that nimbly cuts the wind; Truss-thigh'd, straight-ham'd, and fox-like form'd

his paw,

Large-leg'd, dry sol'd, and of protended claw.
His flat, wide nostrils snuff the savory steam,
And from his eyes he shoots pernicious gleam;
Middling his head, and prone to earth his view,
With cars and chest that dash the morning dew:
He best to stem the flood, to leap the bound,
And charm the Dryads with his voice profound;
To pay large tribute to his weary lord,
And crown the sylvan hero's plenteous board.

The matron bitch whose womb shall best produce
The hopes and fortune of th' illustrious house,
Deriv'd from noble, but from foreign seed,
For various nature loaths incestuous breed,
Is like the sire throughout. Nor yet displease
Large flanks, and ribs, to give the teemer ease.

In Spring let loose thy pairs. Then all things

prove

The stings of pleasure, and the pangs of love:
Ethereal Jove then glads, with genial showers,
Earth's mighty womb, and strews her lap with
flowers.

Hence juices mount, and buds, embolden'd, try
More kindly breezes, and a softer sky:
Kind Venus revels. Hark! on every bough,
In lulling strains the feather'd warblers woo.
Fell tigers soften in th' infectious flames,
And lions fawning, court their brinded dames :
Great Love pervades the deep; to please his mate,
The whale, in gambols, moves his monstrous
weight,

Heav'd by his wayward mirth old Ocean roars,
And scatter'd navies bulge on distant shores.

All Nature smiles; come now, nor fear, my love,
To taste the odours of the woodbine grove,
To pass the evening glooms in harmless play,
And, sweetly swearing, languish life away.
An altar, bound with regent flowers, I rear
To thee, best season of the various year,

All hail! such days in beauteous order ran,
So swift, so sweet, when first the world began,
In Eden's bowers, when man's great sire assign'd
The names and natures of the brutal kind.
Then lamb and lion friendly walk'd their round,
And hares, undaunted, lick'd the fondling hound;
Wondrous to tell! but when, with luckless hand,
Our daring mother broke the sole command,
Then Want and Envy brought their meagre train,
ThenWrath came down, and Death had leave to reigns
Hence foxes earth'd, and wolves abhor'd the day,
And hungry churls ensnar'd the nightly prey;
Rude arts at first; but witty Want refin'd
The huntsman's wiles, and Famine form'd the mind.
Bold Nimrod first the lion's trophies wore,
The panther bound, and lanc'd the bristling boar;
He taught to turn the hare, to bay the deer,
And wheel the courser in his mid career:
Ah! had he there restrain'd his tyrant hand!
Let me, ye powers, an humbler wreath demand.
No pomps I ask, which crowns and sceptres yield,
Nor dangerous laurels in the dusty field;
Fast by the forest, and the limpid spring,
Give me the warfare of the woods to sing,

To breed my whelps, and healthful press the game,
A mean, inglorious, but a guiltless name.

And now thy female bears in ample womb
The bane of hares, and triumphs yet to come.
No sport, I ween, nor blast of sprightly horn,
Should tempt me then to hurt the whelps unborn.
Unlock'd, in covers let her freely run,

To range thy courts, and bask before the Sun;
Near thy full table let the favourite stand,
Strok'd by thy son's, or blooming daughter's hand.
Caress, indulge, by arts the matron bride,
T' improve her breed, and teem a vigorous tribe.
So, if small things may be compar'd with great,
And Nature's works the Muses imitate,

So, stretch'd in shades, and lull'd by murmuring

I AM, cry'd Apollo, when Daphne he woo'd,
And panting for breath, the coy virgin pursued,
When his wisdom, in manner most ample, exprest
The long list of the graces his godship possest:
I'm the god of sweet song, and inspirer of lays;
Nor for lays, nor sweet song, the fair fugitive stays;
Nor the harp, nor the harper, could fetch her again.
I'm the god of the harp-stop my fairest-in vain;
Every plant, every flower, and their virtues I know,
Ged of light I'm above, and of physic below: [fast;
At the dreadful word physie, the nymph fled more
At the fatal word physic she doubled her haste.

Swift as desire, the shining ruin flies,
And straight devours the willing sacrifice,
Who hastes to perish in the fertile fire,
Sink into strength, and into life expire.

In flames the circling odours mount on high,
Perfume the air, and glitter in the sky,
The Moon and Stars, amaz'd, retard their flight,
And Nature startles at the doubtful sight;
For, whilst the pregnant urn with fury glows,
The goddess labours with a mother's throes,
Yet joys to cherish, in the friendly flames,
The noblest product of the skill she claims.

Th' enlivening dust its head begins to rear,
And on the ashes sprouting plumes appear;
In the dead bird reviving vigour reigns,
And life returning revels in his veins:
A new-born Phenix starting from the flame,
Obtains at once a son's, and father's name;
And the great change of double life displays,
In the short moment of one transient blaze.
On his new pinions to the Nile he bends,
And to the gods his parent urn commends,
To Egypt bearing, with majestic pride,
The balmy nest, where first he liv'd and dy'd.
Birds of all kinds admire th' unusal sight,
And grace the triumph of his infant flight;
In crowds unnumber'd round their chief they fly,
Oppress the air, and cloud the spacious sky;
Nor dares the fiercest of the winged race
Obstruct his journey through th' ethereal space;
The hawk and eagle useless wars forbear,
Forego their courage, and consent to fear;
The feather'd nations humble homage bring,
And bless the gaudy flight of their ambrosial king.
Less glittering pomp does Parthia's monarch yield,
Commanding legions to the dusty field;
Though sparkling jewels on his helm abound,
And royal gold his awful head surround;
Though rich embroidery paint his purple vest,
And his steed bound in costly trappings drest,
Pleas'd in the battle's dreadful van to ride,
In graceful grandeur, and imperial pride.
Fam'd for the worship of the Sun, there stands
A sacred fane in Egypt's fruitful lands,
Hewn from the Theban mountain's rocky womb
An hundred columns rear the marble dome ;
Hither, 'tis said, he brings the precious load,
A grateful offering to the beamy god;
Upon whose altar's consecrated blaze
The seeds and relics of himself he lays,
Whence flaming incense makes the temple shine,
And the glad altars breathe perfumes divine,
The waften smell to far Pelusium flies,
To chear old Ocean, and enrich the skies,
With nectar's sweets to make the nations smile,
And scent the seven-fold channels of the Nile.
Thrice happy Phenix! Heaven's peculiar care
Has made thyself thyself's surviving heir;
By Death thy deathless vigour is supply'd,
Which sinks to ruin all the world beside;
Thy age, not thee, assisting Phobus burns,
And vital flames light up thy funeral urns.
Whate'er events have been, thy eyes survey,
And thou art fixt, while ages roll away;
Thou saw'st when raging Ocean burst his bed,
O'er-top'd the mountains, and the earth o'er-spread;
When the rash youth indam'd the high abodes,
Scorch'd up the skies, and scar'd the deathless gods.

When Nature ceases, thou shalt still remain, Nor second Chaos bound thy endless reign; Fate's tyrant laws thy happier lot shall brave, Baile Destruction, and elude the Grave.

VERSES

TO MRS. LOWTHER

ON HER MARRIAGE.

FROM MENAGE.

THE greatest swain that treads th' Arcadian grove,
Our shepherds envy, and our virgins love,
His charming nymph, his softer fair obtains,
The bright Diana of our flowery plains;
He, 'midst the graceful, of superior grace,
And she the loveliest of the loveliest race.

Thy fruitful influence, guardian Juno, shed,
And crown, the pleasures of the genial bed:
Raise thence, their future joy, a smiling heir,
Brave as the father, as the mother fair.
Well may'st thou shower thy choicest gifts on those,
Who boldly rival thy most hated foes;
The vigorous bridegroom with Alcides vies,
And the fair bride has Cytherea's eyes.

TO A LADY;

WITH A PRESENT OF FLOWERS.

THE fragrant painting of our flowery fields,
The choicest stores that youthful Summer yields,
Strephon to fair Elisa hath convey'd,
The sweetest garland to the sweetest maid.

O cheer the flowers, my fair, and let them rest
On the Elysium of thy snowy breast,
And there regale the sinell, and charm the view,
With richer odours, and a lovelier hue.
Learn hence, nor fear a flatterer in the flower,
Thy form divine, and beauty's matchless power:
Faint, near thy checks, the bright carnation glows,
And thy ripe lips out blash the opening rose :
The lily's snow betray- less puce a light,
Lost in thy bosom's more unsullied white;
And wreaths of jasmine sled perfumes, beneath
Th' ambrosial incense of thy balmy breath.

Ten thousand beauties grace the rival pair,
How fair the chaplet, and the nymph how fair!
But ah! too soon these fleeting charms decay,
The fading lustre of ore hastening day.
This night shall see the gaudy wreath decline,
The roses wither, and the lilies pine.

The garland's fate to thine shall be apply'd,
And what advance thy form, shall check thy pride:
Be wise, my fair, the present hour improve,
I et joy be now, and now a waste of love;
Each drooping bloom shall plead thy just excuse,
And that which show'd thy beauty, show its use.

ON A LADY'S PICTURE:
TO GILFRED LAWSON, ESQ.

As Damon Chloe's painted form survey'd,
| He sighed, and languish'd for the jilting shade:
For Cupid taught the artist hand its grace,
And Venus wanton'd in the mimic face.