He writ the rigid sentence down,
He pitied the misguided clown.
Or him, who, when brib'd orators misled
The factious tribes, to hostile Sparta fled;
The vile ingrateful crowd,
Proclaim'd their impious joy aloud,
But soon the fools discover'd to their cost,
Athens in Alcibiades was lost.

Or, if a Roman name delight thee more,
The great Dictator's fate deplore,
Camillus against noisy faction bold,
In victories and triumphs old.
Ungrateful Rome!

Punish'd by Heaven's avenging doom, Soon shall thy ardent vows invite him home, The mighty chieftain soon recall,

To prop the falling capitol,

And save his country from the perjur'd Gaul.
Search, Muse, the dark records of time,
And every shameful story trace,
Black with injustice and disgrace,
When glorious merit was a crime;

Yet these, all these, but faintly can express Folly without excuse, and madness in excess.

[depress.

The noblest object that our eyes can bless,
Is the brave man triumphant in distress;
Above the reach of partial Fate,
Above the vulgar's praise or hate,
Whom no feign'd smiles can raise, no real frowns
View him, ye Britons, on the naked shore,
Resolv'd to trust your faithless vows no more,
That mighty man! who for ten glorious years
Surpass'd our hopes, prevented all our prayers.
A name, in every clime renown'd,

By nations bless'd, by monarchs crown'd.
In solemn jubilees our days we spent,
Our hearts exulting in each grand event.

Factions applaud the man they hate,

And with regret, to pay their painful homage wait.
Have I not seen this crowded shore,
With multitudes all cover'd o'er?
While hills and groves their joy proclaim,
And echoing rocks return his name.
Attentive on the lovely form they gaze:
He with a chearful sinile,

Glad to revisit this his parent isle,

Flies from their incense, and escapes their praise.
Yes, Britons, view him still unmov'd,
Unchang'd, though less belov'd.

His generous soul no deep resentment fires, But, blushing for his country's crimes, the kind good man retires.

Er'n now he fights for this devoted isle,
And labours to preserve his native soil,
Diverts the vengeance which just Heaven prepares,
Accus'd, disarm'd, protects us with his prayers.
Obdurate hearts! cannot such merit move?
The hero's valour, nor the patriot's love?
Fly, goddess, fly this inauspicious place:
Spurn at the vile degenerate race,
Attend the glorious exile, and proclaim
In other climes his lasting fame,
Where honest hearts, unknowing to forget
The blessings from his arms receiv'd,
Confess with joy the mighty debt,
Their altars rescued, and their gods reliev'd.
Nor sails the hero to a clime unknown,
Cities preservid, their great deliverer own:

Impatient crowds about him press,

And with sincere devotion bless.
Those plains, of ten years war the bloody stage,
(Where panting nations struggled to be free
And life exchang'd for liberty)

Retain the marks of stern Bellona's rage.
The doubtful hind mistakes the field
His fruitless toil so lately till'd:
Here deep intrenchments sunk, and vales appear,
The vain retreats of Gallic fear;
There new-created hills deform the plain,
Big with the carnage of the slain :
These monuments, when Faction's spight
Has spit its poisonous foam in vain,
To endless ages shall proclaim
The matchles warrior's might.

[right.

The graves of slaughter'd foes shall do his valour
These when the curious traveller

Amaz'd shall view, and with attentive care
Trace the sad footsteps of destructive War;
Successive bards shall tell,

How Marlborough fought, how gasping tyrants fell.
Alternate chiefs confess'd the victor's fame,
Pleas'd and excus'd in their successor's shame.
In every change, in every form,

The Proteus felt his conquering arm :
Convinc'd of weakness, in extreme despair,
They lurk'd behind their lines, and waged a lazy war.
Nor lines nor forts could calm the soldier's fear,
Surpriz'd he found a Marlborough there.
Nature, nor Art, his eager rage withstood,
He measur'd distant plains, he fore'd the rapid flood,
He fought, he conquer'd, he pursued.
In years advanc'd, with youthful vigour warm'd,
The work of ages in a day perform'd.
When kindly gleams dissolve the winter snows
From Alpine hills, with such impetuous haste
The icy torrent flows;

In vain the rocks oppose,

It drives along enlarg'd, and lays the regions waste.
Stop, goddess, thy presumptuous flight,
Nor soar to such a dangerous height,
Raise not the ghost of his departed fame,
To pierce our conscious souls with guilty shame :
But tune thy harp to humbler lays,
Nor meditate offensive praise.

From the judicious critic's piercing eyes,
To the best-natur'd man secure she flies.

When panting Virtue her last efforts made,
You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid;
Presumptuous Folly blush'd, and Vice withdrew,
To vengeance yielding her abandon'd crew.
'Tis true, confederate wits their forces join,
Parnassus labours in the work divine:
Yet these we read with too impatient eyes,
And hunt for you through every dark disguise;
In vain your modesty that name conceals,
Which every thought, which every word, reveals,
With like success bright Beauty's goddess tries
To veil immortal charms from mortal eyes;
Her graceful port, and her celestial mien,
To her brave son betray the Cyprian queen;
Odours divine perfume her rosy breast,
She glides along the plain in majesty confess'd.
Hard was the task, and worthy your great mind,
To please at once, and to reform mankind :
Yet, when you write, Truth charms with such address,
Pleads Virtue's cause with such becoming grace,
His own fond heart the guilty wretch betrays,
He yields delighted, and convinc'd obeys:
You touch our follies with so nice a skill,
Nature and habit prompt in vain to ill.
Nor can it lessen the Spectator's praise,

That from your friendly hand he wears the bays;
His great design all ages shall commend,
But more his happy choice in such a friend.
So the fair queen of night the world relieves,
Nor at the Sun's superior honour grieves,
Proud to reflect the glories she receives.

When dark oblivion is the warrior's lot,
His merits censur'd, and his wounds forgot;
When burnish'd helms and gilded armour rust,
And each proud trophy sinks in common dust :
Fresh blooming honours deck the poet's brows,
He shares the mighty blessings he bestows,
His spreading fame enlarges as it flows.
Had not your Muse in her immortal strain
Describ'd the glorious toils on Blenheim's plain,
Ev'n Marlborough might have fought, and Dormer
bled in vain.

When honour calls, and the just cause inspires,
Britain's bold sons to emulate their sires;
Your Muse these great examples shall supply,
Like that to conquer, or like this to die.
Contending nations antient Homer claim,
And Mantua glories in her Maro's name;
Our happier soil the prize shall yield to none,
Ardenna's groves shall boast an Addison,
Ye silvan powers, and all ye rural gods,
That guard these peaceful shades, and blest abodes;
For your new guest your choicest gifts prepare,
Exceed his wishes, and prevent his prayer;
Grant him, propitious, freedom, health, and peace,
And as his virtues, let his stores increase.
His lavish hand no deity shall mourn,
The pious bard shall make a just return;
In lasting verse eternal altars raise,
And over-pay your bounty with his praise.

Tune every reed, touch every string, ye swains,
Welcome the stranger to these happy plains,
With hymns of joy in solemn pomp attend
Apollo's darling, and the Muses' friend.

[groves, Ye nymphs, that haunt the streams and shady Forget a while to mourn your absent loves;

In song and sportive dance your joy poclaim,
In yielding blushes own your rising flame:
Be kind, ye nymphs, nor let him sigh in vain.
Each land remote your curious eye has view'd,
That Grecian arts, or Roman arms subdu'd,
Search'd every region, every distant soil,
With pleasing labour and instructive toil :
Say then, accomplish'd bard! what god inclin'd
To these our humble plains your generous mind?
Nor would you deign in Latian fields to dwell,
Which none know better, or describe so well.
In vain ambrosial fruits invite your stay,
In vain the myrtle groves obstruct your way,
And ductile streams that round the borders stray.
Your wiser choice prefers this spot of Earth,
Distinguish'd by th' immortal Shakespear's birth;
Where through the vales the fair Avona glides,
And nourishes the globe with fattening tides;
Flora's rich gifts deck all the verdant soil,
And plenty crowns the happy firmer's toil.
Here, on the painted borders of the flood,
The babe was born; his bed with roses strow'd:
Here in an ancient venerable dome,
Oppress'd with grief, we view the poet's tomb.
Angels unseen watch o'er his hallow'd urn,
And in soft elegies complaining mourn:
While the bless'd saint, in loftier strains above,
Reveals the wonders of eternal love.
The Heavens, delighted in his tuneful lays,
With silent joy attend their Maker's praise.
In Heaven he sings; on Earth your Muse supplies
Th' important loss, and heals our weeping eyes.
Correctly great, she melts each flinty heart,
With equal genius, but superior art.

Hail, happy pair! ordain'd by turns to bless,
And save a sinking nation in di tress.
By great examples to reform the crowd,
Awake their zeal, and warm their frozen blood.
When Brutus strikes for Eberty and laws,
Nor spares a father in his country's cause;
Justice severe applauds the cruel deed,
A tyrant suffers, and the world is freed,
But, when we see the godlike Cato bleed,
The nation weeps; and from thy fate, oh Rome!
Learns to prevent her own impen/ling doom.
Where is the wretch a worthless life can prize,
When senates are no more, and Cato dies?
Indulgent sorrow, and a pleasing pain,
Heaves in each breast, and beats in every vein.
Th' expiring patriot animates the crowd,
Bold they demand their ancient rights aloud,
The dear-bought purchase of their fathers' blood.
Fair Liberty her head majestic rears,
Ten thousand blessings in her bosom bears;
Serene she smiles, revealing all her charms,
And calls her free-born youth to glorious arms.
Faction 's repell'd, and grumbling leaves her prey,
Forlorn she sits, and dreads the fatal day,
When eastern gales shall sweep her hopes away.
Such ardent zeal your Muse alone could raise,
Alone reward it with immortal praise.
Ages to come shall celebrate your fame,
And rescued Britain bless the poet's name.
So when the dreaded powers of Sparta fail'd,
Tyrtæus and Athenian wit prevail'd.
Too weak the laws by wise Lycurgus made,
And rules severe without the Muses' aid:
He touch'd the trembling strings, the poet's song
Reviv'd the faint, and made the foeble strong;

Recall'd the living to the dusty plain,
And to a better life restor'd the slain.
The victor-host amaz'd, with horror view'd
Th' assembling troops, and all the war renew'd;
To more than mortal courage quit the field,
And to their foes th' unfinish'd trophies yield.

AN

IMITATION OF HORACE,

BOOK IV. ODE IX.

INSCRIBED TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JAMES STANHOPE, ESQ. ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE, AFTERWARDS EARL STANHOPE.

BORN near Avona's winding stream

I touch the trembling lyre,

No vulgar thoughts, no vulgar theme,
Shall the bold Muse inspire.

'Tis immortality 's her aim;

Sublime she mounts the skies,

She climbs the steep asent to fame,
Nor ever shall want force to rise,

While she supports her flight with Stanhope's name.
What though majestic Milton stands alone

Inimitably great!

Bow low, ye bards, at his exalted throne,

And lay your labours at his feet;

Capacious soul! whose boundless thoughts survey Heaven, Hell, earth, sea;

Lo! where th' embattled gods appear, The mountains from their seats they tear, And shake th' empyreal Heavens with impious war. Yet, nor shall Milton's ghost repine At all the honours we bestow

On Ad-lison's deserving brow,

By whom convine'd, we own his work divine, Whose skilful pen has done his merit right, And set the jewel in a fairer light.

Enliven'd by his bright Essay

Each flowery scene appears more gay,

New beauties spring in Eden's fertile groves
And by his culture Paradise improves.

Garth, by Apollo doubly bless'd,

Is by the god entire possess'a :
Age, unwilling to depart,
Begs life from his prevailing skill;

Youth, reviving from his art,
Borrows its charms and power to kill :
But when the patriot's injur'd fame,
His country's honour, or his friends,
A more extensive bounty claim,
With joy the ready Muse aftends,
Immortal honours she bestows,
A gift the Muse alone can give;

She crowns the glorious vietor's brows,
And bids expiring Virtue live.

Nymphs yet unborn shall melt with amorous flames
That Congreve's lays inspire;

And Philips warm the gentle swains
To love and soft desire.

Ah! shum, ye for, the dangerous sounds,
Alas! each moving accent wounds,
The sparks conceal'd ;vive again,
The god restor'd resumes 1's reign,
In killing joys and pleasing pain.

Thus does each bard in different garb appear,
Each Muse has her peculiar air,

And in propriety of dress becomes more fair;
To each, impartial Providence
Well-chosen gifts bestows,

He varies his munificence,

And in divided streams the heavenly blessing flows.
If we look back on ages past and gone,
When infant Time his race begun,
The distant view still lessens to our sight,
Obscur'd in clouds, and veil'd in shades of night
The Muse alone can the dark scenes display,
Enlarge the prospect, and disclose the day.
'Tis she the records of times past explores,
And the dead hero to new life restores,

To the brave man who for his country died,
Erects a lasting pyramid,

Supports his dignity and fame,

When mouldering pillars drop his name. In full proportion leads her warrior forth, Discovers his neglected worth,

Brightens his deeds, by envious rust o'ercast, T'improve the present age, and vindicate the past. Did not the Muse our crying wrongs repeat, Ages to come no more should know Of Lewis by oppression great

Than we of Nimrod now:

The meteor should but blaze and die, Depriv'd of the reward of endless infamy. Ev'n that brave chief, who set the nations free, The greatest name the world can boast, Without the Muse's aid, shall be

Sunk in the tide of time, and in oblivion lost. The sculptor's hand may make the marble live, Or the bold pencil trace

The wonders of that lovely face,

Where every charm, and every grace,
That man can wish, or Heaven can give,
In happy union join'd, confess
The hero born to conquer, and to bless.
Yet vain, alas! is every art,

Till the great work the Muse complete,
And everlasting Fame impart,

That soars aloft, above the reach of Fate.
Hail, happy bard! on whom the gods bestow
A genius equal to the vast design,

Whose thoughts sublime in easy numbers flow,
While Marlborough's virtues animate each line.
How shall our trembling souls survey
The horrours of each bloody day;
The wreaking carnage of the plain
Encumber'd with the mighty slain,

The strange variety of death,

And the sad murmurs of departing breath?
Scamander's streams shall yield to Danube's flood,
To the dark bosom of the deep pursued

By fiercer flames, and stain'd with nobler blood.
The gods shall arm on either side,
Th' important quarrel to decide;
The grand event embroil the realms above,
And Faction revel in the court of Jove;

While Heaven, and earth, and sea, and air, Shall feel the mighty shock and labour of the war.

Virtue conceal'd obscurely dies,

Lost in the mean disguise

Of abject sloth, depress'd, unknown. Pouch in its native bed the unwrought diamond lies; Till chance, or art, reveal is worth Aval call its laten glories forth;