A nobler monument remains behind,
The lively image of his generous mind,
The sacred pile rais'd by his pious care,
Magnificent with cost, with order fair;
Adorn'd with all that lavish art could give,
To late posterity shall make him live.
This shall diffuse his celebrated name,
More than the hundred tongues of busy Fame :
His memory from dark oblivion save,
Elude his fate, and triumph o'er the grave.

TO THE MEMORY OF

A FAIR YOUNG LADY,

1697.

WHEN black with shades this mourning vault appears,
And the relenting marble flows with tears;
Think then what griefs a parent's bosom wound,
Whose fatal loss enrich'd this hallow'd ground.
Strew lilies here, and myrtle wreaths prepare,
To crown the fading triumphs of the fair:
Here blooming youth and charming beauties lie,
Till Earth resigns them to their native sky;
Like china laid for ages to refine,
And make her body, like the soul, divine.

Unmingled may the fragrant dust remain,
No common earth the sacred sweets prophane;
But let her urn preserve its virgin store,
Chaste and unsully'd as she liv'd before !

TO MYRA;

WRITTEN IN HER CLEOPATRA.

HERE, lovely Myra, you behold
The wonders Beauty wrought of old,
In every mournful page appears
The nymph's disdain, and lover's tears,
Whilst these feign'd tragic tales you view,
Fondly you weep, and think them true;
Lament the hero's slighted flame,
Yet praise the fair ungrateful dame,

For youths unknown no longer grieve,
But rather heal the wounds you give;
The slaves your eyes have ruined, mourn,
And pity flames with which your lovers burn,
Oh, hadst thou liv'd in former days,
Thus Fame had sung lov'd Myra's praise :
The triumphs of thy haughty reign,
Thy matchless form and cold disdain :
Thy beauties had remain'd as long
The theme of every poet's song:
Then Myra's conquests had been wrote,
And Cleopatra died forgot.

No prostrate wretch, before the shrine
Of some lov'd saint above,
E'er thought his goddess more divine,
Or paid more awful love.
Still the disdainful nymph look'd down
With coy insulting pride;
Receiv'd my passion with a frown,

Or turn'd her head aside.
Then Cupid whispered in my ear,
"Use more prevailing charms;
You modest whyning fool, draw near,
And clasp her in your arms,
With eager kisses tempt the maid,
From Cynthia's feet depart;
The lips he briskly must invade,

That would possess the heart."
With that I shook off all the slave,
When Cynthia in a moment gave
My better fortunes tried ;
What she for years denied.

ON

ON THE

CONQUEST OF NAMUR.

A PINDARIC ODE.

HUMBLY INSCRIBED

TO HIS MOST SACRED AND VICTORIOUS

MAJESTY; 1695.

NCE more, my Muse, resume thy lyre! Of heroes, arms, and lofty triumphs sing: Strike, boldly strike th' unpractis'd string; 'Tis William's acts my soaring thoughts inspire, And animate my breast with nobler fire. My daring hand the willing lyre obeys,

Untaught it sounds the hero's praise: Each tuneful string repeats the victor's name And echoes back the loud applause of Fame.

No longer, Muse, the blest Maria mourn, With trophies now her brighter shrine adorn: Now sing her hero's fame in lofty strains, Worthy the captive Mase, and Namur's vanquish'd plains.

Nature ne'er brought a fierce destroyer forth,

Of that portentious size and growth: But still, to poize the balance of the age, She introduc'd a hero on the stage. Injurious Lewis like a torrent grows, A rapid torrent that the bank o'erflows, And robs our western world of its repose; In vain the imperial eagle stops his course, In vain confederate arms oppose : On you (great prince !) the infested nations wait, And from your sword attend a milder fate. The injur'd Belgians William's aid implore, A numerous army wastes their shore : Embark, my Muse, upon the British fleet, And on the ready hero wait.

He flies, like Jove to meet the Theban dame, When arm'd with lightning's pointed flaine, And in his hand th' avenging thunder bore: The terrour of his ensigns still confess his power.

Quick of dispatch, preventing fear,

As cowards cautious, bolder than despair : Silent, yet swift as light, his active soul Reaches at once the barriers and the distant goal.

What labour will the hero chuse !

What action worthy of a Muse ! T'employ the hundred busy tongues of Fame, And make her hundred mouths too few to sound his

name.

Namur's the goal in Honour's race, Tempting the prize, but fatal is the chase: At once a lovely and amazing sight, Striking the eye with terrour and delight. Founded on rocks the imperial fortress stands, And all around the distant plain commands: Beauty and strength their utmost force impart, 'Tis wrought by Nature, and improv'd with art; An awful pile! immoveable as Fate, Fix'd like the solid rock that proudly bears its weight. A thousand brazen mouths the walls surround, That vomit flames, with fatal fury wound: Death shines with terrour thro' each smoking cloud, Like lightning swift, and as the thunder loud.

Not the fam'd Colchean fleece could boast
So dread a guard, so terrible an host:
Nassau attempts a nobler enterprize,
The danger's inore, and richer is the prize;
Alone his armis can such a power engage, [rage.
Destroy with fiercer flames, and thunder back their
Why are the rapid Sambre's streams so slow;

The tardy Mase forgets to flow :
Their lagging waves upon the turrets gaze,
Proud to reflect their Namur's awful face;
Whilst to th' astonish'd shores they tell,
Those wondrous walls are inaccessible.

The lofty Ilion towers, for beauty fam'd,
And sacred walls, though rais'd by hands divine,
Though mercenary gods her turrets fram'd,
In strength and form inferior were to thine;
Walls, that nor Grecian arins, nor arts could gain,
And the divine Achilles storm in vain.
Your greater arms, Nassau, were then unknown,
Where'er your bellowing engines shake,
Where'er your more destructive bombs are thrown,
Nature and Art in vain resistance make,
Nor durst the powers that built defend their shat-
ter'd town.

Two rival armies now possess the field, In all the horrid pomp of war: With shining arms and brighter heroes far, Though both with different looks, and different passions Betwixt both hosts the stake of honour lies, [fill'd. The object that employs their arms and eyes How to defend or how to gain the prize. The Britons are a warlike race,

In arms expert, and fam'd for arts in peace: Your matchless deeds, Nassau, they imitate, Like you they death pursue, and rush on certain fate. Not all the bellowing engines of the war, Amidst the storm can British minds affright:

Nor sulphur's blasting flames deter,
That glare thro' clouds of smoke with horrid light;
Though bullets there descend in scalding showers,
And those the cannon spare, the ambusht flame
devours.

In fatal caverns now the teeming Earth
Labours with a destructive birth.

The loud volcanos s etch their flaming jaws,
And every dreadfy blast a bost destroys;

ground,

This wreck of war the upper regions share,
Whilst arms, and men, and rocks lie scatter'd in the
Yet death in every form the Britons face, [air.
And march with an undaunted pace:
Their faithless steps to various ruins lead,
They walk in sepulchres, on graves they tread ;
Whilst rocks and mountains rooted from the
[wound.
Inter the hosts they slay, are tombs to those they
With horrid groans distorted Nature's rent,
Loud as the peals that shake the firmament:
Whilst roaring ordinance confirm the sound,
And mimic thunder bellows under ground.
Thus on Trinacria's mournful shores,
With ruin big the raging Etna roars:
The rising smoke obscures the darken'd sky,
Whilst high as Heaven its flaming entrails fly:
Mountains and rocks its fury hurls around,
Spreading with ruins o'er the desolate ground.

Whence spring those flowing rays of light!
That pierce through war's obscurer night?
Or does the suppliant flag display

Its chearful beams of white?
See! like the phosphorus of peace,
The shades retire before those sacred rays,
Which introduce the bright victorious day.
The trumpet's interceding voice I hear,
Now soft and tun'd unto the ear:

The drums in gentler parlees beat,
The drums and trumpets both entreat;
Whilst war's alarms are charm'd with music's
voice,

And all the bloody scene of death withdraws.
Fam'd Boufflers' self consents to fear,
Ev'n Boufflers dreads the British thunderer:
He sues for mercy whilst he feels his power,
And with a trembling hand subscribes him conqueror.

And here your worthies shall your triumphs grace, In war your guard, your ornaments in peace: Heroes are William's and the Muse's care, Partake their labours, and their laurels share.

Let willing Fame her trumpet sound, Great Ormond's name shall all her breath employ, And fill the echoing shores with joy : Whilst each officious wind conveys the sound, And wafts it all the attentive world around. In bloody camps he early gain'd renown, Farly the distant goal of honour won: What toils, what labours, has the hero bore? Not the fam'd Ossory encounter'd more: Of whom the Belgic plains such wonders tell, Who liv'd so lov'd and so lamented fell.

Triumphant prince! thou patron of the Muse,
Unweary'd thee she sings,thy acts with wonder views:
Renown'd in war! thy Rhedecina's pride!
Thou dost o'er wit, and glorious camps preside;
To thee the care of arms and arts belong,
Whose fame shall live to ages in heroic song.

For all thy victories in war,
You valiant Cutts, th' officious Muses crown,
Immortal as your fame, and fair as your renown.
For you triumphant wreaths prepare,
Well did you execute your great command,
And scatter deaths with a destructive hand :

What wonders did your sword perform,
When urging on the fatal storm,
Undaunted, undismay'd!

Up to the walls enclos'd with flames you led, And overlook'd the works on mighty heaps of dead. In you the hero and the poet meet,

Your sword is fatal, but your numbers sweet. When in Maria's praise your lyre was strung, You charm'd the heavenly nymph to whom you

Oh honour! more than all thy bays, [sung. Than all the trophies fame and conquest raise, To 've charm'd Maria's breast, and gain'd Maria's praise.

Indulge one grateful labour more, my Muse,

A subject Friendship bids thee chuse :

Let Codrington's lov'd name inspire thy thought,
With such a warmth and vigour as he fought:
In vain thou dost of arms and triumphs sing,
Unless he crown thy verse, and tune thy sounding
string.

Victorious youth! your Charwell's greatest pride,
Whom glorious arms, and learned arts divide:
Whilst imitating great Nassau you fight,
His person guard, and conquer in his sight:
Too swift for Fame your early triumphs grow,
And groves of laurel shade your youthful brow.
In you the Muses and the Graces join,

The glorious palm, and deathless laurels thine:
Like Phœbus' self your charming Muse hath sung,
Like his your warlike bow and tuneful lyre is strung.
But who fam'd William's valour dares express,
No Muse can soar so high, nor fancy paint
Each image will appear too faint:

[verse.

Too weak 's the pencil's art, and all the pow'r of

How calm he look'd, and how serene!

Amidst the bloody labours of the field: Unmov'd he views the bullets round him fly, And dangers move with horrour by ; Whilst judgment sway'd his nobler rage within, And his presaging brow with hopes of conquest smil'd, His chearful looks a gayer dress put on,

His eyes with decent fury shone : Dangers but serv'd to heighten every grace, And add an awful terrour to the hero's face. Where'er in arms the great Nassau appears, Th' extreme of action 's there: Himself the thickest danger shares, Himself th' informing soul that animates the war. Heroes of old in wondrous armour fought,

By some immortal artist wrought :
Achilles' arms, and Ajax' seven fold shield,
Were proof against the dangers of the field,
But greater William dares his breast expose
Unarm'd, unguarded to his foes:

A thousand deaths and ruins round him fled,
But durst not violate his sacred head :

For angels guard the prince's life and throne,
Who for his empire's safety thus neglects his own.
Had he in ages past the sceptre sway'd,
When sacred rites were unto heroes paid;
His statue had on every altar stood,
His court a temple been, his greater self a god.
Now tune thy lyre, my Muse, now raise thy voice,
Let Albion hear, her distant shores rejoice:
Thy solemn pæans now prepare,
Sweet as the hymns that fill'd the air,
When Phoebus' self return'd the Python's conqueror.
When every grove, with a triumphapt song,
Confess'd the victor as he pass'd along,
Whilst with the trophies every hill was crown'd,
And every echoing vale dispers'd his fame around:

As loud the British shores their voices ra'se, And thus united sing the godlike William's praise. What the fam'd Merlin's sacred verse of old, And Nostradam's prophetic lines foretold;

To thee, oh happy Albion 's shown, And in Nassau, the promise is out-done. Behold a prince indulgent Heaven has sent, Thy boundless wishes to content:

A prophet great indeed, whose powerful hand Shall vanquish hosts of plagues, and heal the groaning land.

The great Nassau now leads thy armies forth, And shows the world the British worth: Beneath his conduct they securely fight, Their cloud by day, their guardian flame by night. His bounty too shall every bard inspire, Reward their labours, and protect their lyre; For poets are to warlike princes dear,

And they are valiant William's care: His victories instruct them how to write, [wit. William's the glorious theme and patron of their

VICTORIOUS prince! form'd for supreme command,
Worthy the empire of the seas and land!
Whilst impious Faction swells with native pride,
Parties distract the state, and church divide!
And senseless libels, with audacious style,
Insult thy senate, and thy power revile!
Vouchsafe to hear th' admired truths of old,
Which birds and beasts in sportive tales unfold;
To curb the insolent, advance the good,
And quell the ragings of the inultitude.
O fam'd for arins, and matchless in renown!
Permit old Esop to approach thy throne
To you the labours of his Muse belong;
Accept the humble, but instructive, song.

FABLE I.

THE RIVER AND THE FOUNTAINS.

A RIVER, insolent with pride,
The Fountain and its Springs defied;
That Fountain, from whose watery bed
Th' ungrateful Flood was daily fed.

thus the rabble Waves began: "We're the delight of gods and man! How charming do our banks appear! How swift the stream, the flood how clear!

"See how, by Nature's bounty strong, We whirl our legion waves along: In soft meanders winding play, And glitter in the face of day,

"But thou, poor Fountain, silly soul!
Thy head absconding in a hole,
Run'st meddling on from place to place,
Asham'd to show thy dirty face;
In rocks and gloomy caverns found,
Thou creep'st inglorious under ground:
D' you hear? henceforth your lords obey!
We the grand Waves assume the sway."

"Well, angry sirs, the Fountain cry'd,
And how's your streams to be supply'd?
Ye senseless fools, that would command,
Should I withdraw my bounteous hand,
Or backward turn my watery store,
That hour you 'd cease, and be no more.
Go ask that blustering fop the Wind,
That puts this whimsy in your mind,
And makes your factious surges rise,
If he'll recruit you with supplies.

"And when to native mud you turn,
Such as a common-sewer would scorn,
Too late you 'll curse this frantic whim,
When carriers' steeds shall piss a nobler stream.

THE MORAL.

Unhappy Britain ! I deplore thy fate, When juries pack'd, and brib'd, insult thy state: Like waves tumultuous, insolently wise, They tutor kings, and senators advise; Whilst old republicans direct the stream, Not France and Rome, but monarchy 's their aim: Fools rode by knaves! and paid as they deserve, Despis'd whilst us'd! then left to hang or starve.

FABLE II.

THE LION'S TREATY OF PARTITION.

A MIGHTY Lion heretofore,
Of monstrous paws and dreadful roar,
Was bent upon a chase:
Inviting friends and near allies
Frankly to share the sport and prize,
During the hunting-space.

The Lynx and royal Panther came,
The Boar and Wolf of Wolfingham,
The articles were these:

Share and share like, whate'er they got,
The dividend upon the spot,

And so depart in peace.
A royal Hart, delicious meat!
Destin'd by inaupicious Fate,

Was started for the game:
The hunters run him one and all,
The chase was long, and, at the fall,
Each enter'd with his claim.
One lov'd a haunch, and one a side,
This ate it powder'd, t' other dried,
Each for his share alone:
Old Grey-beard then began to roar,
The whiskers twirl'd, bully'd, and swore,
The Hart was all his own.

"And thus I prove my title good;
My friend deceas'd sprung from our blood,
Half's mine as we 're ally'd:
My valour claims the other part;
In short, I love a hunted Hart:
And who dares now divide?"

The bilk'd confederates they stare,
And cry'd, “Old gentleman, deal fair,
For once be just and true."
Quoth he, and looking wondrous grum,
"Behold my paws, the word is mum;
And so messieurs, adieu !"

THE MORAL.

Tyrants can only be restrain'd by might,
Power's their conscience, and the sword their right:
Allies they court, to compass private ends,
But at the dividend disclaim their friends.
Yet boast not, France, of thy successful fraud,
Maintain'd by blood, a torment whilst enjoy'd:
Imperial Cæsar drives the storm along,
And Nassau's arms avenge the public wrong.

FABLE III.

THE BLIND WOMAN AND HER DOCTORS

A WEALTHY matron, now grown old,
Was weak in every part:
Afflicted sore with rheums and cold,
Yet pretty sound at heart.
But most her eyes began to fail,
Depriv'd of needful light :
Nor could her spectacles avail,
To rectify their sight.

Receipts she try'd, she doctors fee'd,
And spar'd for no advice

Of men of skill, or quacks for need
That practise on sore eyes.
Salves they daub'd on, and plaisters both.
And this, and that was done :
Then flannels, and a forehead-cloth,

To bind and keep them on.

Her house, though small, was furnish'd neat,
And every room did shine
With pictures, tapestry, and plate,

All rich, and wondrous fine.
Whilst they kept blind the silly soul,

Their hands found work enough!
They pilfer'd plate, and goods they stole,
Till all was carry'd off.

When they undamm'd their patient's eyes,

And now pray how 's your sight?" Cries t' other, "this was my advice,

I knew 't would set you right:" Like a stuck pig the woman star'd, and down she run :

And up

With naked house and walls quite scar'd,
She found herself undone.

"Doctors, quoth she, your cure 's my pain, For what are eyes to me:

Bring salves and forehead-cloths again,
I've nothing left to see."

THE MORAL.

See, injur'd Britain, thy unhappy case,
Thou patient with distemper'd eyes:
State-quacks but nourish the disease,
And thrive by treacherous advice.
If fond of the expensive pain,
When eighteen millions run on score:
Let them clap mufflers on again,
And physic thee of eighteen more.

FABLE IV.

THE SATYR'S ADDRESS

FIVE Satyrs of the woodland sort,

Thought politicians then,
Their ears prick'd up, their noses short,
And brows adorn'd like aldermen ;
With asses hoofs, great goggle eyes,
And ample chins of Be-m's size,

To Jove tript up with an address,
In favour of the plains:
That it would please him to suppress

All heats and colds, his winds and rains;
The Sun that he 'd extinguish too,
And in the skies hang something new.
"My wise reforming friends, quoth Jove,
Our elements are good!

We manage for the best above,

Though not so rightly understood;
But since such profound squires are sent,
We'll treat you like the cream of Kent."
Then Jove brought out etherial fire

In a gilt chafing-dish:

The sparkling flame they all admire,

'Twas fine, they vow'd, as heart could wish: They gap'd, they grin'd, they jump'd about! Jove, give us that, the Sun put out!

The charming flames they all embrace,
Which, urg'd by Nature's laws,
Their shaggy hides set in a blaze,

And soundly sing'd their paws;

In corners then they sneak'd with terrour dumb, And o'er th' immortal pavements scud it home.

THE MORAL.

How senseless are our modern Whiggish tools,
Beneath the dignity of British fools!
With beef resolv'd, and fortify'd with ale,
They censure monarchs, and at senates rail;
So eagerly to public mischief run,

That they prevent the hands, which loo them on.
O true machines! and heads devoid of brains!
Affront that senate which your rights maintains!
Thus ideots sport with power, and flames embrace,
Till smarting Folly glares them in the face.

FABLE V.

THE FARMER AND HIS DOG.

THERE dwelt a Farmer in the west,

As we 're in story told;

Whose herds were large and flocks the best

That ever lin'd a fold.

Arm'd with a staff, his russet coat,

And Towser by his side,

Early and late he tun'd his throat

And every wolf defy'd.

Lov'd Towser was his heart's delight,

In cringe and fawning skill'd, Intrusted with the flocks by night,

And guardian of the field.
"Towser, quoth he, I'm for a fair;

Be regent in my room:
Pray of my tender flocks take care,
And keep all safe at home.

I know thee watchful, just, and brave,
Right worthy such a place:
No wily fox shall thee deceive,

Nor wolf dare show his face."

But ne'er did wolves a fold infest,

At regent Towser's rate :
He din'd and supp'd upon the best,
And frequent breakfasts ate.
The Farmer oft receiv'd advice,
And laugh'd at the report:
But coming on him by surprize,
Just found him at the sport.
"Ingrateful beast, quoth he, what means
That bloody mouth and paws?

I know the base, the treacherous stains,
Thy breach of trust and laws.
The fruits of my past love I see:
Roger, the halter bring;
E'en truss him on that pippin tree,
And let friend Towser swing.

I'll spare the famish'd wolf and fox,
That ne'er my bounty knew:
But, as the guardian of my flocks,
This neckcloth is your due."