HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II.

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASurer.

SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716.

THESE spirited verses, although they have not the affecting pathos of those addressed by Pope to the same great person, during his misfortunes, evince the firmness of Swift's political principles and personal attachment.---Scott.

How blest is he who for his country dies,
Since death pursues the coward as he flies!
The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack;
With trembling knees, and Terror at his back;
Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind,
Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind.

Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine;
But shall with unattainted honour shine;
Nor stoops to take the staff,' nor lays it down,
Just as the rabble please to smile or frown.

Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try
Some new unbeaten passage to the sky;
Where Jove a seat among the gods will give
To those who die, for meriting to live.

Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward;
Within our breast be every secret barr'd!
He who betrays his friend, shall never be
Under one roof, or in one ship, with me:

1 The ensign of the lord treasurer's office.

For who with traitors would his safety trust, Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just? And though the villain 'scape a while, he feels Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.

ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER.

GOOD Halifax and pious Wharton cry,
The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh.
In those we love not, we no danger see,

And were they hang'd, there would no danger be.
But we must silent be, amidst our fears,
And not believe our senses, but the Peers.
So ravishers, that know no sense of shame,
First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.

A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH.

HIGH Church is undone,

As sure as a gun,

For old Peter Patch is departed;

And Eyres and Delaune,

And the rest of that spawn,

Are tacking about broken-hearted.

For strong Gill of Sarum,

That decoctum amarum,

Has prescribed a dose of cant-fail;
Which will make them resign

Their flasks of French wine,

And spice up their Nottingham ale.

It purges the spleen

Of dislike to the queen,

And has one effect that is odder;

When easement they use,

They always will choose

The Conformity Bill for bumfodder.

А РОЕМ,

OCCASIONED BY THE HANGINGS IN THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, IN WHICH THE STORY OF

PHAETON IS EXPRESSED.

Nor asking or expecting aught,

One day I went to view the court,
Unbent and free from care or thought,
Though thither fears and hopes resort.

A piece of tapestry took my eye,
The faded colours spoke it old;
But wrought with curious imagery,
The figures lively seem'd and bold.

Here you might see the youth prevail,
(In vain are eloquence and wit,)
The boy persists, Apollo's frail;
Wisdom to nature does submit.

There mounts the eager charioteer ;

Soon from his seat he's downward hurl'd; anger doth appear,

Here Jove in

There all, beneath, the flaming world.

What does this idle fiction mean?

Is truth at court in such disgrace,

It may not on the walls be seen,
Nor e'en in picture show its face?

No, no, 'tis not a senseless tale,

By sweet-tongued Ovid dress'd so fine;
It does important truths conceal,
And here was placed by wise design.

A lesson deep with learning fraught,
Worthy the cabinet of kings;
Fit subject of their constant thought,
In matchless verse the poet sings.

Well should he weigh, who does aspire
To empire, whether truly great,
His head, his heart, his hand, conspire,
To make him equal to that seat.

If only fond desire of sway,

By avarice or ambition fed,

Make him affect to guide the day,

Alas! what strange confusion's bred!

If, either void of princely care,

Remiss he holds the slacken'd rein; If rising heats or mad career,

Unskill'd, he knows not to restrain:

Or if, perhaps, he gives a loose,

In wanton pride to show his skill, How easily he can reduce

And curb the people's rage at will;

In wild uproar they hurry on ;

The great, the good, the just, the wise, (Law and religion overthrown,)

Are first mark'd out for sacrifice.

When, to a height their fury grown, Finding, too late, he can't retire, proves the real Phaeton,

He

And truly sets the world on fire.

A TALE OF A NETTLE.'

A MAN with expense and infinite toil,
By digging and dunging, ennobled his soil;
There fruits of the best your taste did invite,
And uniform order still courted the sight.
No degenerate weeds the rich ground did produce,
But all things afforded both beauty and use:
Till from dunghill transplanted, while yet but a seed,
A nettle rear'd up his inglorious head.
The gard'ner would wisely have rooted him up,
To stop the increase of a barbarous crop;

1 These verses relate to the proposed repeal of the Test-act, and may be compared with the " Fable of the Bitches," p. 74.