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If thou in moanful lays relate her woe,
Each heart shall bleed, each eye with pity flow:
If to revenge you swell the sounding strain,
Revenge and fury fire each British swain:
Obsequious to thy verse each breast shall move,
Or burn with rage, or soften into love.
O let Britannia be her poet's care!
And lash the spoiler, while you save the fair.
Lo! where he stands, amidst the servile crew,
Nor blushes stain his cheek with crimson hue;
While dire corruption all around he spreads,
And ev'ry ductile conscience captive leads :
Brib'd by his boons, behold the venal band
Worship the idol they could once command;
So Britain's now, as Judah's sons before,
First raise a golden calf, and then adore.
Let dull Parnassian sons of rhyme no more Provoke thy satire, and employ thy pow'r; New objects rise to share an equal fate, The big, rich, mighty, Dunces of the State. Shall Ralph, Cooke, Welstead, then engross thy
While courts afford a Hervey, York, or Gage?
Dullness no more roosts only near the sky,
But senates, drawing-rooms, with garrets vie ;
Plump peers, and breadless bards, alike are dull;
St. James's and Rag-fair club fool for fool.
Amidst the mighty dull, behold how great
An Appius swells, the Tibbald of the state!
Long had he strove to spread his lawless sway
O'er Britain's sons, and force them to obey;
But, blasted all his blooming hopes, he flies
To vent his woe, and mourn his lost excise.
Pensive he sat, and sigh'd, while round him
Loads of dull lumber, all inspir'd by pay:
Here, puny pamphlets, spun from prelates'
There, the smooth jingle of Cooke's lighter
Here, Walsingham's soft lulling opiate spread;
There, gloomy Osborn's quintessence of lead:
With these the statesman strove to ease his
To sooth his sorrows, and divert despair:
But long his grief sleep's gentle aid denies;
At length a slumb'rous Briton clos'd his eyes.
Yet vain the healing balm of downy rest,
To chase his woe, or ease his lab'ring breast:
Now frightful forms rise hideous to his view,
More, Strafford, Laud, and all the headless crew;
Daggers and halters boding terrour breeds,
And here a Dudley swings, there Villiers bleeds.
Now goddess Dulness, watchful o'er his fate,
And ever anxious for her child of state;
From couch of down slow rais'd her drowsy head,
Forsook her slumbers, and to Appius sped.
"Awake, my son, awake," the goddess cries, "Nor longer mourn thy darling lost excise:" (Here the sad sound unseal'd the statesman's eyes)
"Why slumbers thus my son, opprest with care?
While Dullness rules, say, shall her sons despair?
O'er all I spread my universal sway;
Kings, prelates, peers, and rulers, all obey :
Lo! in the church my mighty pow'r I shew,
In pulpit preach, and slumber in the pew:
* Names assumed by writers of two ministerial papers.
The bench and bar alike my influence owns; Here prate my magpies, and there doze my drones.
In the grave dons, how formal is my mien,
Who rule the gallipots of Warwick-lane:
At court behold me strut in purple pride,
At Hockley roar, and in Crane-court preside.
But chief in thee my mighty pow'r is seen;
'Tis I inspire thy mind, and fill thy mien ;
On thee, my child, my duller blessings shed,
And pour my opium o'er thy fav'rite head;
Rais'd thee a ruler of Britannia's fate,
And led thee blund'ring to the helm of state."
Here bow'd the statesman low, and thus ad-
"O goddess, sole inspirer of my
To gall the British neck with Gallic chain,
Long have I strove, but long have strove in vain ;
While Caleb, rebel to thy sacred pow'r,
Unveils those eyes which thou hast curtain'd o'er;
Makes Britain's sons my dark designs foresee,
Blast all my schemes, and struggle to be free.
O, had my projects met a milder fate,
How had I reign'd a basha of the state!
How o'er Britannia spread imperial sway!
How taught each free-born Briton to obey!
No smiling freedom then had cheer'd her swains,
But Asia's deserts vy'd with Albion's plains:
Turks, Vandals, Britain! then compar'd with
Had hugg'd their chains, and joy'd that they
While wond'ring nations all around had seen
Me rise a great Mogul, or Mazarin :
Then had I taught Britannia to adore,
Then led her captive to my lawless pow'r.
Methinks, I view her now no more appear
First in the train, and fairest 'midst the fair:
Joyless I see the lovely mourner lie,
Nor glow her cheek, nor sparkle now her eye;
Faded each grace, no smiling feature warm;
Torn all her tresses, blighted ev'ry charm:
Nor teeming plenty now each valley crowns;
Slaves are her sons, and tradeless all her towns.
For this, behold yon peaceful army fed;
For this, on senates see my bounty shed;
For this, what wonders, goddess, have I wrought!
How bully'd, begg'd, how treated, and how
What wand'ring maze of error blunder'd through,
And how repair'd old blunders still by new!
Hence the long train of never ending jars,
Of warful peaces, and of peaceful wars,
Each mystic treaty of the mighty store,
Which to explain, demands ten treaties more
Hence scarecrow navies, floating raree-shows;
And hence Iberia's pride, and Britain's woes.
These wond'rous works, O goddess! have I done,
Works ever worthy Dulness' fav'rite son.
"Lo! on thy sons alone my favours show'r;
None share my bounty that disdain thy pow'r :
Yon feathers, ribbons, titles light as air,
Behold, thy choicest children only share:
Each views the pageant with admiring eyes,
And fondly grasps the visionary prize;
Now proudly spreads his leading-string of state,
And thinks-to be a wretch, is to be great.
9 Caleb D'Anvers, the name assumed by the writers of the Craftsman.
But turn, O goddess! turn thine eyes, and
The darling leaders of thy gloomy crew.
"Full open-mouth'd Newcastle there behold, Aping a Tully, swell into a scold, Grievous to mortal ear.-As at the place Where loud tongu'd virgins vend the scaly race, Harsh peals of vocal thunder fill the skies, And stunning sounds in hideous discord rise; So, when he tries the wond'rous power of noise, Each hapless ear's a victim to his voice.
10 How blest, O Cheselden! whose art can mend
Those ears Newcastle was ordain'd to rend. "See Harrington secure in silence sit; No empty words betray his want of wit: If sense in hiding folly is express'd, O Harrington! thy wisdom stands confess'd. "To Dullness' sacred cause for ever true, Thy darling Caledonian, goddess, view; The pride and glory of thy Scotia's plains, And faithful leader of her venal swains: Loaded he moves beneath a servile weight, The dull laborious packhorse of the state; Drudges through tracks of infamy for pay, And hackneys out his conscience by the day: Yonder behold the busy peerless peer, With aspect neagre and important air; His form how gothic, and his looks how sage! He seems the living Plato of the age.
Blest form in which alone thy merit's
Since all thy wisdom centers in thy mien ! "Here Egmont, Albemarle, (for senates fit) And W- by the wise, in council sit: Here looby Gn, Grm over dull, By birth a senator, by fate a fool. "While these, Britannia, watchful o'er thy state,
Maintain thine honours, and direct thy fate,
How shall admiring nations round adore,
Behold thy greatness, tremble at thy pow'r;
New Shebas come, invited by thy fame,
Revere thy wisdom, and extol thy name!
"Lo! to yon berich now, goddess, turn thine
And view thy sons in solemn dullness rise: [eyes,
All doating, wrinkled, grave, and gloomy, see
Each form confess thy dull divinity;
True to thy cause behold each trencher'd sage
Increas'd in fully as advanc'd in age:
Here Chr, learn'd in mystic prophecy,
Confuting Collins, makes each prophet lie:
Poor Woolston by thy Smallbrook there assail'd;
Jails sure convinc'd him, though the prelate
If arts like those, O Sherlock, honours claim,
Than thee none merits more the prelate's name:
Wond'ring behold him faithful to his fee,
Prove parliaments dependent to be free;
In senates blunder, flounder and dispute,
For ever reas'ning, never to confute.
Since courts for this their fated gifts decree,
Say, what is reputation to a see?
"Lo! o'er yon flood Hare casts his low'ring And wishful sees the rev'rend turrets rise. [eyes, While Lambeth opens to thy longing view, Hapless! the mitre ne'er can bind thy brow: Though courts should deign the gift, how wond'rous hard
By thy own doctrines still to be debarr'd!
For, if from change" such mighty evil springs,
Translations sure, O Hare! are sinful things.
"These rulers see, and nameless numbers
O goddess, of thy train the choicest store, [more,
Who ignorance in gravity entrench,
And grace alike the pulpit and the bench.
"Full plac'd and pension'd,see! Horatio stands;
Begrim'd his face, unpurify'd his hands:
To decency he scorns all nice pretence,
And reigns firm foe to cleanliness and sense.
How did Horatio Britain's cause advance!
How shine the sloven and buffoon of France!
In senates now, how scold, bow rave, how roar,
Of treaties run the tedious train-trow o'er!
How blunder out whate'er should be conceal'd,
And how keep secret what should be reveal'd!
True child of Dullness! see him, goddess, claim
Pow'r next myself, as next in birth and fame.
"Silence! ye senates, while enribbon'd Younge Pours forth melodious nothings from his tongue! How sweet the accents play around the ear, Form'd of smooth periods, and of well-tun'd air!
Leave, gentle Younge, the senate's dry debate,
Nor labour 'midst the labyrinths of state;
Suit thy soft genius to more tender themes,
And sing of cooling shades, and purling streams;
With modern sing-song murder ancient plays 12,
Or warble in sweet ode a Brunswick's praise:
So shall thy strains in purer dullness flow,
And laurels wither on a Cibber's brow.
Say, can the statesman wield the poet's quill,
And quit the senate for Parnassus' Hill?'
Since there no venal vote a pension shares,
Nor wants Apollo lords commissioners.
"There W and P, godless, view,
Firm in thy cause, and to thy Appius true!
Lo! from their labours what reward betides!
One pays my army, one my navy guides.
"To dance, dress, sing, and serenade the fair, 'Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair,' O'er baleful tea with females taught to blame, And spread a slander o'er a virgin's fame, Form'd for these softer arts shall Hervey strain With stubborn politics his tender brain!
11 A noted sermon preached on the 30th of January, on this text, "Woe be unto them that are given to change," &c.
12 This gentleman, with the assistance of Roome, Concanen, and several others, altered the c medy of the Jovial Crew into a modern ballad opera; which was scarce exhibited on the stage, before it was thought necessary to be contracted into one act.
For ministers laborious pamphlets write,
In senates prattle, and with patriots fight!
Thy foud ambition, pretty youth, give o'er,
Preside at balls, old fashions lost restore;
So shall each toilette in thy cause engage,
And Hey shine a Pre of the age.
"Behold a star emblazon C-n's coat!
Not that the knight has merit, bnt a vote.
And here, O goddess, num'rous wrongheads trace,
Lur'd by a pension, ribband, or a place.
"To murder science, and my cause defend, Now shoals of Grub-street garretteers descend; From schools and desks the writing insects crawl, Unlade their dullness, and for Appius bawl. "Lo! to thy darling Osborne turn thine eyes, See him o'er politics superior rise; While Caleb feels the venom of his quill; And wond'ring ministers reward his skill: Unlearn'd in logic, yet he writes by rule, And proves himself in syllogism-a fool; Now flies obedient, war with sense to wage, And drags th' idea thro' the painful page: Unread, unanswer'd, still he writes again, Still spins the endless cobweb of his brain: Charm'd with each line, reviewing what he writ, Blesses his stars, and wonders at his wit.
“Nor less, O Walsingham, thy worth appears! Alike in merit, tho' unlike in years: Ill-fated youth! what stars malignant shed Their baneful influence o'er thy brainless head, Doom'd to be ever writing, never read! For bread to libel liberty and sense, And damn thy patron weekly with defence. Drench'd in the sable flood, O hadst thou still O'er skins of parchment drove thy venal quill, At Temple ale-house told an idle tale, And pawn'd thy credit for a mug of ale; Unknown to Appius then had been thy name, Unlac'd thy coat, unsacrific'd his fame; Nor vast unvended reams would Peele deplore, As victims destin'd to the common-shore. "As dunce to dunce in endless numbers breed, So to Concanen see a Ralph succeed; A tiny witling of these writing days, [plays. Full-fam'd for tuneless rhimes, and short-liv'd Write on, my luckless bard, still unasham'd, Tho' burnt thy journals, and thy dramas damn'd; 'Tis bread inspires thy politics and lays, Not thirst of immortality or praise.
"These, goddess, view, the choicest of the train, While yet unnumber'd dunces still remain ; Deans, critics, lawyers, bards, a motley crew, To dullness faithful, as to Appius true."
"Enough," the goddess cries, "enough I've seen;
While these support, secure my son shall reign;
Still shalt thou blund'ring rule Britannia's fate,
Still Grub-street hail thee minister of state.
Paulus vel Cossus vel Drusus moribus esto.
WELL-of all plagues which make mankind their sport, [-a court. Guard me, ye Heav'ns! from that worst plague
"Midst the inad mansions of Moorfields, I'd be
A straw-crown'd monarch, in mock majesty,
Rather than sovereign rule Britannia's fate,
Curs'd with the follies and the farce of state.
Rather in Newgate walls, O! let me dwell,
A doleful tenant of the darkling cell,
Than swell, in palaces, the mighty store
Of fortune's fools, and parasites of pow'r.
Than crowns, ye gods! be any state my doom,
Or any dungeon, but-a drawing-room.
"Thrice happy patriot! whom no courts debase,
No titles lessen, and no stars disgrace.
Still nod the plumage o'er the brainless head;
Still o'er the faithless heart the ribband spread.
Such toys may serve to signalize the tool,
To gild the knave, or garnish out the fool;
While you, with Roman virtue arm'd, disdain
The tinsel trappings and the glitt'ring chain:
Fond of your freedom spurn the venal fee,
And prove he's only great-who dares be free."
Thus sung Philemon in his calm retreat,
Too wise for pow'r, too virtuous to be great.
"But whence this rage at courts?" reply'd his
"Say, is the mighty crime, to be in place?
Is that the deadly sin, mark'd out by Heav'n,
For which no mortal e'er can be forgiv'n?
Must all, all suffer, who in courts engage,
Down from lord steward, to the puny page?
Can courts and places be such sinful things,
The sacred gifts and palaces of kings?"
A place may claim our rev'rence, sir, I own;
But then the man its dignity must crown:
'Tis not the truncheon, or the ermine's pride,
Can screen the coward, or the knave can hide.
Let Stair and *** head our arms and law,
The judge and genʼral must be view'd with awe:
The villain then would shudder at the bar;
And Spain grow humble at the sound of war.
What courts are sacred, when I tell your grace, Manners alone must sanctify the place? Hence only each its proper name receives; Haywood's a brothel; White's' a den of thieves: Bring whores and thieves to court, you change
St. James's turns the brothel, and the den.
Who would the courtly chapel holy call, Tho' the whole bench should consecrate the wall? While the trim chaplain, conscious of a fee, Cries out, “My king, I have no God but thee;" Lifts to the royal seat the asking eye, And pays to George the tribute of the sky; Proves sin alone from humble roofs must spring, Nor can one earthly failing stain a king.
Bishops and kings may consecrate, 'tis true; Without, the court and church are both prophane, Manners alone claim homage as their due. Whatever prelate preach, or monarch reign; Religion's rostrum virtue's scaffold grows, And crowns and mitres are mere raree-shows. In vain, behold you rev'rend turrets rise, And Sarum's sacred spire salute the skies!
Dr. Swift says, "that the late earl of Oxford, in the time of his ministry, never passed by White's chocolate-house (the common rendezvous of infamous sharpers and noble cullies) without bestowing a curse upon that famous academy, as the bane of half the English nobility."
If the lawn'd Levite's earthly vote be sold,
And God's free gift retail'd for Mammon gold;
No rev'rence can the proud cathedral claim,
But Henley's shop, and Sherlock's, are the same.
Whence have St. Stephen's walls so hallow'd
Whence? From the virtue of his sons within.
But should some guileful serpent, void of grace,
Glide in its bounds, and poison all the place;
Should e'er the sacred voice be set to sale,
And o'er the heart the golden fruit prevail;
The place is alter'd, sir; nor think it strange
To see the senate sink into a change.
Or court, or church, or senate-house, or hall,
Manners alone beam dignity on all.
Without their influence, palaces are cells;
Crane-court, a magazine of cockle-shells;
The solemn bench no bosom strikes with awe,
But Westminster's a warehouse of the law.
These honest truths, my lord, deny who can; Since all allow that " Manners make the man." Hence only glories to the great belong, Or peers must mingle with the peasant throng. Though strung with ribbands, yet behold his Shines but a lacquey in a higher place! [grace Strip the gay liv'ry from the courtier's back, What marks the diff'rence 'twixt my lord andJack? The same mean, supple, mercenary knave, The tool of power, and of state the slave: Alike the vassal heart in each prevails, And all his lordship boasts is larger vales. Wealth, manors, titles, may descend, 'tis true; But ev'ry heir must merit's claim renew.
Who blushes not to see a C- heir
Turn slave to sound, and languish for a play'r?
What piping, fidling, squeaking, quav'ring, brawl-
What sing-song riot, and what eunuch-squawling!
C, thy worth all Italy shall own,
A statesman fit, where Nero fill'd the throne.
See poor Lævinus, anxious for renown,
Through the long gallery trace his lineage down,
And claim each hero's visage for his own.
What though in each the self same features shine,
Unless some lineal virtue marks the line,
In vain, alas! he boasts his grandsire's name,
Or hopes to borrow lustre of his fame.
Who but must smile, to see the tim'rous peer
Point 'mong his race onc bulwark in the war?
Or in sad English tell how senates hung
On the sweet music of his father's tongue?
Unconscious, though his sires were wise and brave,
Their virtues only find in him a grave.
Not so with Stanhope; see by him sustain'd
Fach hoary honour which his sires had gain'd.
To him the virtues of his race appear
The precious portion of five hundred year;
Descended down, by him to be enjoy'd,
Yet holds the talent lost, if unemploy'd.
From hence behold his gen'rous ardour rise,
To swell the sacred stream with fresh supplies:
Abroad, the guardian of his country's cause;
At home, a Tully to defend her laws.
Senates with awe the patriot sounds imbibe,
And bold corruption almost drops the bribe.
Thus added worth to worth, and grace to grace,
He beams new glories back upon his race.
Ask ye, what's honour? I'll the truth impart.
Know, honour, then, is honesty of heart.
To the sweet scenes of social Stow 6 repair,
And search the master's breast,-you'll find it
Too proud to grace the sycophant or slave,
It only harbours with the wise and brave;
Ungain'd by titles, places, wealth, or birth:
Learn this, and learn to blush, ye sons of Earth!
Blush to behold this ray of nature made
The victim of a ribband, or cockade.
Ask the proud peer, what's honour? he dis
A purchas'd patent, or the herald's blaze;
Or, if the royal smile his hopes has blest,
Points to the glitt'ring glory on his breast:
Yet, if beneath no real virtue reign,
On the gay coat the star is but a stain:
For I could whisper in his lordship's ear,
Worth only beams true radiance on the star,
Hence see the garter'd glory dart its rays,
And shine round Ewith redoubled blaze :
Ask ye from whence this flood of lustre's seen?
Why Ewhispers, votes, and saw Turin,
Long Milo reign'd the minion of renown; Loud his eulogiums echo'd through the town: Where'er he went, still crowds around him throng, And hail'd the patriot as he pass'd along. See the lost peer, unhonour'd now by all, Steal through the street, or skulk along the Mall; Applauding sounds no more salute his ear, But the loud Paan's sunk into a sneer. Whence, you'll inquire, could spring a change so Why, the poor man ran military mad; By this mistaken maxim still misled, That men of honour must be cloth'd in red. My grandsire wore it, Milo cries-'tis good; But know, the grandsire stain'd it red with blood. First 'midst the deathful dangers of the field, He shone his country's guardian, and its shield; Taught Danube's stream with Gallic gore to flow; Hence bloom'd the laurel on the grandsire's brow But shall the son expect the wreath to wear, For the mock triumphs of an Hyde park war? Sooner shall Bunhill, Blenheim's glories claim, Or Billers rival brave Eugene in fame; Sooner a like reward their labours crown, Who storm a dunghill, and who sack a town. Mark our bright youths, how gallant and how gay,
Fresh plum'd and powder'd in review array.
Unspoil'd each feature by the martial scar,
Lo! A assumes the god of war:
Yet vain, while prompt to arms by plume and
He claims the soldier's name from soldier's play.
This truth, my warrior, treasure in thy breast;
A standing soldier is a standing jest.
When bloody battles dwindle to reviews,
Armies must then descend to puppet-shews ;
Where the lac'd log may strat the soldier's part,
Bedeck'd with feather, though unarnı'd with heart
The seat of the right honourable the lord viscount Cobham.
There are who say, "You lash the sins of men! Leave, leave to Pope the poignance of the pen; Hope not the bays shall wreath around thy head; Fannius may write, but Flaccus will be read." Shall only one have privilege to blame? What then, are vice and folly royal game? Must all be poachers who attempt to kill? All, but the mighty sovereign of the quill? Shall Pope, alone, the plenteous harvest have, And I not glean one straggling fool, or knave? Praise, 'tis allow'd, is free to all mankind; Say, why should honest satire be confin'd? Though, like th' immortal bard's, my feeble dart Stains not its feather in the culprit heart; Yet know, the smallest insect of the wing The horse may tease, or elephant can sting: Ev'n I, by chance, some lucky darts may show'r, And gall some great leviathans of pow'r.
I name not Walpole; you the reason guess; Mark yon fell harpy hov'ring o'er the press. Secure the Muse may sport with names of kings; But ministers, my friend, are dang'rous things. Who would have Paxton 7 answer what he writ; Or special juries, judges of his wit?
Pope writes unhurt-but know, 'tis diffrent
To beard the lion, and to crush the mite.
Safe may he dash the statesman in each line;
Those dread his satire, who dare punish mine.
"Turn, turn your satire then," you cry,
Why, praise is satire, in these sinful days.
Say, should I make a patriot of sir Bill,
Or swear that G's duke has wit at will;
From the gull'd knight could I expect a place,
Or hope to lie a dinner from his grace,
Though a reward be graciously bestow'd
On the soft satire of each birth-day ode?
The good and bad alike with praise are blest;
Yet those who merit most, still want it least:
But conscious vice still courts the cheering ray,
While virtue shines, nor asks the glare of day.
Need I to any, Pult'ney's worth declare?
Or tell him Carteret charms, who has an ear?
Or, Pitt, can thy example be unknown,
While each fond father marks it to his son ?
I cannot truckle to a slave in state, And praise a blockhead's wit, because he's great: Down, down, ye hungry garretteers, descend, Call Walpole 8 Burleigh, call him Britain's friend; Behold the genial ray of gold appear, And rouse, ye swarms of Grub-street and Rag-fair. See with what zeal yon tiny insect 9 burns, And follows queens from palaces to urns: Though cruel death has clos'd the royal ear, That flatt'ring fly still buzzes round the bier: But what avails, since queens no longer live? Why, kings can read, and kings, you know, may give.
A mitre may repay his heav'nly crown,
And, while he decks her brow, adorn his own.
Let laureat Cibber birth-day sonnets sing,
Or Fanny crawl, an ear-wig on the king:
While one is void of wit, and one of grace,
Why should I envy either song or place?
I could not flatter, the rich butt to gain;
Nor sink a slave, to rise vice chamberlain.
Perish my verse! whene'er one venal line
Bedaubs a duke, or makes a king divine.
First bid me swear, he's sound who has the
| Or Horace rivals Stanhope at the Hague.
What, shall I turn a pander to the throne,
And list with B-ll's 10 to roar for half-a-crown?
Sooner T--I shall with Tully vie,
Or W-n-n in senate scorn a lie;
Sooner Iberia tremble for her fate
From M-h's arms, or Ab-n's debate.
Though fawning flatt'ry ne'er shall taint my
See these two characters compared in the Gazetteers; but, lest none of those papers should have escaped their common fate, see the two characters distinguished in the Craftsman.
9 Dr. Alured Clarke, who wrote, or rather stole, a character of the late queen from Dr. Burnet's character of queen Mary. This pamphlet, however, has been ascribed to lord Hervey.
Yet know, when virtue calls, I burst to praise.
Behold yon temple " rais'd by Cobham's hand,
Sacred to worthies of his native land:
Ages were ransack'd for the wise and great,
Till Barnard came, and made the groupe com-
Be Barnard there-enliven'd by the voice,
Each busto bow'd, and sanctify'd the choice.
Pointless all satire in these iron times;
Too faint are colours, and too feeble rhymes.
Rise then, gay fancy, future glories bring,
And stretch o'er happier days thy healing wing.
Rapt into thought, lo! I Britannia see
Rising superior o'er the subject sea;
View her gay pendents spread their silken wings,
Big with the fate of empires, and of kings:
The tow'ring barks dance lightly o'er the main,
And roll their thunder thro' the realms of Spain.
Peace, violated maid, they ask no more,
But waft her back triumphant to our shore;
While buxom Plenty, laughing in her train,
Glads ev'ry heart, and crowns the warrior's pain.
On, fancy, on! still stretch the pleasing scene,
And bring fair freedom with her golden reign;
Cheer'd by whose beams ev'n meagre want can
And the poor peasant whistle 'midst his toil.
Such days, what Briton wishes not to see? And such each Briton, Frederic 12, hopes from thee.
1 A noted agent in a mob-regiment, who is employed to reward their venal vociferations, on cer tain occasions, with half-a-crown each man.
"The Temple of British Worthies in the gardens at Stow, in which the lord Cobham has lately erected the busto of sir John Barnard.
1 The father of George the Third.