To heavier dangers did his breast oppose

Than Pym's free virtue chose,

When the proud force of Strafford he controul'd.

IV. 3.

But what is man at enmity with truth?

[mind

What were the fruits of Wentworth's copious
When (blighted all the promise of his youth)
The patriot in a tyrant's league had join'd?
Let Ireland's loud-lamenting plains,

Let Tyne's and Humber's trampled swains,
Let menac'd London tell

How impious guile made wisdom base;
How generous zeal to cruel rage gave place;
And how unbless'd he liv'd, and how dishonour'd fell.

V. 1

Thence never hath the Muse
Around his tomb Pierian roses flung:
Nor shall one poet's tongue

His name for music's pleasing labour chuse.
And sure, when Nature kind

Hath deck'd some favour'd breast above the throng,
That man with grievous wrong

Affronts and wounds his genius, if he bends

To guilt's ignoble ends

The functions of his ill-submitting mind.

V. 2.

For worthy of the wise

Nothing can seem but virtue; nor earth yield
Their fame an equal field,

Save where impartial freedom gives the prize,

There Somers fix'd his name,

Inroll'd the next to William: there shall Time

To every wondering clime

Point out that Somers, who from faction's crowd, The slanderous and the loud,

Could fair assent and modest reverence claim.

V. 3.

Nor aught did laws or social arts acquire,
Nor this majestic weal of Albion's land
Did aught accomplish, or to aught aspire,
Without his guidance, his superior hand.
And rightly shall the Muse's care
Wreaths like her own for him prepare,
Whose mind's enamor'd aim

Could forms of civil beauty draw

Sublime as ever sage or poet saw,

Yet still to life's rude scene the proud ideas tame. VI. 1.

Let none profane be near!

The Muse was never foreign to his breast:

On power's grave seat confess'd,

Still to her voice he bent a lover's ear.

And if the blessed know

Their ancient cares, even now the' unfading groves,
Where haply Milton roves

With Spenser, hear the' inchanted echoes round
Through farthest Heaven resound
Wise Somers, guardian of their fame below.

VI. 2.

He knew, the patriot knew,
That letters and the Muses' powerful art
Exalt the' ingenuous heart,

And brighten every form of just and true.

They lend a nobler sway

To civil wisdom, than Corruption's lure
Could ever yet procure:

They too from Envy's pale malignant light
Conduct her forth to sight

Cloth'd in the fairest colours of the day.

VI. 3.

O Townshend, thus may Time, the judge severe,
Instruct my happy tongue of thee to tell :
And when I speak of one to freedom dear
For planning wisely and for acting well,
Of one whom Glory loves to own,
Who still by liberal means alone
Hath liberal ends pursued;

Then, for the guerdon of my lay,

• This man with faithful friendship,' will I say, 'From youth to honour'd age my arts and me hath view'd.'

ON LOVE OF PRAISE.

Of all the springs within the mind

Which prompt her steps in Fortune's maze, From none more pleasing aid we find

Than from the genuine love of praise.

Nor any partial, private end

Such reverence to the public bears;
Nor any passion, Virtue's friend,
So like to Virtue's self appears.

For who in glory can delight,

Without delight in glorious deeds? What man a charming voice can slight, Who courts the echo that succeeds?

But not the echo on the voice

More, than on virtue praise depends;
To which, of course, its real price
The judgment of the praiser lends.

If praise then with religious awe

From the sole perfect Judge be sought, A nobler aim, a purer law,

Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught.

With which, in character the same,
Though in an humbler sphere it lies,
I count that soul of human fame,--
The suffrage of the good and wise.

TO WILIAM HALL, ESQ.

WITH THE WORKS OF CHAULIEU.

ATTEND to Chaulieu's wanton lyre;
While, fluent as the sky-lark sings
When first the morn allures its wings,
The epicure his theme pursues:
And tell me if, among the choir
Whose music charms the banks of Seine,
So full, so free, so rich a strain
E'er dictated the warbling Muse.

Yet, Hall, while thy judicious ear,
Admires the well-dissembled art
That can such harmony impart
To the lame pace of Gallic rhymes;
While wit from affectation clear,
Bright images, and passions true,
Recal to thy assenting view
The envied bards of nobler times.

Say, is not oft his doctrine wrong?
This priest of pleasure, who aspires
To lead us to her sacred fires,
Knows he the ritual of her shrine?
Say (her sweet influence to thy song
So may the goddess still afford)
Doth she consent to be ador'd
With shameless love and frantic wine?

Nor Cato, nor Chrysippus here
Need we in high indignant phrase
From their Elysian quiet raise;
But pleasure's oracle alone
Consult; attentive, not severe.
O pleasure, we blaspheme not thee;
Nor emulate the rigid knee

Which bends but at the Stoic throne.

We own had fate to man assign'd
Nor sense, nor wish but what obey
Or Venus soft or Bacchus gay,
Then might our bard's voluptuous creed
Most aptly govern human kind:
Unless perchance what he hath sung
Of tortur'd joints and nerves unstrung,
Some wrangling heretic should plead.