O race erect! by manliest passions mov'd,
The labours which to Virtue stand approv'd,
Prompt with a lover's fondness to survey;
Yet, where Injustice works her wilful claim,
Fierce as the flight of Jove's destroying flame,
Impatient to confront, and dreadful to repay.
These thy heart owns no longer. In their room
See the grave queen of pageants, Honour, dwell,
Couch'd in thy bosom's deep tempestuous gloom,
Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell.
Before her rites thy sickening reason flew,
Divine Persuasion from thy tongue withdrew,
While Laughter mock'd, or Pity stole a sigh:
Can Wit her tender movements rightly frame
Where the prime function of the soul is lame?
Can Fancy's feeble springs the force of Truth
supply?
But come: 'tis time: strong Destiny impends
To shut thee from the joys thou hast betray'd:
With princes fill'd, the solemn fane ascends,
By Infamy, the mindful demon sway'd.
There vengeful vows for guardian laws effac'd,
From nations fetter'd, and from towns laid waste,
For ever through the spacious courts resound:
There long posterity's united groan,
And the sad charge of horrors not their own,
Assail the giant chiefs, and press them to the ground.
In sight old Time, imperious judge, awaits: Above revenge, or fear, or pity, just, He urgeth onward to those guilty gates The Great, the Sage, the Happy, and August. And still he asks them of the hidden plan Whence every treaty, every war began, Evolves their secrets, and their guilt proclaims: And still his hands despoil them on the road Of each vain wreath by lying bards bestow'd, And crush their trophies huge, and raze their sculptur'd
Ye mighty shades, arise, give place, attend:
Here his eternal mansion Curio seeks:
-Low doth proud Wentworth1 to the stranger bend,
And his dire welcome hardy Clifford speaks:
"He comes, whom fate with surer arts prepar'd
To accomplish all which we but vainly dar'd;
Whom o'er the stubborn herd she taught to reign:
Who sooth'd with gaudy dreams their raging power,
Even to its last irrevocable hour;
Then baffled their rude strength, and broke them to the chain."
But ye, whom yet wise Liberty inspires,
Whom for her champions o'er the world she claims, (That household godhead whom of old your sires Sought in the woods of Elbe and bore to Thames) Drive ye this hostile omen far away; Their own fell efforts on her foes repay; Your wealth, your arts, your fame, be hers alone: Still gird your swords to combat on her side; Still frame your laws her generous test to abide; And win to her defence the altar and the throne.
Protect her from yourselves, ere yet the flood
Of golden Luxury, which Commerce pours,
Hath spread that selfish fierceness through your blood,
Which not her lightest discipline endures:
Snatch from fantastic demagogues her cause:
Dream not of Numa's manners, Plato's laws :
A wiser founder, and a nobler plan,
O sons of Alfred, were for you assign'd:
Bring to that birthright but an equal mind,
And no sublimer lot will fate reserve for man.
1 The famous Earl of Strafford.-W.
2 The minister of the Cabal. Akenside remembered the popular ballad, which is supposed to have been written by Lord Dorset :
"Clarendon had law and sense,
Clifford was fierce and brave."-W.
QUEEN of my songs, harmonious maid,
Ah, why hast thou withdrawn thy aid?
Ah, why forsaken thus my breast
With inauspicious damps oppress'd?
Where is the dread prophetic heat,
With which my bosom wont to beat?
Where all the bright mysterious dreams
Of haunted groves and tuneful streams,
That woo'd my genius to divinest themes?
Say, goddess, can the festal board,
Or young Olympia's form ador'd;
Say, can the pomp of promis'd fame
Relume thy faint, thy dying flame ?
Or have melodious airs the power
To give one free, poetic hour?
Or, from amid the Elysian train,
The soul of Milton shall I gain,
To win thee back with some celestial strain ?
O powerful strain! O sacred soul!
His numbers every sense control:
And now again my bosom burns;
The Muse, the Muse herself returns.
Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd,
I hail'd the fair immortal guest,
When first she seal'd me for her own,
Made all her blissful treasures known,
And bade me swear to follow Her alone.
No, foolish youth-To virtuous fame
If now thy early hopes be vow'd,
If true ambition's nobler flame
Command thy footsteps from the crowd,
Lean not to Love's enchanting snare; His songs, his words, his looks beware, Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.
By thought, by dangers, and by toils, The wreath of just renown is worn ; Nor will ambition's awful spoils The flowery pomp of ease adorn: But Love unbends the force of thought ; By Love unmanly fears are taught: And Love's reward with gaudy sloth is bought.
Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays,
And heard from many a zealous breast,
The pleasing tale of Beauty's praise
In wisdom's lofty language dress'd ;
Of beauty powerful to impart
Each finer sense, each comelier art,
And soothe and polish man's ungentle heart.
If then, from Love's deceit secure,
Thus far alone thy wishes tend,
Go; see the white-wing'd evening hour
On Delia's vernal walk descend:
Go, while the golden light serene,
The grove, the lawn, the soften'd scene,
Becomes the presence of the rural queen.
Attend, while that harmonious tongue
Each bosom, each desire commands:
Apollo's lute by Hermes strung,
And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands,
Attend. I feel a force divine,
O Delia, win my thoughts to thine;
That half the colour of thy life is mine.
Yet conscious of the dangerous charm,
Soon would I turn my steps away;
Nor oft provoke the lovely harm,
Nor lull my reason's watchful sway.
But thou my friend-I hear thy sighs:
Alas, I read thy downcast eyes;
And thy tongue falters; and thy colour flies.
So soon again to meet the fair?
So pensive all this absent hour?
- yet, unlucky youth, beware,
While yet to think is in thy power.
In vain with friendship's flattering name
Thy passion veils its inward shame ;
Friendship, the treacherous fuel of thy flame!
Once, I remember, new to Love,
And dreading his tyrannic chain,
I sought a gentle maid to prove
What peaceful joys in friendship reign:
Whence we forsooth might safely stand,
And pitying view the lovesick band,
And mock the winged boy's malicious hand.
Thus frequent pass'd the cloudless day,
To smiles and sweet discourse resign'd;
While I exulted to survey
One generous woman's real mind:
Till friendship soon my languid breast
Each night with unknown cares possess'd,
Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress'd.
Fool that I was-And now, even now
While thus I preach the Stoic strain,
Unless I shun Olympia's view,
An hour unsays it all again.
O friend!-when Love directs her eyes
To pierce where every passion lies,
Where is the firm, the cautious, or the wise?
TO SIR FRANCIS HENRY DRAKE, BARONET.
BEHOLD; the Balance in the sky
Swift on the wintry scale inclines:
To earthy caves the Dryads fly,
And the bare pastures Pan resigns.
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