On earth arrive, with thankful awe
We own just Heaven's indulgent law,
And proudly thy success behold;
We attend thy reverend length of days1
With benediction and with praise,
And hail thee in our public ways
Like some great spirit fam'd in ages old.
III. 3.

While thus our vows prolong

Thy steps on earth, and when by us resign'd Thou join'st thy seniors, that heroic throng Who rescu'd or preserv'd the rights of human kind, O! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongue Thee still, her friend and benefactor, name: O! never, Hoadly, in thy country's eyes, May impious gold, or pleasure's gaudy prize Make public virtue, public freedom vile; Nor our own manners tempt us to disclaim That heritage, our noblest wealth and fame, Which thou hast kept entire from force and factious guile.

ODE VIII.

I.

IF rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix'd in Love's decrees,
That Beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell,
What fair can Amoret excel?

II.

Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet (she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen,)
We nought but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

'Hoadly was born 1676, died 1761.-W.

III.

But neither music, nor the

powers Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half that sunshine to the hours, Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by.

IV.

Yet not a satirist could there
Or fault or indiscretion find;
Nor any prouder sage declare

One virtue pictur'd in his mind, Whose form with lovelier colours glows Than Amoret's demeanor shows.

V.

This sure is Beauty's happiest part:
This gives the most unbounded sway:
This shall enchant the subject heart,
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

ODE IX.

AT STUDY.

I.

WHITHER did my fancy stray?
By what magic drawn away

Have I left my studious theme?

From this philosophic page,

From the problems of the sage,

Wandering through a pleasing dream?

II.

'Tis in vain, alas! I find,

Much in vain, my zealous mind

Would to learned Wisdom's throne

Dedicate each thoughtful hour:

Nature bids a softer power

Claim some minutes for his own.

III.

Let the busy or the wise
View him with contemptuous eyes;
Love is native to the heart:
Guide its wishes as you will;
Without Love you'll find it still
Void in one essential part.

IV.

Me though no peculiar fair
Touches with a lover's care;

Though the pride of my desire
Asks immortal friendship's name,
Asks the palm of honest fame,
And the old heroic lyre;

V.

Though the day have smoothly gone,
Or to letter'd leisure known,

Or in social duty spent ;
Yet at eve my lonely breast
Seeks in vain for perfect rest;
Languishes for true content.

ODE X.

TO THOMAS EDWARDS, ESQ.; ON THE LATE EDITION OF MR POPE'S WORKS. 1751.1

I.

BELIEVE me, Edwards, to restrain
The license of a railer's tongue
Is what but seldom men obtain
By sense or wit, by prose or song;
A task for more Herculean powers,
Nor suited to the sacred hours

Of leisure in the Muse's bowers.

1 By Warburton, against whom Edwards wrote his once famous and still remembered Canons of Criticism. Boswell relates that, soon after the publication of that book, Johnson happened to dine with Tonson, and when the company praised Edwards, the Doctor admitted his merit, but checked the attempt to "pit" him against Warburton. "Nay, he has given him some hard hits, to be sure; but there is no proportion between the two men ; they must not be named together. A fly may sting a stately horse, and make him wince; but one is an insect, the other is a horse still." Undoubtedly the "Canons" are very acute, and the style is bold and slashing. The Bishop himself might have written the following passage :-" And now I hope I have taken leave of Mr. Warburton and his works; unless, to complete the massacre of our best English poets, he should take it into his head to murder Spenser as he did Shakspere, and, in part, Milton also."-W.

II.

In bowers where laurel weds with palm,
The Muse, the blameless queen, resides;
Fair Fame attends, and Wisdom calm
Her eloquence harmonious guides:
While, shut for ever from her gate
Oft trying, still repining, wait
Fierce Envy and calumnious Hate.

III.

Who then from her delightful bounds
Would step one moment forth, to heed
What impotent and savage sounds
From their unhappy mouths proceed?
No: rather Spenser's lyre again
Prepare, and let thy pious strain
For Pope's dishonour'd shade complain.

IV.

Tell how displeas'd was every bard,
When lately in the Elysian grove
They of his Muse's guardian heard,
His delegate to fame above;
And what with one accord they said
Of wit in drooping age misled,
And Warburton's officious aid:1

V.

How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fate
To that melodious lyre assign'd,
Beneath a tutor, who so late
With Midas and his rout combin'd
By spiteful clamour to confound
That very lyre's enchanting sound,
Tho' listening realms admir'd around:

VI.

How Horace own'd he thought the fire
Of his friend Pope's satiric line
Did farther fuel scarce require

From such a militant divine:

'During Mr. Pope's war with Theobald, Concanen, and the rest of their tribe, Mr. Warburton, the present Lord Bishop of Gloucester, did with great zeal cultivate their friendship; having been introduced, forsooth, at the meetings of that respectable confederacy; a favour which he afterwards spoke of in very high terms of complacency and thankfulness. At the same time in his intercourse with them, he treated Mr. Pope in a most contemptuous manner. and as a writer without genius. Of the truth of these assertions his lordship can have no doubt, if he recollects his own correspondence with Concanen; a part of which is still in being, and will probably be remembered as long as any of this prelate's writings.

How Milton scorn'd the sophist vain,
Who durst approach his hallow'd strain
With unwash'd hands and lips profane.

VII.

Then Shakespeare debonair and mild
Brought that strange comment forth to view;
Conceits more deep, he said, and smil'd,
Than his own fools or madmen knew:
But thank'd a generous friend above,
Who did with free adventurous love
Such pageants from his tomb remove.

VIII.

And if to Pope, in equal need,
The same kind office thou wouldst pay,
Then, Edwards, all the band decreed
That future bards with frequent lay
Should call on thy auspicious name,
From each absurd intruder's claim
To keep inviolate their fame.

ODE XI.

TO THE COUNTRY GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND.

I.

1758.1

WHITHER is Europe's ancient spirit fled?
Where are those valiant tenants of her shore,
Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped,
Or with firm hand the rapid pole-axe bore?
Freeman and Soldier was their common name.
Who late with reapers to the furrow came,
Now in the front of battle charg'd the foe:

Who taught the steer the wintry plough to endure, Now in full councils check'd encroaching power, And

gave the guardian Laws their majesty to know.

1 The Ode to the Country Gentlemen is unequal; but has noble and glorious passages in it. Mr. Elliott, father of Lord Minto, made an admirable speech in favour of the Scotch Militia, which I had the good fortune to hear, when I was a boy; and it was reported, that when commended on every side, as he was, for that performance" If I was above myself," he answered, "I can account for it; for I had been animated by the sublime ode of Dr. Akenside."-George Hardinge to Mr. Nichols, Literary Anecdotes, viii, 524.

-W.