POEMS OF EDWARD MO O R E.
A N O DE
TO THE RIGHT NONOURABLE
H : N R x P E L H Ả M.
-Vir bonus eft quis ?
AKE wing, my muse! from shore to shore
Fly, and that happy place explore
Where Virtue deigns to dwell ;
Hyet Mhe treads on British ground,
Where can the fugitive be found,
In city, court, or cell ?
Not there, where wine and frantic mirth
Unite the sensual fons of earth
In Pleasure's thoughtless train ;
Nor yet where sanctity's a show,
Where fouls nor joy nor pity know
For human bliss or pain.
Her social heart alike disowns
The race, who Thunning crowds and thrones,
In Mades sequesterd doze ;
Whose Noth no generous care can wake,
Who rot like weeds on Lethe's lake,
In senseless, vile repose.
With these she shuns the factious tribe,
Who spurn the yet unoffer'd bribe,
And at corruption lour;
Waiting till Discord Havock cries,
In hopes, Kike Catiline, to rise
On anarchy to pow'r!
Ye Wits, who boast from ancient times,
A right divine to scourge our crimes,
Is it with you the rests ?
No. Int'reft, Nander are your views,
And Virtue now, with every muse,
Flies your unhallow'd breasts.
There was a time, I heard her say,
Ere females were seduc'd by play,
When Beauty was her throne ;
But now, where dwelt the Soft Defires,
The Furies light forbidden fires,
To Love and Her unknown.
From these th' indignant goddess fies,
And where the spires of Science rise,
A while suspends her wing ;
But pedant Pride and Rage are there,
And Faction tainting all the air,
And pois'ning every spring.
Long through the sky's wide pathless way
The muse observ'd the wand'rer stray,
And mark'd her last retreat ;
O'er Surrey's barren heaths the flow,
Descending like the filent dew
On Ether's peaceful seat.
There the beholds the gentle Mole
His pensive waters calmly roll,
Amidst Elysian ground:
There through the windings of the grove
She leads her family of Love,
And strews her sweets around.
I hear her bid the Daughters fair
Oft to yon gloomy grot repair,
Her secret steps to meet ;
Nor Thou, the cries, these shades forsake,
But come, lov'd Confort, come and make
The husband's bliss complete.
Yet not too much the soothing ease
Of rural indolence thall please
My Pelham's ardent breast;
The man whom Virtue calls her own
Must stand the pillar of a throne,
And make a nation bleft.