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Say, for you search the images that roll
In deep recesses of the inmost soul,
Say, did ye e'er amid those numbers find
One wish disloyal, or one thought unkind?
Then snatch me, blast me, let the lightning's wing
Avert this stroke, and save the guilty king.
Let not my blood, by lawless passion shed,
Draw down Heav'n's vengeance on his sacred head,
But Nature's power prevent the dire decree,
And my hard lord without a crime be free.

Still, still I live, Heav'n hears not what I say,
Or turns, like Henry, from my pray'rs away.
Rejected, lost, O whither shall I fly,

I fear not death, yet dread the means to die.
To thee, O GOD, to thee again I come,
The sinner's refuge, and the wretch's home.
Since such thy will, farewell my blasted fame,
Let foul detraction seize my injur'd name:
No pang, no fear, no fond concern I'll know,
Nay smile in death, though Henry gives the blow.
And now, resign'd, my bosom lighter grows,
And hope, soft-beaming, brightens all my woes.
Release me, Earth; ye mortal bonds, untie :
Why loiters Henry, when I pant to die?
For angels call, Heav'n opens at the sound,
And glories blaze, and mercy streams around.
Adieu, ye fanes 6, whose purer flames anew
Rose with my rise, and as I flourish'd grew.
Well may ye now my weak protection spare,
The power that fix'd you shall preserve you there.
Small was my part, yet all I could employ,
And Heav'n repays it with eternal joy.

Thus rapt, O king, thus lab'ring to be free,
My gentlest passport still depend on thee. [prayer,
My hov'ring soul, though rais'd to Heaven by
Still bends to Earth, and finds one sorrow there;
Breathes for another's life its latest groan-
Resign'd and happy, might I part alone!
Why frowns my Lord ?-ere yet the stroke's de-
creed,

O hear a sister for a brother 7 plead.

By Heav'n! he's wrong'd.-Alas! why that to you?
You know he's wrong'd-you know, and yet pursue.
Unhappy youth! what anguish he endures!—
Was it for this he press'd me to be your's,
When ling'ring, wav'ring, on the brink I stood,
And ey'd obliquely the too tempting flood?
Was it for this his lavish tongue display'd
A monarch's graces to a love-sick maid?
With studied art consenting nature fir'd,
And forc'd my will to what it most desir'd?
Did he, enchanted by the flatt'ring scene,
Delude the sister, and exalt the queen,
To fall attendant on that sister's shade,
And die a victim with the queen he made?

And, witness Heav'n, I'd bear to see him die,
Did not that thought bring back the dreadful why:
The blasting foulness, that must still defame
Our lifeless ashes, and united name.

-Ah stop, my soul, nor let one thought pursue That fatal track, to wake thy pangs anew.— Perhaps some pitying bard shall save from death Our mangled fame, and teach our woes to breathe; Some kind historian's pious leaves display Our hapless loves, and wash the stains away.

6 Her marriage with king Henry was a means of introducing the protestant religion, of which she was a great patroness.

7 George Boleyn, viscount Rochford.

Fair Truth shall bless them, Virtue guard their

cause,

And every chaste-ey'd matron weep applause.

Yet, though no bard should sing, or sage record, I still shall vanquish my too faithless lord; Shall see at last my injur'd cause prevail, When pitying angels hear the mournful tale.

And must thy wife, by Heav'n's severe command, Before his throne thy sad accuser stand? O Henry, chain my tongue, thy guilt atone, Prevent my suff'rings-ah! prevent thy own! Or hear me, Heav'n, since Henry's still unkind, With strong repentance touch his guilty mind, And oh when anguish tears his lab'ring soul, Through his rack'd breast when keenest horrours When, weeping, grov'ling in the dust he lies, [roll, An humbled wretch, a bleeding sacrifice, Then let me bear ('tis all my griefs shall claim, For life's lost honours, and polluted fame) Then let me bear thy mandate from on high, With kind forgiveness let his Anna fly, From every pang the much-lov'd suff'rer free, And breathe that mercy he denies to me.

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"Twas said of old, deny it now who can,
The only laughing animal is man.
The bear may leap, its lumpish cubs in view,
Or sportive cat her circling tail pursue;
The grin deep-lengthen Pug's half-human face,
Or prick'd-up ear confess the simp'ring ass:
In awkward gestures awkward mirth be shown,
Yet, spite of gesture, man still laughs alone.

Th' all-powerful hand, which taught yon Sun to shine,

First dress'd in smiles the human face divine;
And early innocence, unspoil'd by art,
Through the glad eye betray'd th'o'erflowing heart.
No weak disgusts disturb'd the social plan,
A brother's frailties but proclaim'd him man.
Nought perfect here they found, nor ought requir'd,
Excus'd the weakness, and the worth admir'd.

Succeeding ages more sagacious grew;
They mark'd our foibles, and would mend them too,
Each, strangely wise, saw what was just and best,
And by his model would reform the rest:
The rest, impatient, or reject with scorn
The specious insult, or with pride return;
Till all meet all with controversial eyes,
If wrong refute them, and if right despise.
Not with their lives, but pointed wits, contend,
Too weak to vanquish, and too vain to mend.

[deed,

Our mirthful age, to all extremes a prey, Ev'n courts the lash, and laughs her pains away. Declining worth imperial wit supplies, And Momus triumphs, while Astræa flies. No truth so sacred, banter cannot hit, No fool so stupid, but he aims at wit. Ev'n those, whose breasts ne'er plann'd one virtuous Nor rais'd a thought beyond the earth they tread : Ev'n those can censure, those can dare deride A Bacon's av'rice, or a Tully's pride; And sneer at human checks by Nature given, To curb perfection ere it rival Heav'n : Nay, chiefly such in these low arts prevail, Whose want of talents leaves them time to rail

Born for no end, they worse than useless grow;
(As waters poison if they cease to flow)
And pests become, whom kinder fate design'd
But harmless expletives of human kind.

See with what zeal th' insidious task they ply!
Where shall the prudent, where the virtuous fly?
Lurk as ye can, if they direct the ray,
The veriest atoms in the sun-beams play.
No venial slip their quick attention 'scapes;
They trace each Proteus through his hundred
To Mirth's tribunal drag the caitif train, [shapes;
Where Mercy sleeps, and Nature pleads in vain.
And whence this lust to laugh? what fond pre-
tence?

[fear,

Why, Shaftsb'ry tells us, mirth's the test of sense;
Th' enchanted touch, which fraud and falsehood
Like Una's mirror, or Ithuriel's spear.
Not so fair Truth-aloft her temple stands,
The work and glory of immortal hands.
Huge rocks of adamant its base enfold,
Stee! bends the arch, the columns swell in gold.
No storms, no tumults, reach the sacred fane;
Waves idly beat, and winds grow loud in vain.
The shaft sinks pointless, ere it verges there,
And the dull hiss but dies away in air.

Yet let me say, howe'er secure it rise,
Sly fraud may reach it, and close craft surprise.
Truth, drawn like truth, must blaze divinely bright;
But, drawn like errour, truth may cheat the sight.
Some awkward epithet, with skill apply'd,
Some specious hints, which half their meanings hide,
Can right and wrong most courteously confound,
Banditti like, to stun us ere they wound.

Is there an art, through science' various store,
But, madly strain'd, becomes an art no more?
Is there a virtue, falsehood can't disguise?
Betwixt two vices every virtue lies:
To this, to that, the doubtful beam incline,
Or mirth's false balance take, the triumph's thine.
Let mighty Newton with an augur's hand,
Through Heav'n's high concave stretch th' imperial
The vagrant comet's dubious path assign, [wand,
And lead from star to star th' unerring line:
Who but with transport lifts his piercing eye,
Fond to be lost in vast immensity!

But should your tailor', with as much of thought
Erect his quadrant, ere he cuts your coat;
The parchment slips with algebra o'erspread,
And calculations scrawl on every shred;
Art misapply'd must stare you in the face,
Nor could you, grave, the long deductions trace.
Fond of one art, most men the rest forego;
And all 's ridiculous, but what they know.
Freely they censure lands they ne'er explore,
With tales they learn'd from coasters on the shore.
As Afric's petty kings, perhaps, who hear
Of distant states from some weak traveller,
Imperfect hints with eager ears devour,
And sneer at Europe's fate, and Britain's power.
All arts are useful, as all nature good,
Correctly known, and temp'rately pursued.
The active soul, that Heav'n-born lamp, requires
Still new supports to feed, and raise its fires;
And science' ample stores expanded stand,
As diff'rent aids the varying flames demand.
And, as the sylvan chase bids bodies glow,
And purple health through vig'rous channels flow:

"Your tailor," &c. see Gulliver's Travels, Voyage to Laputa.

So fares the infant mind, by nature drawn,
By genius rous'd at reason's early dawn;
Which dares fair learning's arduous seats invade,
Climb the tall cliff, or pierce th' entangled shade;
New health, new strength, new force its powers re-

ceive,

And 'tis from toil th' immortal learns to live.
Or, if too harsh each boist'rous labour proves,
The Muse conducts us to more happy groves;
Where sport her sister arts, with myrtles crown'd,
Expressive picture, and persuasive sound;
Where truth's rough rules the gentlest lays impart,
And virtue steals harmonious on the heart.

We oft, 'tis true, mistake the sat❜rist's aim,
Not arts themselves, but their abuse they blame.
Yet if, crusaders like, their zeal be rage,
They hurt the cause in which their arms engage:
On Heav'nly anvils forge the temper'd steel,
Which fools can brandish, and the wise may feel.
Readers are few, who nice distinctions form,
Supinely cool, or credulously warm.
'Tis jest, 'tis earnest, as the words convey
Some glimm'ring sense to lead weak heads astray.
And when, too anxious for some art assail'd,
You point the latent flaw by which it fail'd;
Each to his bias leans, a steady fool,
And for the part defective, damns the whole.
In elder James's ever-peaceful reign,
Who sway'd alike the sceptre and the pen,
Had some rough poet, with satiric rage,
Alarm'd the court, and lash'd the pedant age;
What freights of genius on that rock had split?
Where now were learning, and where now were wit?
Matur'd and full the rising forest grows,
Ere its wise owner lops th' advancing boughs:
For oaks, like arts, a length of years demand,
And shade the shepherd, ere they grace the land.
Where then may censure fall? 'tis hard to say;
On all that's wrong it may not, and it may.
In life, as arts, it asks our nicest care,
But hurts us more, as more immediate there.

Resign we freely to th' unthinking crowd Their standing jest, which swells the laugh so loud, The mountain back, or head advanc'd too high, A leg misshapen, or distorted eye: We pity faults by Nature's hand imprest; Thersites' mind, but not his form 's the jest.

2

Here then we fix, and lash without control These mental pests, and hydras of the soul; Acquir'd ill-nature, ever prompt debate, A zeal for slander, and delib'rate hate : These court contempt, proclaim the public foe, And each, Ulysses like, should aim the blow. Yet sure, ev'n here, our motives should be known: Rail we to check his spleen, or ease our own? Does injur'd virtue ev'ry shaft supply, Arm the keen tongue, and flush th' erected eye? Or do we from ourselves ourselves disguise? And act, perhaps, the villain we chastise? Hope we to mend him? hopes, alas, how vain! He feels the lash, not listens to the rein.

'Tis dangerous too, in these licentious times, Howe'er severe the smile, to sport with crimes. Vices when ridicul'd, experience says,

First lose that horrour which they ought to raise, Grow by degrees approv'd, and alinost aim at praise. When Tully's tongue the Roman Clodius draws, How laughing satire weakens Milo's cause!

2 Iliad i

Each pictur'd vice so impudently bad,
The crimes turn frolics, and the villain mad ;
Rapes, murders, incest, treasons, mirth create,
And Rome scarce hates the author of her fate.
'Tis true, the comic Muse, confin'd to rules,
Supply'd the laws, and sham'd the tardy schools;
With living precepts urg'd the moral truth,
And by example form'd the yielding youth.
The titled knave with honest freedom shown,
His person mimick'd, nor his name unknown,
Taught the young breast its opening thoughts to
raise

From dread of infamy to love of praise,

From thence to virtue; there perfection ends,
As gradual from the root the flower ascends;
Strain'd through the varying stems the juices
flow,

Bloom o'er the top, and leave their dregs below.
"Twas thus awhile th' instructive stage survey'd,
From breast to breast its glowing influence spread,
Till, from his nobler task by passions won,
The man unravel'd what the bard had done;
And he, whose warmth had fir'd a nation's heart,
Debas'd to private piques the gen❜rous art.
Here sunk the Muse, and, useless by degrees,
She ceas'd to profit, as she ceas'd to please.
No longer wit a judging audience charm'd,
Who, rous'd not fir'd, not raptur'd but alarm'd,
To well-tun'd scandal lent a jealous ear,
And through the faint applause betray'd the fear.
We, like Menander, more discreetly dare,
And well-bred satire wears a milder air.
Still vice we brand, or titled fools disgrace,
But dress in fable's guise the borrow'd face.
Or as the bee, through Nature's wild retreats,
Drinks the moist fragrance from th' unconscious
sweets,

To injure none, we lightly range the ball,
And glean from diff'rent knaves the copious gall;
Extract, compound, with all a chymist's skill,
And claim the motley characters who will.
Happy the Muse, could thus her tuneful aid
To sense, to virtue, wake the more than dead!
But few to fiction lend attentive ears,

They view the face, but soon forget 'tis theirs.
"'Twas not from them the bard their likeness stole,
The random pencil haply hit the mole;
Ev'n from their prying foes such specks retreat;"
-They hide them from themselves, and crown the
cheat.

Or should, perhaps, some softer clay admit
The sly impressions of instructive wit;
To virtue's side in conscious silence steal,
And glow with goodness, ere we find they feel;
Yet more, 'tis fear'd, will closer methods take,
And keep with caution what they can't forsake;
For fear of man, in his most mirthful mood,
May make us hypocrites, but seldom good.
And what avails that seas confess their bounds,
If subtler insects sap the Belgian mounds?
Though no wing'd mischief cleave the mid-day
skies,

Still through the dark the baleful venom flies,
Still virtue feels a sure though ling ring fate,
And, stabb'd in secret, bleeds th' unguarded

state.

Besides, in men have varying passions made Such nice confusions, blending light with shade, That eager zeal to laugh the vice away May hurt some virtue's intermingling ray.

Men's faults, like Martin's 3 broider'd coat, demard
The nicest touches of the steadiest hand.
Some yield with ease, while some their posts main-
tain;

And parts defective will at last remain.
There, where they best succeed, your labours bend;
Nor render useless, what you strive to mend.

The youthful Curio blush'd whenever he spoke,
His ill-tim'd modesty the general joke;
Sneer'd by his friends, nor could that sneer en-
dure-

Behold, sad instance of their skill to cure!
The conscious blood, which fir'd his cheek before,
Now leaves his bosom cool, and warns no more.
But affectation-there, we all confess,
Strong are the motives, and the danger less.
Sure we may smile where fools themselves have
made,

As balk'd spectators of a farce ill play'd,
And laugh, if satire's breath should rudely raise
The painted plumes which vanity displays.

O fruitful source of everlasting mirth!
For fools, like apes, are mimics from their birth.
By fashion govern'd, Nature each neglects,
And barters graces for admir'd defects.
The artful hypocrites, who virtue wear,
Confess, at least, the sacred form is fair;
And apes of science equally allow
The scholar's title to the laurel'd brow;
But what have those 'gainst satire's lash
plead,

Who court with zeal what others fly with dread?
Affect ev'n vice! poor folly's last excess,
As Picts mistook deformity for dress,

to

And smear'd with so much art their hideous charms,
That the grim beauty scar'd you from her arms.
Too oft these follies 4 bask in virtue's shine,
The wild luxuriance of a soil too fine.
Yet oh, repress them, wheresoe'er they rise—
But how perform it ?-there the danger lies.
Short are the lessons taught in Nature's school,
Here each peculiar asks a sep'rate rule.
Nice is the task, be gen'ral if you can,

Or strike with caution if you point the man:
And think, O think, the cause by all assign'd
To raise our laughter, makes it most unkind :
For though from Nature these no strength receive,
We give them nature when we bid them live.
Like Jove's Minerva springs the gentle train,
The genuine offspring of each teeming brain;
On which, like tend'rest sires, we fondly doat,
Plan future fame in luxury of thought,
And scarce at last, o'erpower'd by foes or friends,
Torn from our breasts the dear delusion ends.

Then let good-nature every charm exert,
And, while it mends it, win th' unfolding heart.
Let moral mirth a face of triumph wear,
Yet smile unconscious of th' extorted tear.
See, with what grace instructive satire flows,
Politely keen, in Clio's number'd prose!
That great example should our zeal excite,
And censors learn from Addison to write.
So, in our age, too prone to sport with pain,
Might soft humanity resume her reign;
Pride without rancour feel th' objected fault,
And folly blush, as willing to be taught;
Critics grow mild, life's witty warfare cease,
And true good-nature breathe the balm of peace.
4 Affectations.

3 Tale of a Tub.

1

ON NOBILITY:

AN EPISTLE.

TO THE EARL OF ASHBURNHAM.

POETS, my lord, by some unlucky fate
Condemn'd to flatter the too easy great,

Have oft, regardless of their Heav'n-born flame,
Enshrin'd a title, and ador'd a name ;
For idol deities forsook the true,

And paid to greatness what was virtue's due.

Yet hear, at least, one recreant bard maintain Their incense fruitless, and your honours vain : Teach you to scorn the auxiliar props, that raise The painted produce of these sun-shine days; Proud from yourself, like India's worm, to weave Th' ennobling thread, which fortune cannot give. In two short precepts your whole lesson lies; Wou'd you be great ?-be virtuous, and be wise. In elder time, ere heralds yet were known To gild the vain with glories not their own; Or infant language saw such terms prevail, As fess and chev'ron, pale and contrepale; 'Twas he alone the shaggy spoils might wear, Whose strength subdu'd the lion, or the bear; For him the rosy spring with smiles beheld Her honours stript from every grove and field; For him the rustic quires with songs advance; For him the virgins form the annual dance. Born to protect, like Gods they hail the brave; And sure 'twas godlike, to be born to save!

In Turkey still these simple manners reign, Tho' Pharamond has liv'd, and Charlemagne: The cottage hind may there admitted rise A chief, or statesman, as his talent lies; And all, but Othman's race, the only proud, Fall with their sires, and mingle with the crowd. Politer courts, ingenious to extend The father's virtues, bid his pomps descend; Chiefs premature with suasive wreaths adorn, And force to glory heroes yet unborn, Plac'd like Hamilcar's son', their path's confin'd, Forward they must, for monsters press behind; Monsters more dire than Spain's, or Barca's snakes, If fame they grasp not, infamy o'ertakes. 'Tis the same virtue's vigorous, just effort Must grace alike St. James's or the Porte; Alike, my lord, must Turk, or British peer, Be to his king, and to his country dear; Alike must either honour's cause maintain, You to preserve a fame, and they to gain.

For birth-precarious were that boasted gem, Tho' worth flow'd copious in the vital stream: (Of which a sad reverse historians preach, And sage Experience proves the truths they teach.) For say, ye great, who boast another's scars, And, like Busiris, end among the stars, What is this boon of Heav'n? dependent still On woman's weakness, aud on woman's will.

'Ibi fama est, in quiete visum ab eo Juvenem divinâ specie, qui se ab Jove diceret ducem in Italiam Annibali missum. Proinde sequeretur, neque usquam à se deflecteret oculos. Pavidum primo, nusquam respicientem, &c.-Tandem,temperare oculis nequivisse: tuni vidisse post se serpentem mirâ magnitudine cum ingenti arborum ac virgultorum strage ferri, &c. Liv. lib. xxi. c. 22. VOL. XVII.

Might not, in Pagan days, and open air,
Some wand'ring Jove surprise th' unguarded fair?
And did your gentle grandames always prove
Stern rebels to the charms of lawless love?
And never pity'd, at some tender time,
A dying Damian 2, with'ring in his prime?
Or, more politely to their vows untrue,
Lov'd, and elup'd, as modern ladies do?

But grant them virtuous, were they all of birth?
Did never nobles mix with vulgar earth,
And city maids to envy'd heights translate,
Subdu'd by passion, and decay'd estate?
Or, sigh, still humbler, to the passing gales
By turf-built cots in daisy-painted vales?
Who does not, Pamela, thy suffrings feel?
Who has not wept at beauteous Grisel's wheel?
And each fair marchioness 3, that Gallia pours
(Exotic sorrows) to Britannia's shores?

Then blame us not, if backward to comply
With your demands: we fear a forgery.
In spite of patents, and of kings' decrees,
And blooming coronets on parchment-trees,
Your proofs are gone, your very claims are lost,
But by the manners of that race you boast.
O if true virtue fires their gen'rous blood,
The feel for fame, the pant of public good,
The kind concern for innocence distrest,
The Titus' wish to make a people blest,
At every deed we see their father's tomb
Shoot forth new laurels in eternal bloom;
We hear the rattling car, the neighing steeds,
A Poictiers thunders, and a Cressy bleeds!
Titles and birth, like di'monds from the mine,
Must by your worth be polish'd ere they shine;
Thence drink new lustre, there unite their rays,
And stream through ages one unsully'd blaze.

But what avails the crest with flow'rets crown'd,
The mother virtuous, or the sires renown'd,
If, from the breathing walls, those sires behold
The midnight gamester trembling for his gold:
And see those hours, when sleep their toils repair'd,
(Or, if they wak'd, they wak'd for Britain's guard,)
Now on lewd loves bestow'd, or drench'd in wine,
Drown and embrute the particle divine?
How must they wish, with many a sigh, unbeard
The warmest pray'r they once to Heav'n prefer'd!
When not content with fame for kingdoms won,
They sought an added boon, and ask'd a son;
That cloud eternal in their sky serene,
That dull dead weight that drags them down to men,
And speaks as plainly as the Muse's tongue,
"Frail were the sires from whom we mortals sprung."
Incense to such may breathe, but breathes in

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The awkward virtues never meant to sit,
The alien morals, and imputed wit,
Whose very praise but lends a fatal breath
To save expiring infamy from death?
And yet, in conqu'ring vice small virtue lies;
The weak can shun it, and the vain despise.
'Tis yours, my lord, to form a nobler aim,
And build on active merit endless fame;
Unlike the loit'ring, still forgotten crowd,
Who, ev'n at best but negatively good,

Wisdom alone is true ambition's aim,
Wisdom the source of virtue, and of fame,
Obtain'd with labour, for mankind employ'd,
And then, when most you share it, best enjoy'd.
See! on yon sea-girt isle the goddess stands,
And calls her vot'ries with applauding hands!
They pant, they strain, they glow thro' climes un-
known,

With added strength, and spirits not their own.
Hark! what loud shouts each glad arrival hail!

How tempting nod the groves for ever green!
-"But tempests roar, and oceans roll between."—
Yet see, my lord, your friends around you brave
That roaring tempest, and contending wave.
See-lab'ring through the billowy tide!
See impatient for the adverse side!
O much-lov'd youths! to Britain justly dear,
Her spring, and promise of a fairer year.
Success be theirs, whate'er their hopes engage,
Worth grace their youth, and honours crown their
And ev'ry warmest wish sincere, and free,
My soul e'er breathes, O ASHBURNHAM, for thee!

Thro' sloth's dull round drag out a length of days, How full fame's fragrance breathes in ev'ry gale!
While life's dim taper gradually decays;
And numbers fall, and numbers rise the same,
Their country's burden, and their nature's shame.
What tho' in youth, while flatt'ring hopes presume
On health's vain flourish for long years to come,
Thoughtless and gay, a mad good-nature draws
From followers flatt'ry, and from crowds applause;
Nay from the wise, by some capricious whim,
Should, mix'd with pity, force a faint esteem:
Yet will in age that syren charm prevail,
When cares grow peevish, and when spirits fail;
Or must, despis'd, each fool of fortune sigh
O'er years mispent with retrospective eye,
Till pomp's last honours load the pageant bier,
And much solemnity without a tear?

'Tis yours with judgment nobly to bestow,
And treasure joys the bounteous only know.
See, sav'd from sloth by you, with venial pride,
Laborious health the stubborn glebe divide;
Instructed want her folded arms unbend,
And smiling industry the loom attend.
Yours too the task to spread indulgent ease,
Steal cares from wrinkled age, disarm disease;
Insulted worth from proud oppression screen,
And give neglected science where to lean.
Titles, like standard-flags, exalted rise,
To tell the wretched where protection lies;
And he who hears unmov'd affliction's claim,
Deserts his duty, and denies his name.

[age,

Hard is your stated task by all allow'd,
And modern greatness rarely bursts the cloud.
Lull'd high in Fortune's silken lap, you feel
No shocks, nor turns of her uncertain wheel:
Amusements dazzle, weak admirers gaze,
And flatt'ry sooths, and indolence betrays.
Yet still, my lord, on happy peer attends
That noblest privilege, to chuse their friends;
The wise, the good are theirs, their call obey;
If pride refuse not, fortune points the way.
Nor great your toils, on wisdom's seas, compar'd
With theirs who shift the sail, or watch the card.
For you the sages every depth explore,
For you, the slaves of science ply the oar;
And Nature's Genii fly with sails unfurl'd,
The Drakes and Raleighs of the mental world.

But stay-too long mere English lays detain
Your light-wing'd thoughts, that rove beyond the
No fancy'd voyage there expects the gale, [main:
No allegoric zephyr swells the sail.
-Yet, ere you go, ere Gallia's pomp invades
The milder truths of Granta's peaceful shades,
This verse at least be yours, and boldly tell,
home,That if you fall, not unadvis'd you fell;

Nor is't enough, tho' to no bounds confin'd,
Your cares instruct, or bounties bless mankind.
'Tis yours, my lord, with various skill to trace,
By history's clue, the statesman's subtle maze;
Observe the springs that mov'd each nice machine,
Not laid too open, and not drawn too thin;
From Grecian mines bring sterling treasures
And grace your Britain with the spoils of Rome.
But chief that Britain's gradual rise behold,
The changing world's reverse, from lead to gold:
Happy at last, thro' storms in freedom's cause,
Thro' fierce prerogative, and trampled laws,
To blend such seeming inconsistent things,
As strength with ease, and liberty with kings.
Know too, where Europe's wavering fates depend,
What states can injure, and what states defend,
Their strength, their arts, their policies your own-
And then, like Pelham, make that wisdom known.
Wake ev'ry latent faculty of soul,

Teach from your lips the glowing sense to roll,
Till list'ning senates bless the kind alarm,
Convinc'd, not dazzled, and with judgment warm.
Superior talents on the great bestow'd,
Are Heav'n's peculiar instruments of good:
Not for the few, who have them, are design'd:
What flows from Heav'n, must flow for all mankind.
Blush then, ye peers, who, niggards of your store,
Brood o'er the shining heap, not make it more;
Or Wilmot like, at some poor fool's expense,
Squander in wit the sacred funds of sense.

But, blest with virtue and with sense adorn'd,
A willing victim of the fools you scorn'd.

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