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On glorious schemes, and thoughts of empire dwell, Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
And with imaginary titles swell.
Say, for thou know'st I own his sacred line,
The passive doctrine, and the right divine,
Say, what new succours does the chief prepare?
The strength of armies? or the force of prayer?
Does he from Heaven or Earth his hopes derive?
From saints departed, or from priests alive? [stand,
Nor saints nor priests can Brunswick's troops with-
And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand;
Heaven to our vows may future kingdoms owe,
But skill and courage win the crowns below.
To vend the discontented statesman's thought,
Though red with stripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade,
Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.
Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause,
His sword for James no brother sovereign draws.
The pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms,
And though he hears his darling son's complaint,
Can hardly spare one tutelary saint,
But lists them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready money coins his gods.
The dauntless Swede, pursued by vengeful foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary snows;
Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feasts regale our garter'd youth again.
Safe, Bar-le-Duc, within thy silent grove
Ere to thy cause, and thee, my heart inclin'd,
Or love to party had seduc'd my mind,
In female joys I took a dull delight,
Slept all the morn, and punted half the night :
But now, with fears and public cares possest,
The church, the church, for ever breaks my rest.
The postboy on my pillow I explore,
And sift the news of every foreign shore,
Studious to find new friends, and new allies;
What armies march from Sweden in disguise;
How Spain prepares her banners to unfold,
And Rome deals out her blessings, and her gold:
Then o'er the map my finger, taught to stray,
Cross many a region marks the winding way;
From sea to sea, from realm to realm I rove,
And grow a mere geographer by love:
But still Avignon, and the pleasing coast
That holds thee banish'd, claims my care the most:
Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes,
And span the distance that between us lies.
Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair,
Whilst on his side he reckons half the fair:
In Britain's lovely isle a shining throng
War in his cause, a thousand beauties strong.
Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their powers;
Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours.
We reason with such fluency and fire,
The beaux we baffle, and the learned tire,
Against her prelates plead the church's cause,
And from our judges vindicate the laws.
Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms lost;
A crown, though late, thy sacred brows may boast;
Heaven seems through us thy empire to decree;
Those who win hearts, have given their hearts to thee.
Hast thou not heard that when, profusely gay,
Our well-drest rivals grac'd their sovereign's day,
We stubborn damsels met the public view
In loathsome wormwood, and repenting rue?
What Whig but trembled, when our spotless band
In virgin roses whiten'd half the land!
Who can forget what fears the foe possest,
When oaken-boughs mark'd every loyal breast!
Less scar'd than Medway's stream the Norman stood,
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
Till, near at hand, a gleam of swords betray'd
The youth of Kent beneath its wandering shade?
Those who the succours of the fair despise,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
Thy female bards, O prince by fortune crost,
At least more courage than thy men can boast:
Our sex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet,
And purchas'd fame in many a well-fought street.
From Drury-Lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the town,
Fair patriots sallying oft have put to flight
With all their poles the guardians of the night,
And bore, with screams of triumph, to their side
The leader's staff in all its painted pride.
The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove:
The knight, who aims unerring from afar,
Th' adventurous knight, now quits the sylvan war:
Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd,
Or grunt secure beneath the chesnut shade.
Inconstant Orleans (still we mourn the day
That trusted Orleans with imperial sway)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,
Far from the call of his desponding friends.
Such are the terms, to gain Britannia's grace!
And such the terrours of the Brunswick race!
Was it for this the Sun's whole lustre fail'd,
And sudden midnight o'er the Moon prevail'd!
For this did Heaven display to mortal eyes
Aerial knights and combats in the skies!
Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red!
And Thames driv'n backward show'd his secret bed!
False auguries! th' insulting victor's scorn!
Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn!
O portents construed on our side in vain!
Let never Tory trust eclipse again!
Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye skies!
And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise!
To Rome then must the royal wanderer go,
And fall a suppliant at the papal toe?
His life in sloth inglorious must he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in prayer?
His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease,
The proffer'd purple and the hat may please.
Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race
To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace,
In solemn conclave sit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trusty vote
Be summon'd to his stall in time of need,
And with his casting suffrage fix a creed!
Shall he in robes on stated days appear,
And English heretics curse once a year!
Garnet and Faux shall he with prayers invoke,
And beg that Smithfield piles once more may smoke!
Forbid it, Heaven! my soul, to fury wrought,
Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought.
From James and Rome I feel my heart decline,
And fear, O Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine;
Yet still his share thy rival will contest,
And still the double claim divides my breast.
The fate of James with pitying eyes I view,
And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due :
To James my passion and my weakness guide,
But reason sways me to the victor's side.
Though griev'd I speak it, let the truth appear!
You know my language, and my heart, sincere.
In vain did falsehood his fair fame disgrace:
What force had falsehood when he show'd his face!
In vain to war our boastful clans were led
Heaps driv'n on heaps, in the dire shock they fled :
France shuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame
A second Dunkirk in another name:
In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows:
Spite of feign'd fears and artificial cries,
The pious town sees fifty churches rise :
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And sits more firmly on his shaken throne.
To my sad thought no beam of hope appears
Through the long prospect of succeeding years.
The son, aspiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his sire: another and the same.
He, blest in lovely Carolina's arms,
To future ages propagates her charms :
With pain and joy at strife, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face;
Half sickening at the sight, too well I spy
The father's spirit through the mother's eye:
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And strive to hate their innocence in vain.
O princess! happy by thy foes confest! Blest in thy husband! in thy children blest! As they from thee, from them new beauties born, While Europe lasts, shall Europe's thrones adorn. Transplanted to each court, in times to come, Thy smile celestial and unfading bloom, Great Austria's sons with softer lines shall grace, And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race. The fair descendants of thy sacred bed, Wide-branching o'er the western world shall spread, Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot To earthward bending of itself takes root, Till, like their mother plant, ten thousand stand In verdant arches on the fertile land; Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove, Or hunt, at large, through the wide echoing grove. O thou, to whom these mournful lines I send, My promis'd husband, and my dearest friend; Since Heaven appoints this favour'd race to reign, And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain ; Must I be wretched, and thy flight partake? Or wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's sake, Tir'd out at length, submit to fate's decree? If not to Brunswick, O return to me! Prostrate before the victor's mercy bend: What spares whole thousands, may to thee extend. Should blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blame, Great Brunswick's virtue shall secure thy fame: Say these invite thee to approach his throne, And own the monarch Heaven vouchsafes to own: The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve; Say this to them; but swear to me 'twas love.
INSCRIBED TO THE
EARL OF SUNDERLAND,
THOU Dome, where Edward first enroll'd His red-cross knights and barons bold, Whose vacant seats, by Virtue bought, Ambitious emperors have sought:
Where Britain's foremost names are found,
In peace belov'd, in war renown'd,
Who made the hostile nations moan,
Or brought a blessing on their own :
Once more a son of Spencer waits, A name familiar to thy gates; Sprung from the chief whose prowess gain'd The Garter while thy founder reign'd, He offer'd here his dinted shield, The dread of Gauls in Cressi's field, Which, in thy high-arch'd temple rais'd, For four long centuries hath blaz’d.
These seats our sires, a hardy kind, To the fierce sons of war confin'd, The flower of chivalry, who drew With sinew'd arm the stubborn yew: Or with heav'd pole-ax clear'd the field; Or who, in justs and tourneys skill'd, Before their ladies' eyes renown'd, Threw horse and horseman to the ground.
In after-times, as courts refin'd, Our patriots in the list were join'd. Not only Warwick stain'd with blood, Or Marlborough near the Danube's flood, Have in their crimson crosses glow'd; But, on just lawgivers bestow'd, These emblems Cecil did invest, And gleam'd on wise Godolphin's breast.
So Greece, ere arts began to rise, Fix'd huge Orion in the skies, And stern Alcides, fam'd in wars, Bespangled with a thousand stars; Till letter'd Athens round the Pole Made gentler constellations roll; In the blue heavens the lyre she strung, And near the Maid the Balance hung.
Then, Spencer, mount amid the band, Where knights and kings promiscuous stand. What though the hero's flame repress'd Burns calmly in thy generous breast! Yet who more dauntless to oppose In doubtful days our home-bred foes! Who rais'd his country's wealth so high, Or view'd with less desiring eye!
The sage, who, large of soul, surveys The globe, and all its empires weighs, Watchful the various climes to guide, Which seas, and tongues, and faiths, divide, A nobler name in Windsor's shrine Shall leave, if right the Muse divine, Than sprung of old, abhorr'd and vain, From ravag'd realms and myriads slain.
Why praise we, prodigal of fame, The rage that sets the world on flame? My guiltless Muse his brow shall bind Whose godlike bounty spares mankind. For those, whom bloody garlands crown, The brass may breathe, the marble frown, To him through every rescued land, Ten thousand living trophies stand. NATA E Age Names of constellations.
AMES HAMMOND, a popular elegiac poet, was the
second son of Anthony Hammond, Esq. of Somer-
sham Place, in Huntingdonshire. He was born in
1710, and was educated in Westminster school,
where at an early age he obtained the friendship of
several persons of distinction, among whom were
Lords Cobham, Chesterfield, and Lyttleton. He
was appointed equerry to Frederic, Prince of
Wales, and upon his interest was brought into par-
liament in 1741, for Truro in Cornwall. This was
nearly the last stage of his life, for he died in June
1742, at the seat of Lord Cobham, at Stowe. An
unfortunate passion for a young lady, Miss Dash-a
wood, who was cold to his addresses, is thought to
have disordered his mind, and perhaps contributed
to his premature death.
Hammond was a man of an amiable character, and was much regretted by his friends.
He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content with each other, they are retired into the
LET others boast their heaps of shining gold,
And view their fields, with waving plenty crown'd,
Whom neighbouring foes in constant terrour hold,
And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound.
While calmly poor I trifle life away,
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,
But, cheaply blest, I'll scorn each vain desire.
With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand,
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.
"Love Elegies" were published soon after his death by Lord Chesterfield, and have been several times reprinted. It will seem extraordinary that the noble editor has only once mentioned the name of Tibullus, and has asserted that Hammond, sincere in his love, as in his friendship, spoke only the genuine sentiments of his heart, when there are so many obvious imitations of the Roman poet, even so far as the adoption of his names of Neera, Cynthia, and Delia. It must, however, be acknowledged, that he copies with the hand of a master, and that his imitations are generally managed with grace that almost conceals their character. Still as they are, in fact, poems of this class, however skilfully transposed, we shall content ourselves with transcribing one which introduces the name of his principal patron with peculiarly happy effect.
What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast!
Or lull'd to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest!
Or, if the Sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away!
What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop, and gaze on Delia as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!
Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone.
Ah, foolish man, who thus of her possest,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind!
With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor trust to happiness that 's not our own;
The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,
But here I know that I am lov'd alone.
WILLIAM SOMERVILE, an agreeable poet, was his mind, and plunged him into habits which
born in 1692, at his father's seat at Edston, in Warwickshire. He was educated at Winchester school, whence he was elected to New College, Oxford. His political attachments were to the Whig party, as appeared from his praises of Marlborough, Stanhope, and Addison. To the latter of these he addressed a poèm, in which there is the happy couplet alluded to in the Spectator:
shortened his life. He died in 1742; and his friend Shenstone, with much feeling, announces the event to one of his correspondents. Somervile passed his life in celibacy, and made over the reversion of his estate to Lord Somervile, a branch of the same family, charged with a jointure to his mother, then in her 90th year.
As a poet, he is chiefly known by "The Chase," a piece in blank verse, which maintains a high rank in the didactic and descriptive classes. Being composed by one who was perfectly conversant with the sports which are its subject, and entered into them with enthusiasm, his pictures greatly surpass the draughts of the same kind which are attempted by poets by profession. Another piece connected with this is entitled "Field Sports," but only describes that of hawking. In his "Hobbinol, or Rural Games," he attempts the burlesque with tolerable success. Of his other pieces, serious and comic, there are few which add to his fame.
"When panting Virtue her last efforts made, "You brought your Clio to the Virgin's aid." "Clio" was known to be the mark by which Addison distinguished his papers in that miscellany.
Somervile inherited a considerable paternal estate, on which he principally lived, acting as a magistrate, and pursuing with ardour the amusements of a sportsman, varied with the studies of a man of letters. His mode of living, which was hospitable, and addicted to conviviality, threw him into pecuniary embarrassments, which preyed on
The subject proposed. Address to his royal highness the prince. The origin of hunting. The rude and unpolished manner of the first hunters. Beasts at first hunted for food and sacrifice. The grant made by God to man of the beasts, &c. The regular manner of hunting first brought into this island by the Normans. The best hounds and best horses bred here. The advantage of this exercise to us, as islanders. Address to gentlemen of estates. Situation of the kennel and its several courts. The diversion and employment of hounds in the kennel. The different sorts of hounds for each different chase. Description of a perfect hound. Of sizing and sorting of hounds; the middle-sized hound recommended. Of the large deep-mouthed hound for hunting the stag and otter. Of the lime-hound; their use on the borders of England and Scotland. A physical account of scents. Of good and bad scenting days. A short admonition to my brethren of the couples.
THE Chase I sing, hounds, and their various bread,
And no less various use. O thou, great prince!
Whom Cambria's towering hills proclaim their lord,
Deign thou to hear my bold, instructive song.
While grateful citizens with pompous show,
Rear the triumphal arch, rich with th' exploits
Of thy illustrious house; while virgins pave
Thy way with flowers, and, as the royal youth
Passing they view, admire and sigh in vain ;
While crowded theatres, too fondly proud
Of their exotic minstrels, and shrill pipes,
The price of manhood, hail thee with a song,
And airs soft-warbling; my hoarse-sounding horn
Invites thee to the Chase, the sport of kings;
Image of war, without its guilt. The Muse
Aloft on wing shall soar, conduct with care
Thy foaming courser o'er the steepy rock,
Or on the river bank receive thee safe,
Light-bounding o'er the wave, from shore to shore.
Be thou our great protector, gracious youth!
And if, in future times, some envious prince,
Careless of right, and guileful, should invade
Thy Britain's commerce, or should strive in vain
To wrest the balance from thy equal hand;
Thy hunter-train, in cheerful green array'd,
(A band undaunted, and inur'd to toils)