His services. Nor shall the constant love
Of her who rais'd this monument be lost
In dark oblivion: that shall be the theme
Of future bards in ages yet unborn,
Inspir'd with Chaucer's fire, who in these groves
First tun'd the British harp, and little deem'd
His humble dwelling should the neighbour be
Of Blenheim, house superb; to which the throng
Of travellers approaching shall not pass
His roof unmoted, but respectful hail
With reverence due.

Such honour does the Muse
Obtain her favourites.-But the noble pile
(My theme) demands my voice.-O shade ador'd,
Marlborough! who now above the starry sphere
Dwell'st in the palaces of Heaven, enthrou'd
Among the demi-gods, deign to defend
This thy abode, while present here below,
And sacred still to thy immortal fame,
With tutelary care. Preserve it safe

From Time's destroying hand, and cruel stroke
Of factious Envy's more relentless rage.
Here may, long ages hence, the British youth,
When Honour calls them to the field of war,
Behold the trophies which thy valour rais'd;
The proud reward of thy successful toils
For Europe's freedom, and Britannia's fame;
That fir'd with generous envy, they may dare
To emulate thy deeds.-So shall thy name,
Dear to thy country, still inspire her sons
With martial virtue; and to high attempts
Excite their arms, till other battles won,
And nations sav'd, new monuments require,
And other Blenheims shall adorn the land.

TO THE REVEREND DR. AYSCOUGH,

AT OXFORD.

WRITTEN FROM PARIS IN THE YEAR 1728.
SAY, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away?
What pleasing study cheats the tedious day?
Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore
Of wise Antiquity's immortal lore,
Where virtue, by the charms of wit refin'd,
At once exalts and polishes the mind?
How different from our modern guilty art,
Which pleases only to corrupt the heart ;
Whose curst refinements odious vice adorn,
And teach to honour what we ought to scorn!
Dost thou in sage historians joy to see
How Roman greatness rose with liberty:
How the same hands that tyrants durst control
Their empire stretched from Atlas to the pole;
Till wealth and conquest into slaves refin'd
The proud luxurious masters of mankind ?
Dost thou in letter'd Greece each charm admire,
Each grace, each virtue, Freedom could inspire;
Yet in her troubled state see all the woes,
And all the crimes, that giddy Faction knows ;
Till, rent by parties, by corruption sold,
Or weakly careless, or too rashly bold,
She sunk beneath a mitigated doom,
The slave and tutoress of protecting Rome?
Does calm Philosophy her aid impart,

To guide the passions, and to mend the heart?
Taught by her precepts, hast thou learnt the end
To which alone the wise their studies bend;
For which alone by Nature were design'd
The powers of thought-to benefit mankind?

Not, like a cloyster'd drone, to read and dose,
In undeserving, undeserv'd, repose;

But reason's influence to d fluse; to clear
Th' enlighten'd world of every gloomy fear;
Dispel the mists of errour, and unbind
Those pedant chains that clog the freeborn mind.
Happy who thus his leisure can employ !
He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy;
Nor vext with pangs that busier bosoms tear,
Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care;
Safe in the port, yet labouring to sustain
Those who still float on the tempestuous main,
So Locke the days of studious quiet spent;
So Bovie in wisdom found divine content;
So Cambray, worthy of a happier doom,
The virtuous slave of Louis and of Rome.
Good Wor'ster' thus supports his drooping age,
Far from court-flattery, far from party-rage;
He, who in youth a tyrant's frown defy'd,
Firm and intrepid on his country's side,
Her boldest champion then, and now her mildest
O generous warmth! O sanctity divine!
To emulate his worth, my friend, be thine:
Learn from his life the duties of the gown;
Learn, not to flatter, nor insult the crown;
Nor, basely servile, court the guilty great,
Nor raise the church a rival to the state:
To errour mild, to vice alone severe,

[guide!

Seek not to spread the law of love by fear.
The priest who plagues the world can never mend:
No foe to man was e'er to God a friend.
Let reason and let virtue faith maintain;
All force but theirs is impious, weak, and vain.
Me other cares in other climes engage,
Cares that become my birth, and suit my age;
In various knowledge to improve my youth,
And conquer prejudice, worst foe to truth;
By foreign arts domestic faults to mend,
Enlarge my notions, and my views extend;
The useful science of the world to know,
Which books can never teach, or pedants show.
A nation here I pity and admire,
Whom noblest sentiments of glory fire,
Yet taught, by custom's force and bigot fear,
To serve with pride, and boast the yoke they bear:
Whose nobles, born to cringe and to command,
(In courts a mean, in camps a generous band)
From each low tool of power, content receive
Those laws, their dreaded arms to Europe give.
Whose people (vain in want, in bondage blest ;
Though plunder'd, gay; industrious, though opprest)
With happy follies rise above their fate,
The jest and envy of each wiser state.

Yet here the Muses deign'd a while to sport
In the short sunshine of a favouring court:
Here Boileau, strong in sense and sharp in wit,
Who, from the ancients, like the ancients writ,
Permission gain'd inferior vice to blame,
By flattering incense to his master's fame.
Here Moliere, first of comic wits, excelled
Whate'er Athenian theatres beheld;

By keen, yet decent, satire skill'd to please,
With morals mirth uniting, strength with ease.
Now, charm'd, I hear the bold Corneille inspire
Heroic thoughts, with Shakspeare's force and fire!
Now sweet Racine, with milder influence, move
The soften'd heart to pity and to love.

'Bishop Hough.

VERSES

TO BE WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF MR. POYNTZ.

SUCH is thy form, O Poyntz, but who shall find
A hand, or colours, to express thy mind?
A mind unmov'd by every vulgar fear,
In a false world that dares to be sincere;
Wise without art; without ambition great;
Though firm, yet pliant; active, though sedate;
With all the richest stores of learning fraught,
Yet better still by native prudence taught;
That, fond the griefs of the distrest to heal,
Can pity frailties it could never feel;

That, when Misfortune sned, ne'er sought to know
What sect, what party, whether friend or foe;
That, fix'd on equal virtue's temperate laws,
Despises calumny, and shuns applause:
That, to its own perfections singly blind,
Would for another think this praise design'd.

AN EPISTLE TO MR. POPE.
FROM ROME, 1730.

IMMORTAL bard! for whom each Muse has wove
The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preserv'd our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night,
The darken'd age's last remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit;

For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost;
From tyrants, and from priests, the Muses fly,
Daughters of Reason and of Liberty!
Nor Baiæ now nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flowery borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.

So in the shades, where, cheer'd with summer rays,
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy Winter's unauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful silence saddens all the grove,
Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state
Has felt the worst severity of Fate:
Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities desert, and her fields unsown;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,
That sacred Wisdom from her bounds is fled;
That there the source of science flows no more,
Whence its rich streams supplied the world before.

Illustrious names! that once in Latium shin'd,
Born to instruct and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais'd;
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;

Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mouldering stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown ;
Those horrid ruins better pleas'd to see

Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flowers I strow'd, While with th' inspiring Muse my bosom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays, my ravish'd eyes Beheld the poet's awful form arise:

"Stranger," he said, "whose pious hand has paid These grateful rites to my attentive shade, When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air, To Pope this message from his master bear: "Great bard, whose numbers I myself inspire, To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre, If, high exalted on the throne of wit, Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit, No more let meaner satire dim the rays That flow majestic from thy nobler bays; In all the flowery paths of Pindus stray, But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way; Nor, when each soft engaging Muse is thine, Address the least attractive of the Nine.

"Of thee more worthy were thy task, to raise A lasting column to thy country's praise; To sing the land, which yet alone can boast That liberty corrupted Rome has lost; Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid, And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade. Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung, Such was the people whose exploits I sung; Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd, With different bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd; Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway,

But pleas'd a mild Augustus to obey.

"If these commands submissive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live,
Envy to black Cocytus shall retire;
And howl with furies in tormenting fire;
Approving Time shall consecrate thy lays,
And join the patriot's to the poet's praise."

TO LORD HERVEY.

Hor.

IN THE YEAR 1730. FROM WORCESTERSHIRE. Strenua nos exercet inertia: navibus atque Quadrigis petimus bene vivere: quod petis, hic est ; Est ulubris, animus si te non deficit æquus. FAVOURITE of Venus and the tuneful Nine, Pollio, by Nature form'd in courts to shine, Wilt thou once more a kind attention lend, To thy long absent and forgotten friend ; Who, after seas and mountains wander'd o'er, Return'd at length to his own native shore, From all that's gay retir'd, and all that's great, Beneath the shades of his paternal seat, Has found that happiness he sought in vain On the fam❜d banks of Tiber and of Seine?

'Tis not to view the well-proportion'd pile, The charms of Titian's and of Raphael's style; At soft Italian sounds to melt away; Or in the fragrant groves of myrtle stray; That lulls the tumults of the soul to rest, Or makes the fond possessor truly blest. In our own breasts the source of pleasure lies, Still open, and still flowing to the wise; Not forc'd by toilsome art and wild desire Beyond the bounds of Nature to aspire, But, in its proper channels gliding fair; A common benefit, which all may share. Yet half mankind this easy good disdain, Nor relish happiness unbought by pain; [is vain. False is their taste of bliss, and thence their search

So idle, yet so restless, are our minds,
We climb the Alps, and brave the raging winds;
Through various toils to seek content we roam,
Which with but thinking right were ours at home.
For not the ceaseless change of shifted place
Can from the heart a settled grief erase,
Nor can the purer balm of foreign air
Heal the distemper'd mind of aching care.
The wretch, by wild impatience driven to rove,
Vext with the pangs of ill-requited love,
From Pole to Pole the fatal arrow bears,
Whose rooted point his bleeeding bosom tears;
With equal pain each different clime he tries,
And is himself that torment which he flies.

For how should ills, which from our passions flow,
Be chang'd by Afric's heat, or Russia's snow?
Or how can aught but powerful reason cure
What from unthinking folly we endure?
Happy is he, and he alone, who knows
His heart's uneasy discord to compose;
In generous love of others' good, to find
The sweetest pleasures of the social mind;
To bound his wishes in their proper sphere;
To nourish pleasing hope, and conquer anxious fear:
This was the wisdom ancient sages taught,
This was the sovereign good they justly sought;
This to no place or climate is confin'd,
Bat the free native produce of the mind.

Nor think, my lord, that courts to you deny
The useful practice of philosophy:
Horace, the wisest of the tuneful choir,
Not always chose from greatness to retire;
But, in the palace of Augustus, knew
The same unerring maxims to pursue,
Which, in the Sabine or the Velian shade,
His study and his happiness he made.

May you, my friend, by his example taught,
View all the giddy scene with sober thought;
Undazzled every glittering folly see,
And in the midst of slavish forms be free;
In its own centre keep your steady mind,
Let Prudence guide you, but let Honour bind.
In show, in manners, act the courtier's part,
But be a country gentleman at heart.

ADVICE TO A LADY.

M.DCC. XXXI.

THE Counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,
Such truths as women seldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I show
What female vanity might fear to know.
Some merit's mine, to dare to be sincere;
But greater your's, sincerity to bear.

Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends:
All who approach them their own ends pursue;
Lovers and ministers are seldom true.
Hence oft from Reason heediess Beauty strays,
And the most trusted guide the most betrays,
Hence, by fond dreams of fancied power amus'd,
When most ye tyrannise, you 're most abus'd.
What is your sex's earliest, latest care,
Your heart's supreme ambition?-To be fair.
For this, the toilet every thought employs,
Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys:

For this, hands, lips, and eyes, are put to school,
And each instructed feature has its rule:
And yet how few have learnt, when this is given,
Not to disgrace the partial boon of Heaven!
How few with all their pride of form can move!
How few are lovely, that are made for love!
Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess
An elegance of mind as well as dress;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By graceful Nature's unaffected ease.

Nor make to dangerous wit a vain pretence,
But wisely rest content with modest sense;
For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,
Too strong for feeble woman to sustain:
Of those who claim it more than half have none;
And half of those who have it are undone.

Be still superior to your sex's arts, Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts: For you, the plainest is the wisest rule: A cunning woman is a knavish fool.

Be good yourself, nor think another's shame Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame. Prudes rail at whores, as statesmen in disgrace At ministers, because they wish their place. Virtue is amiable, mild, serene;

Without, all beauty; and all peace within:
The honour of a prude is rage and storm,
'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form.
Fiercely it stands, defying gods and men,
As fiery monsters guard a giant's den.

Seek to be good, but aim not to be great:
A woman's noblest station is retreat:
Her fairest virtues fly from public sight,
Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light.
To rougher man Ambition's task resign:
'Tis ours in senates or in courts to shine;
To labour for a sunk corrupted state,
Or dare the rage of Envy, and be great.
One only care your gentle breasts should move,
Th' important business of your life is love;
To this great point direct your constant aim,
This makes your happiness, and this your fame.
Be never cool reserve with passion join'd;
With caution choose; but then be fondly kind.
The selfish heart, that but by halves is given,
Shall find no place in Love's delightful Heaven;
Here sweet extremes alone can truly bless:
The virtue of a lover is excess.

A maid unask'd may own a well-plac'd flame; Not loving first, but loving wrong, is shame. Contemn the little pride of giving pain, Nor think that conquest justifies disdain. Short is the period of insulting power: Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour; Soon will resume the empire which he gave, And soon the tyrant shall become the slave. Blest is the maid, and worthy to be blest, Whose soul, entire by him she loves possest, Feels every vanity in fondness lost, And asks no power but that of pleasing most: Hers is the bliss, in just return, to prove The bonest warinth of undissembled love; For her, inconstant man might cease to range, And gratitude forbid desire to change.

But, lest harsh Care the lover's peace destroy, And roughly blight the tender buds of joy, Let Reason teach what Passion fain would hide, That Hymen's bands by Prudence should be tied, Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown, If angry Fortune on their union frown:

Soon will the flattering dream of bliss be o'er,
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more.
Then, waking to the sense of lasting pain,
With mutual tears the nuptial couch they stain;
And that fond love, which should afford relief,
Does but increase the anguish of their grief:
While both could easier their own sorrows bear,
Than the sad knowledge of each other's care.

Yet may you rather feel that virtuous pain,
Than sell your violated charms for gain;
Than wed the wretch whom you despise or hate,
For the vain glare of useless wealth or state.
The most abandoned prostitutes are they,
Who not to love, but avarice, fail a prey :
Nor aught avails the specious name of wife;
A maid so wedded is a whore for life.

[ven

Ev'n in the happiest choice, where favouring HeaHas equal love and easy fortune given, Think not, the husband gain'd, that all is done: The prize of happiness must still be won: And oft, the careless find it to their cost, The lover in the husband may be lost; The Graces might alone his heart allure; They and the Virtues meeting must secure.

Let ev'n your prudence wear the pleasing dress Of care for him, and anxious tenderness. From kind concern about his weal or woe, Let each domestic duty seem to flow. The household sceptre if he bids you bear, Make it your pride his servant to appear: Endearing thus the common acts of life, The mistress still shall charın him in the wife; And wrinkled age shall unobserv'd come on, Before his eye perceives one beauty gone: Ev'n o'er your cold, your ever-sacred urn, His constant flame, shall unextinguish'd burn. Thus I, Belinda, would your charms improve, And form your heart to all the arts of love. The task were harder, to secure my own Against the power of those already known: For well you twist the secret chains that bind With gentle force the captivated mind, Skill'd every soft attraction to employ, Each flattering hope, and each alluring joy. I own your genius; and from you receive The rules of pleasing, which to you I give.

SONG.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1752.

WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move:
Tell me, iny heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but her's can hear,
No other wit but her's approve :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I do more
Delight in all that pleas'd before,

The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?