Else we may dread some greater curse at hand,
To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land :
Now war is weary, and retir'd to rest;
The meagre famine, and the spotted pest,
Deputed in her stead, may blast the day,
And sweep the relics of the sword away.
When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne,
Jove in the fulness of his glory shone;
Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword,
Was born to raise a temple to the Lord.
Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile
Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle.
Those mighty souls, whom military care
Diverted from their only great affair,
Shall bend their full united force, to bless
Th' Almighty author of their late success.
And what is all the world subdued to this?
The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss ;
But there are conquests to great Anna known,
Above the splendour of an earthly throne;
Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within
The scanty bounds of matter to begin ;
Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run
Beyond this darkness of the stars and sun,
And shall whole ages past be still, still but begun.
Heroic shades! whom war has swept away,
Look down, and smile on this auspicious day:
Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell,
Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell;
Then deep into eternity retire,
Of greater things than peace or war inquire;
Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know
What farther passes in the world below.
The bravest of mankind shall now have leave
To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave:
On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet
Sad melancholy numbers in each street
(Owners of bones dispers'd on Flandria's plain,
Or wasting in the bottom of the main);
To turn us back from joy, in tender fear,
Lest it an insult of their woes appear,
[blood
And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their
Perhaps preserv'd, who starve, or beg for food.
Devotion shall run pure, and disengage
From that strange fate of mixing peace with
On heaven without a sin we now may call,
And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall;
Be christians while we pray, nor in one breath
Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death.
But O! I view with transport arts restor❜d, Which double use to Britain shall afford; Secure her glory purchas'd in the field, And yet for future peace sweet motives yield: While we contemplate on the painted wall, The pressing Briton, and the flying Gaul, In such bright images, such living grace, As leave great Raphael but the second place; Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise, And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes; Much we shall triumph in our battles past, And yet consent those battles prove our last; Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive, We lose the means to keep that fame alive. In silent groves the birds delight to sing,
Or near the margin of a secret spring:
Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve,
Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.
But what's the warbling voice, the trembling
Or breathing canvass, when the muses sing?
The muse, my lord, your care above the rest,
With rising joy dilates my partial breast;
The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar,
Ere Greece her godlike poets taught to soar;
Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead,
And all her warlike neighbours round her bled;
For Janus shut, her lö Pæans rung,
Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung.
A thousand various forms the muse may wear, (A thousand various forms become the fair;) But shines in none with more majestic mien, Than when in state she draws the purple scene; Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage, And mourning beauty melt the crowded stage; Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use The noblest virtues time did e'er produce; Leaves fam'd historians' boasted art behind; They keep the soul alone, and that's confin'd, Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks: The hero's presence deep impression makes; The scenes his soul and body reunite, Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight; Make our contemporary him that stood High in renown, perhaps before the flood; Make Nestor to this age advice afford, And Hector for our service draw his sword.
More glory to an author what can bring, Whence nobler service to his country spring, Than from those labours, which, in man's despight, Possess him with a passion for the right? With honest magic make the knave inclin'd To pay devotion to the virtuous mind; Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove, And with her wants and anguish fall in love?
Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan, And does not wish the glorious pain his own? Lend but your understanding, and their skill Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will: Nor is the short-liv'd conquest quickly past; Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast. How often have I seen the generous bowl With pleasing force unlock a secret soul, And steal a truth, which every sober hour (The prose of life) had kept within her power! The grape victorious often has prevail'd, When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, Yet when the spirit's tumult was allay'd, She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd; But mourn'd too late, nor longer could deny, And on her own confession charge the lie.
Thus they, whom neither the prevailing love Of goodness here, or mercy from above, Or fear of future pains, or human laws Could render advocates in virtue's cause, Caught by the scene have unawares resign'd Their wonted disposition of the mind: By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale, As circling glasses on our senses steal;
Till thoroughly by the muses' banquet warm'd,
The passions tossing, all the soul alarm'd,
They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage,
Rise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage,
Assistance to wrong'd innocence to bring,
Or turn the poniard on some tyrant king.
How can they cool to villains? how subside
To dregs of vice, from such a godlike pride?
To spoiling orphans how to day return,
Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn?
In this gay school of virtue, whom so fit
To govern, and control the world of wit,
As Talbot, Lansdowne's friend, has Britain known?
Him polish'd Italy has call'd her own;
He in the lap of elegance was bred,
And trac'd the muses to their fountain head:
But much we hope, he will enjoy at home
What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome.
Nor fear I mention of the court of France,
When I the British genius would advance;
There too has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste;
Yet still we dare invite him to our feast:
For Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress
Of Oroonoko, and presume him less :
What though we wrong him? Isabella's woe
Waters those bays that shall for ever grow.
Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse,
The drama glories in the British muse.
The French are delicate, and nicely lead
Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread;
Our genius more affects the grand, than fine,
Our strength can make the great plain action shine:
|