Lo, at his honourable feet

Fame's bright attendant, Wealth, appears;
She comes to pay obedience meet,
Providing joys for future years;

Blessings with lavish hand she pours,
Gather'd from the Indian coast;

Not Danae's lap could equal treasures boast,
When Jove came down in golden show'rs.

He look'd and turn'd his eyes away,
With high disdain I heard him say,
Bliss is not made of glittering clay.'

Now pomp and grandeur court his head,
With scutcheons, arms, and ensigns spread:
Gay magnificence and state,
Guards, and chariots, at his gate,

And slaves in endless order round his table wait:
They learn the dictates of his eyes,

And now they fall, and now they rise, Watch every motion of their Lord, Hang on his lips with most impatient zeal, With swift ambition seize the' unfinish'd word, And the command fulfil.

Tir'd with the train that Grandeur hrings,

He dropt a tear, and pitied kings:
Then, flying from the noisy throng,
Seeks the diversion of a song.

Music descending on a silent cloud,
Tun'd all her strings with endless art;
By slow degrees from soft to loud
Changing she rose: the harp and flute
Harmonious join, the hero to salute,
And make a captive of his heart.

Fruits, and rich wine, and scenes of lawless love, Each with utmost luxury strove

To treat their favourite best;

But sounding strings, and fruits, and wine,
And lawless love, in vain combine

To make his virtue sleep, or lull his soul to rest.

He saw the tedious round, and, with a sigh,
Pronounc'd the world but vanity:

"In crowds of pleasure, still I find
A painful solitude of mind,

A vacancy within, which sense can ne'er supply. Hence, and begone, ye flattering snares,

Ye vulgar charms of eyes and ears,

Ye unperforming promises !

Be all my baser passions dead,
And base desires, by nature made.

For animals and boys;

Man has a relish more refin'd,

Souls are for social bliss design'd,

Give me a blessing fit to match my mind,
A kindred-soul to double and to share my joys.

Myrrha appear'd: serene her soul
And active as the sun, yet steady as the pole :
In softer beauties shone her face;

Every Muse, and every grace,
Made her heart and tongue their seat,..
Her heart profusely good,her tongue divinely sweet:
Myrrha the wonder of his eyes;

His heart recoil'd with sweet surprise,

With joys unknown before:

His soul, dissolv'd in pleasing pain,
Flow'd to his eyes, and look'd again,

And could endure no more.

"Enough! (the' impatient hero cries)
And seiz'd her to his breast,

I seek no more below the skies,
I give my slaves the rest.'

TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ.

AN ANSWER TO AN INFAMOUS SATIRE, CALLED, 'ADVICE TO A PAINTER;"

Written by a nameless Author, againt King William III. of glorious Memory, 1698.

SIR,

WHEN you put this satire into my hand, you gave me the occasion of employing my pen to answer so detestable a writing: which might be done much more effectually by your known zeal for the interest of his Majesty, your counsels and your courage employed in the defence of your king and country. And since you provoked me to write, you will accept of these efforts of my loyalty to the best of kings, addressed to one of the most zealous of his subjects, by,

SIR,

Your most obedient servant,

I. W.

PART I.

AND must the hero, that redeem'd our land,
Here in the front of vice and scandal stand?
The man of wondrous soul, that scorn'd his ease,
Tempting the winters, and the faithless seas,
And paid an annual tribute of his life

To guard his England from the Irish knife, [name,
And crush the French dragoon? Must William's
That brightest star that gilds the wings of Fame,
William the brave, the pious, and the just,
Adorn these gloomy scenes of tyranny and lust?
Polhill, my blood boils high, my spirits flame!
Can your zeal sleep? Or are your passions tame?
Nor call revenge and darkness on the poet's
name?

Why smoke the skies not? Why no thunders roll?
Nor kindling lightnings blast his guilty soul?
Audacious wretch! to stab a monarch's fame,
And fire his subjects with a rebel flame;
To call the painter to his black designs,
To draw our guardian's face in hellish lines:
Painter, beware; the monarch can be shown
Under no shape but angels, or his own,
Gabriel, or William, on the British throne.

O! could my thought but grasp the vast design, And words with infinite ideas join,

I'd rouse Apelles from his iron sleep,

And bid him trace the warrior o'er the deep.
Trace him, Apelles, o'er the Belgian plain

Fierce, how he climbs the mountains of the slain,
Scattering just vengeance through the red cam-
paign.

Then dash the canvass with a flying stroke,
Till it be lost in clouds of fire and smoke;
And say, 'twas thus the conqueror through the
squadrons broke.

Mark him again emerging from the cloud,
Far from his troops; there, like a rock, he stood
His country's single barrier in a sea of blood.
Calmly he leaves the pleasures of a throne,
And his Maria weeping; whilst alone [own:
He wards the fate of nations, and provokes his
But Heaven secures its champion! o'er the field
Paint hovering angels; though they fly conceal'd,
Each intercepts a death, and wears it on his
shield.

Now, noble pencil, lead him to our isle:
Mark how the skies with joyful lustre smile,
Then imitate the glory: on the strand
Spread half the nation, longing till he land.
Wash off the blood, and take a peaceful teint,
All red the warrior, white the ruler paint:
Abroad a hero, and at home a saint.
Throne him on high upon a shining seat,

Lust and profaneness dying at his feet, [meet,
While round his head the laurel and the olive
The crowns of war and peace: and may they blow,
With flowery blessings ever on his brow.
At his right hand pile up the English laws

In sacred volumes; thence the monarch draws
His wise and just commands

Rise, ye old sages of the British isle,

On the fair tablet cast a reverend smile,

And bless the piece; these statutes are your own, That sway the cottage, and direct the throne;