To you my secret transports I disclose,
That rise above the languid powers of prose.
But, while these artless numbers you peruse,
Think 't is my heart that dictates, not the Muse;
My heart, which at the name of Brunswick fires,
And no assistance from the Muse requires.
Believe me, sir, your breast, that glows with
zeal

For George's glory, and the public weal,
Your breast alone feels more pathetic heats;
Your heart alone with stronger raptures beats.
When I review the great examples past,
And to the former ages join the last;
Still, as the godlike heroes to me rise,
In arms triumphant, and in councils wise,
The king is ever present to my mind;
His greatness, trac'd in every page, Í find:
The Greek and Roman pens his virtues tell,
And under shining names on Brunswick dwell.
At Hampton while he breathes untainted air,
And seems, to vulgar eyes, devoid of care;
The british Muses to the grove will press,
Tune their melodious harps, and claim access:
But let them not too rashly touch the strings;
For Fate allows no solitude to kings.

Hail to the shades, where William, great in arms,
Retir'd from conquest to Maria's charms!
Where George serene in majesty appears,
And plans the wonders of succeeding years!
There, as he walks, his comprehensive mind
Surveys the globe, and takes-in all mankind:
While, Britain, for thy sake he wears the crown;
To spread thy power as wide as his renown:
To make thee umpire of contending states,
And poise the balance in the world's debates.
From the smooth terrass as he casts his eye,
And sees the current sea-ward rolling by;
What schemes of commerce rise in his designs!
Pledges of wealth! and unexhausted mines!
Through winds and waves, beneath inclement skies,
Where stars, 'distinguish'd by no name, arise,
Our fleets shall undiscover'd lands explore,
And a new people hear our cannons roar.

The rivers, long in ancient story fam'd, Shall flow obscure, nor with the Thames be nam'd: Nor shall our poets copy from their praise, And Nymphs and Syrens to thy honour raise; Nor make thy banks with Tritons' shells resound, Nor bind thy brows with humble sedges round: But paint thee as thou art a peopled stream! The boast of merchants, and the sailors' theme! Whose spreading floods unnumber'd ships sustain, And pour whole towns afloat into the main; While the redundant seas waft up fresh stores, The daily tribute of far-distant shores.

Back to thy source I try thy silver-train, That gently winds through many a fertile plain; Where flocks and lowing herds in plenty feed, And shepherds tune at ease the vocal reed: Ere yet thy waters meet the briny tide, And freighted vessels down thy channel ride; Ere yet thy billows leave their banks behind, Swell into state, and foam before the wind: Thy sovereign's emblem! in thy course complete! When I behold him in his lov'd retreat, Where rural scenes their pleasing views disclose, A sylvan deity the monarch shows; And if he only knew the woods to grace, To rouse the stag, and animate the chase:

While every hour, from thence, his high commands,
By speedy winds convey'd to various lands,
Control affairs; give weighty councils birth;
And sway the mighty rulers of the Earth.

Were he, our island's glory and defence,
To reign unactive, at the world's expense;
Say, generous Craggs, who then should quell the
Of lawless Faction, and reform the age? [rage
Who should our dear-bought liberties maintain?
Who fix our leagues with France, and treat with
Spain?

Who check the headstrong Swede; assuage the Czar;
Secure our peace, and quench the northern war?
The Turk, though he the Christian name defies,
And curses Eugene, yet from Eugene flies,
His cause to Brunswick's equity dare trust;
He knows him valiant, and concludes him just:
He knows his fame in early youth acquir'd,
When turban'd hosts before his sword retir'd.

Thus while his influence to the poles extends,
Or where the day begins, or where it ends,
Far from our coasts he drives off all alarms;
And those his power protects, his goodness charms,
Great in himself, and undebas'd with pride,
The sovereign lays his regal state aside,
Pleas'd to appear without the bright disguise
Of pomp; and on his inborn worth relies.
His subjects are his guests; and daily boast
The condescension of their royal host:
While crowds succeeding crowds on either hand,
A ravish'd multitude, admiring stand.
His manly wit and sense, with candour join'd,
His speech with every elegance refin'd,
His winning aspect, his becoming ease,
Peculiar graces all, conspire to please,
And render him to every heart approv'd;
The king respected, and the man belov'd.

Nor is his force of genius less admir'd: When most from crowds or public cares retir'd, The learned arts, by turns, admittance find; At once unbend and exercise his mind. The secret springs of Nature, long conceal'd, And to the wise by slow degrees reveal'd, (Delightful search!) his piercing thought descries. Oft through the concave azure of the skies His soul delights to range, a boundless space, Which myriads of celestial glories grace; Worlds behind worlds, that deep in ether lie, And suns, that twinkle to the distant eye; Or call them stars, on which our fates depend, And every ruling star is Brunswick's friend.

Soon as the rising Sun shoots o'er the stream,
And gilds the palace with a ruddy beam,
You to the healthful chase attend the king,
And hear the forest with the huntsmen ring:
While in the dusty town we rule the state,
And from gazettes determine England's fate.
Our groundless hopes and groundless fears prevail
As artful brokers comment on the mail.
Deafen'd with news, with politics opprest,

I wish the wind ne'er varied from the west.
Secure, on George's councils I rely,
Give up my cares, and Britain's foes defy.
What though cabals are form'd, and impious leagues?
Though Rome fills Europe with her dark intrigues?
His vigilance, on every state intent,
Defeats their plots, and over-rules th' event,
But whither do my vain endeavours tend?
Or how shall I my rash attempt defend?

Divided in my choice, from praise to praise
I rove, bewilder'd in the pleasing maze.
One virtue mark'd, another I pursue,
While yet another rises to my view.
Unequal to the task, too late I find
The growing theme unfinish'd left behind.
Thus, the deluded bee, in hopes to drain
At once the thymy treasure of the plain,
Wide ranging, on her little pinions toils,
And skims o'er hundred flowers for one she spoils :
When, soon o'erburthen'd with the fragrant weight,
Homeward she flies, and flags beneath her freight.

ΤΟ

LORD CARTERET,

DEPARTING FROM DUBLIN. 1726.
BEHOLD, Britannia waves her flag on high,
And calls forth breezes from the western sky,
And beckons to her son, and smooths the tide,
That does Hibernia from her cliffs divide.

Go, Carteret, go; and, with thee, go along
The nation's blessing, and the poet's song;
Loud acclamations, with melodious lays,
The kindest wishes, and sincerest praise.

Go, Carteret, go; and bear my joys away!

So speaks the Muse, that fain would bid thee stay:
So spoke the virgin to the youth unkind,
Who gave his vows, and canvass, to the wind,
And promis'd to return; but never more
Did he return to the Threician shore.

Go, Carteret, go: alas, a tedious while
Hast thou been absent from thy mother-isle;
A slow-pac'd train of months to thee and thine,
A flight of moments to a heart like mine,
That feels perfections, and resigns with pain
Enjoyments I may never know again.

O, while mine eye pursues the fading sails,
Smooth roil, ye waves, and steady breathe, ye gales,
And urge with gentle speed to Albion's strand
A household fair, amidst the fairest land,
In every decency of life polite,

A freight of virtues, wafting from my sight!
And now farewell, O early in renown,
Illustrious, young, in labours for the crown,
Just, and benign, and vigilant, in power,
And elegant to grace the vacant hour,
Relaxing sweet! Nor are we born to wear
The brow still bent, and give up life to care.
And thou, mild glory, beaming round his fame,
Francisca, thou, his first, his latest flame;
Parent of bloom! in pleasing arts retin'd!
Farewell thy hand, and voice, in music join'd;
Thy courtesy, as soothing as thy song,

And smiles soft-gleaming on the courtly throng:
And thou, Charissa, hastening to thy prime,
And Carolina, chiding tardy Time,
Who every tender wish of mine divide,
For whom I strung the lyre, once laid aside,
Receive, and bear in mind, my fond farewell,
Thrive on in life! and, thriving on, excell!
Accept this token, Carteret, of good-will,
The voice of nature, undebas'd by skill,
These parting numbers, cadenc'd by my grief,
For thy lov'd sake, and for my own relief,
If aught, alas, thy absence may relieve,
Now I am left, perhaps, through life to grieve:

Yet would I hope, yet hope I know not why, (But hopes and wishes in one balance lie) Thou mayst revisit, with thy wonted smiles, Tërna, island set around with isles:

May the same heart, that bids thee now adieu, Salute thy sails, and hail thee into view!

ODES.

SONG.

FROM White's and Will's
To purling rills

The love-sick Strephon flies;
There, full of woe,

His numbers flow,

And all in rhyme he dies.
The fair coquet,
With feign'd regret,
Invites him back to town;

But, when in tears

The youth appears,
She meets him with a frown.

Full oft the maid
This prank had play'd,
Till angry Strephon swore,
And, what is strange,
Though loth to change,
Would never see her more.

SONG.

WHY we love, and why we hate,

Is not granted us to know: Random chance, or wilful fate, Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow.

If on me Zelinda frown,

Madness 't is in me to grieve:
Since her will is not her own,
Why should I uneasy live?
If I for Zelinda die,

Deaf to poor Mizella's cries,
Ask not me the reason why:
Seek the riddle in the skies.

TO SIGNORA CUZZONI.
MAY 25, 1724.

LITTLE Syren of the stage,
Charmer of an idle age,
Empty warbler, breathing lyre,
Wanton gale of fond desire,
Bane of every manly art,
Sweet enfeebler of the heart!
O, too pleasing in thy strain,
Hence, to southern climes again;
Tuneful mischief, vocal spell,
To this island bid farewell;
Leave us as we ought to be,
Leave the Britons rough and free.

TO THE HONOURABLE

MISS CARTERET.

BLOOM of beauty, early flower
Of the blissful bridal bower,
Thou, thy parents pride and care,
Fairest offspring of the fair,
Lovely pledge of mutual love,
Angel seeming from above,
Was it not thou day by day
Dost thy very sex betray,
Female more and more appear,
Female, more than angel dear,
How to speak thy face and mien,
(Soon too dangerous to be seen)
How shall I, or shall the Muse,
Language of resemblance choose?
Language like thy mien and face,
Full of sweetness, full of grace!

By the next returning spring,
When again the linnets sing,
When again the lambkins play,
Pretty sportlings full of May,
When the meadows next are seen,
Sweet enamel! white and green,
And the year in fresh attire
Welcomes every gay desire,
Blooming on shalt thou appear
More inviting than the year,
Fairer sight than orchard shows,
Which beside a river blows:
Yet another spring I see,
And a brighter bloom in thee:
And another round of time,
Circling, still improves thy prime :
And, beneath the vernal skies,
Yet a verdure more shall rise,
Ere thy beauties, kindling slow,
In each finish'd feature glow,
Ere, in smiles and in disdain,
Thou exert thy maiden reign,
Absolute to save, or kill,
Fond beholders, at thy will.
Then the taper-moulded waist
With a span of ribbon brac'd,
And the swell of either breast,
And the wide high-vaulted chest,
And the neck so white and round,
Little neck with brilliants bound,

And the store of charms which shine
Above, in lineaments divine,
Crowded in a narrow space

To complete the desperate face,
These alluring powers, and more,
Shall enamour'd youths adore;
These, and more, in courtly lays,
Many an aching heart shall praise.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men,
Who, in courtship greatly sped,
Wins the damsel to his bed,
Bears the virgin-prize away,
Counting life one nuptial day:
For the dark-brown dusk of hair,
Shadowing thick thy forehead fair,
Down the veiny temples growing,
O'er the sloping shoulders flowing,
And the smoothly pencil'd brow,
Mild to him in every vow,
And the fringed lid below,
Thin as thinnest blossoms blow,
And the hazely-lucid eye,
Whence heart-winning glances fly,
And that cheek of health, o'erspread
With soft-blended white and red,
And the witching smiles which break
Round those lips, which sweetly speak,
And thy gentleness of mind,
Gentle from a gentle kind,

These endowments, heavenly dower!
Brought him in the promis'd hour,
Shall for ever bind him to thee,
Shall renew him still to woo thee,

EPODE 1.

Where every loss, and every gain,
Where every grief, and every joy,
Every pleasure, every pain,
Each bitter, and each sweet alloy,
To us uncertain though they flow,
Are pre-ordain'd, and fix'd, above.
Too wretched state, did man foreknow
Those ills, which man cannot remove !
Vain is wisdom for preventing
What the wisest live lamenting.

STROPHE II.

Hither sent, who knows the day When he shall be call'd away? Various is the term assign'd:

An hour, a day, some months, or years,
The breathing soul on Earth appears :

But, through the swift succession of mankind,
Swarm after swarm, a busy race,

The strength of cities, or of courts the grace,
Or who in camps delight, or who abide
Diffus'd o'er lands, or float on oceans wide,
Of them, though many here long-lingering dwell,
And see their children's children, yet, how few excel!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Here we come, and hence we go,
Shadows passing to and fro,
Seen a while, forgotten soon:
But thou, to fair distinction born,
Thou, Cowper, beamy in the morn

Of life, still brightening to the pitch of noon,
Scarce verging to the steep decline,

Hence summon'd while thy virtues radiant shine,
Thou singled out the fosterling of Fame,
Secure of praise, nor less secur'd from blame,
Shall be remember'd with a fond applause,

So long as Britons own the same indulgent laws.

EPODE II.

United in one public weal,
Rejoicing in one freedom, all,
Cowper's hand applied the seal,
And levell'd the partition-wall.
The chosen seeds of great events
Are thinly sown, and slowly rise:
And Time the harvest-scythe presents,
In season, to the good and wise:
Hymning to the harp my story,
Fain would I record his glory.

STROPHE III.

Pouring forth, with heavy heart,
Truth unleaven'd, pure of art,
Like the hallow'd bard of yore,
Who chanted in authentic rhymes

The worthies of the good old times,

Ere living Vice in verse was varnish'd o'er,
And Virtue died without a song.
Support of friendless right, to powerful wrong
A check, behold him in the judgment-seat!
Twice, there, approv'd, in righteousness complete:
In just awards, how gracious! tempering law
With mercy, and reproving with a winning awe.

ANTISTROPHE III.

Hear him speaking, and you hear
Reason tuneful to the ear!
Lips with thymy language sweet,
Distilling on the hearer's mind
The balm of wisdom, speech refin'd,
Celestial gifts 1-Oh, when the nobles meet,

When next, thou sea-surrounded land,
Thy nobles meet at Brunswick's high command,
In vain they shall the charmer's voice desire,
In vain those lips of eloquence require,
That mild conviction, which the soul assails
By soft alarms, and with a gentle force prevails!

EPUDE III.

To such persuasion willing yields
The liberal mind, in freedom train'd,
Freedom, which, in crimson'd fields,
By hardy toil our fathers gain'd,
Inheritance of long descent!
The sacred pledge so dearly priz'd
By that blest spirit we lament:
Grief-easing lays, by grief devis'd,
Plaintive numbers, gently flowing,
Sooth the sorrows to him owing!

STROPHE IV.

Early on his growing heir
Stamp what time may not impair,
As he grows, that coming years,
Or youthful pleasures, or the vain
Gigantic phantom of the brain,

Ambition, breeding monstrous hopes and fears,
Or worthier cares to youth unknown,
Ennobling manhood, flower of life full-blown,
May never wear the bosom-image faint:
O, let him prove what words but weakly paint,
The lively lovely semblance of his sire,

A model to his son! that ages may admire!

ANTISTROPHE IV.

Every virtue, every grace,
Still renewing in the race,
Once thy father's pleasing hope,
Thy widow'd mother's comfort now,

No fuller bliss does Heaven allow,

While we behold yon wide-spread azure cope,

With burning stars thick-luster'd o'er,

Than to enjoy, and to deserve, a store

Of treasur'd fame, by blameless deeds acquir'd,
By all unenviéd, and by all desir'd,
Free-gift of men, the tribute of good-will!
Rich in this patrimony fair, increase it still.

EPODE IV.

The fullness of content remains
Above the yet unfathom'd skies,
Where, triumphant, gladness reigns,
Where wishes cease, and pleasures rise
Beyond all wish; where bitter tears
For dying friends are never shed;
Where, sighing, none desire past years
Recall'd, or wish the future fled.
Mournful measures, O relieve me!
Sweet remembrance! cease to grieve me.

STROPHE V.

He the robe of justice wore
Sullied not as heretofore,
When the magistrate was sought
With yearly gifts, Of what avail
Are guilty hoards? for life is frail;

And we are judg'd where favour is not bought.
By him forewarn'd, thou frantic isle,
How did the thirst of gold thy sons beguile!
Beneath the specious ruin thousands groan'd,
By him, alas, forewarn'd, by him bemoan'd.
Where shall his like, on Earth, be found? oh, when
Shall I, once more, behold the most belov'd of men'

ANTISTROPHE V.

Winning aspect! winning mind!
Soul and body aptly join'd!
Searching thought, engaging wit,
Enabled to instruct or please,
Uniting dignity with ease,

By Nature form'd for every purpose fit,
Endearing excellence!-O, why

Is such perfection born, and born to die!
Or do such rare endowments still survive,
As plants, remov'd to milder regions, thrive
In one eternal spring? and we bewail

The parting soul, new-born to life that cannot fail,

EPODE V.

Where sacred friendship, plighted love,
Parental joys unmixt with care,
Through perpetual time improve?
Or do the deathless blessed share
Sublimer raptures, unreveal'd,
Beyond our weak conception pure?
But, while those glories lie conceal'd,
The righteous count the promise sure,
Trials to the last enduring,
To the last their hope securing.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.
MAY 1, 1723.

Wao, much distinguish'd, yet is blest?
Who, dignified above the rest,

Does still unenvied live?

Not to the man whose wealth abounds, Nor to the man whose fame resounds,

Does Heaven such favour give,

Nor to the noble-born, nor to the strong, Nor to the gay, the beautiful, or young. Whom then, secure of happiness, Does every eye beholding bless,

And every tongue commend?
Him, Pulteney, who, possessing store,
Is not solicitous of more,

Who, to mankind a friend,
Nor envies, nor is envied by, the great,
Polite in courts, polite in his retreat:
Whose unambitious, active soul
Attends the welfare of the whole,

When public storms arise,

And, in the calm, a thousand ways
Diversifies his nights and days,

Still elegantly wise;

While books, each morn, the lightsome soul invite,

And friends, with season'd mirth, improve the night.

In him do men no blemish see;
And factions in his praise agree,
When most they vex the state:
Distinguish'd favourite of the skies,
Belov'd he lives, lamented dies:

Yet, shall he not to Fate

Submit entire; the rescuing Muse shall save

His precious name, and win him from the grave.

Too frail is brass and polish'd stone;
Perpetual fame the Muse alone

On Merit can bestow:

Yet, must the time-enduring song,
The verse unrival'd by the throng,
From Nature's bounty flow:

DIMPLY damsel, sweetly smiling,
All caressing, none beguiling,
Bud of beauty, fairly blowing,
Every charm to Nature owing,
This and that new thing admiring,
Much of this and that inquiring,
Knowledge by degrees attaining,
Day by day some virtue gaining,
Ten years hence, when I leave chiming,
Beardless poets, fondly rhyming,
(Fescued now, perhaps, in spelling,)
On thy riper beauties dwelling,
Shall accuse each killing feature
Of the cruel, charming creature,
Whom I knew complying, willing,
Tender, and averse from killing.

ΤΟ

MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER

MOTHER'S ARMS.

May 1, 1724.

TIMELY blossom, infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn, and every night,
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please,
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue,
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,