65

Airy blifs (the hero cry'd)

May feed the tympany of pride; "But healthy fouls were never found "To live on emptinefs and found."

Lo, at his honourable feet

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

Bleffings with lavish hand she pours
Gather'd from the Indian coaft;

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

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

Now Pomp and Grandeur court his head
With fcutcheons, arms, and enfigns spread;
Gay magnificence and state,

Guards, and chariots, at his gate,

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

And now they fall, and now they rife,
Watch every motion of their lord,

Hang on his lips with most impatient zeal,
With fwift ambition feize th' unfinish'd word,
And the command fulfil.

Tir'd with the train that Grandeur brings,
He dropt a tear, and pity'd kings,

Then

Then, flying from the noify throng,
Seeks the diverfion of a fong.

Mufic defcending on a filent cloud,
Tun'd all her strings with endless art;
By flow degrees from foft to loud
Changing the rofe: The harp and flute
Harmonious join, the hero to falute,

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 beft;

But founding ftrings, and fruits, and wine,
And lawless love, in vain combine

To make his virtue fleep, or lull his foul to reft,

He saw the tedious round, and, with a figh,
Pronounc'd the world but vanity.

"In crowds of pleasure still I find
"A painful folitude of mind.

“A vacancy within which sense can ne'er supply.
"Hence, and be gone, ye flattering foares,
"Ye vulgar charms of eyes and ears,

"Ye unperforming promifers!

"Be all my bafer paflions dead,

"And bafe defires, by nature made

"For animals and boys:

"Man has a relish more refin'd,

"Souls are for focial blifs defign'd,

Give me a bleffing fit to match my mind,

"A kindred-foul to double and to fhare my joys."

Myrrha

Myrrha appear'd: "Serene her foul "And active as the fun, yet steady as the pole :

"In fofter beauties fhone her face;

Every Mufe, and every Grace,

"Made her heart and tongue

their feat,

"Her heart profufely good, her tongue divinely fweet:

Myrrha the wonder of his eyes ;"
His heart recoil'd with fweet furprise,
With joys unknown before:
His foul dissolv'd in pleafing pain,
Flow'd to his eyes, and look'd again,
And could endure no more.
"Enough! (th' impatient hero cries)
"And feiz'd her to his breaft,
"I feek no more below the fkies,
"I give my flaves the reft,"

To DAVID POL HILL, ESQ.

An Answer to an infamous Satyr, called, " ADVICE TO A PAINTER;" written by a nameless Author, against King William III, of Glorious Memory, 1698.

SIR,

WHEN you put this fatyr into my hand, you

gave me the occasion of employing my pen to answer fo deteftable a writing; which might be done

much

much more effectually by your known zeal for the intereft of his majefty, your counfels and your courage employed in the defence of your king and country. And fince you provoked me to write, you will accept of thofe efforts of my loyalty to the best of kings, addreffed to one of the most zealous of his fubjects, by

SIR,

Your moft obedient fervant,

I. W.

PART I.

AND muft the hero, that redeem'd our land,

Here in the front of vice and scandal stand?
The man of wondrous foul, that fcorn'd his eafe,
Tempting the winters, and the faithlefs feas,
And paid an annual tribute of his life

To guard his England from the Irish knife,

And crush the French dragoon? Mud William's name,
That brightest ftar that gilds the wings of fame,
William the brave, the pious, and the juft,
Adorn thefe gloomy fcenes of tyranny and luft?

Polhill, my blood boils high, my fpirits flame;
Can your zeal fleep! Or are your paffions tame?

Why fmoke the skies not? Why no thunders roll?
Nar kindling lightnings blaft his guilty foul?

Auda

Audaciou. wretch! to stab a monarch's fame,
And fire his fubjects 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 fhape 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 roufe Apelles, from his iron fleep,

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 flain,
Scattering juft vengeance through the red campaign.
Then dash the canvas with a flying stroke,
Till it be loft in clouds of fire and smoke,
And fay, 'Twas thus the conqueror through the
fquadrons broke.

Mark him again emerging from the cloud,
Far from his troops; there like a rock he stood
His country's fingle barrier in a sea of blood.
Calmly he leaves the pleasures of a throne,
And his Maria weeping; whilft alone

He wards the fate of nations, and provokes his own:
But heaven fecures its champion; o'er the field
Paint hovering angels; though they fy conceal'd,
Each intercepts a death, and wears it on his fhield.

Now, noble pencil, lead him to our isle,
Mark how the fkies with joyful luftre fmile,

}

Then