Then imitate the glory; on the ftrand
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 faint.
Throne him on high upon a fhining feat,
Luft and prophaneness dying at his feet,

While round his head the laurel and the olive meet,
The crowns of war and peace; and may they blow
With flowery bleffings ever on his brow.

At his right hand pile up the English laws

In facred volumes; thence the monarch draws
His wife and juft commands-

Rife, ye old fages of the British ifle,

On the fair tablet caft a reverend fmile,
And blefs the piece; thefe ftatutes are your own,
That fway the cottage, and direct the throne;
People and prince are one in William's name,
Their joys, their dangers, and their laws the fame.

Let liberty, and right, with plumes difplay'd,
Clap their glad wings around their guardian's head,
Religion o'er the rest her ftarry pinions spread.
Religion guards him; round th' imperial queen
Place waiting virtues, each of heavenly mein;
Learn their bright air, and paint it from his eyes;
The juft, the bold, the temperate and the wise
Dwell in his looks; majeftic, but ferene;
Sweet, with no fondness; chearful, but not vain :
Bright, without terror; great, without disdain.

} }

}

His foul infpires us what his lips command,

And spreads his brave example through the land :'
Not fo the former reigns ;--

Bend down his earth to each afflicted cry,

Let beams of grace dart gently from his eye;
But the bright treasures of his facred breast
Are too divine, too vast to be exprest :

Colours must fail where words and numbers faint,
And leave the hero's heart for thought alone to paint.

PART II.

OW, Mufe, pursue the fatyrift again,
Wipe off the blots of his invenom'd pen;
Hark, how he bids the fervile painter draw,
In monstrous shapes, the patrons of our law;
At one flight dash he.cancels every name
From the white rolls of honesty and fame;

This fcribbling wretch marks all he meets for knave,
Shoots fudden bolts promifcuous at the base and brave,
And with unpardonable malice fheds

Poifon and spite on undiftinguifh'd heads.
Painter, forbear; or if thy bolder hand
Dares to attempt the villains of the land,
Draw first this poet, like fome baleful star,
With filent influence fhedding civil war ;
Or factious trumpeter, whofe magic found
Calls off the fubjects to the hoftile ground,
And scatters hellish feuds the nation round.

}

Thefe

These are the imps of hell, that curfed tribe

That first create the plague, and then the pain defcribe.

Draw next above, the great ones of our isle,
Still from the good diftinguishing the vile;
Seat them in pomp, in grandeur, and command,
Peeling the fubjects with a greedy hand:

Paint forth the knaves that have the nation fold,
And tinge their greedy looks with fordid gold.
Mark what a felfith faction undermines
The pious monarch's generous defigns,
Spoil their own native land as vipers do,
Vipers that tear their mother's bowels through.
Let great Naffau, beneath a careful crown,
Mournful in majefty, look gently down,
Mingling foft pity with an awful frown:
He grieves to fee how long in vain he strove
To make us bleft, how vain his labours prove
To fave the ftubborn land he condefcends to love.

}

}

To the DISCONTENTED and UNQUIET.

Imitated partly from Cafimire, B. IV. Od. 15.

V ARIA, there's nothing here that's free

From wearifome anxiety:

And the whole round of mortal joys
With fhort poffeffion tires and cloys:
'Tis a dull circle that we tread,
Juft from the window to the bed,

We

.

We rife to fee and to be feen,
Gaze on the world awhile, and then
We yawn, and stretch to fleep again.
But Fancy, that uneafy gueft,
Still holds a longing in our breast:
She finds or frames vexations ftill.
Herself the greatest plague we feel,
We take ftrange pleasure in our pain,
And make a mountain of a grain,
Affume the load, and pant and sweat
Beneath th' imaginary weight.
With our dear felves we live at ftrife,
While the most conftant scenes of life
From peevish humours are not free;
Still we affect variety:

Rather than pass an easy day,
We fret and chide the hours away,
Grow weary of this circling fun,
And vex that he should ever run
The fame old track; and ftill, and ftill
Rife red behind yon eaftern hill,...
And chide the moon that darts her light
Through the fame casement every night.

We fhift our chambers, and our homes,
To dwell where trouble never comes;
Sylvia has left the city crowd,
Against the court exclaims aloud,

Flies to the woods; a hermitsaint !

She loaths her patches, pins, and paint,

}

Dear

Dear diamonds from her neck are torn:
But Humour, that eternal thorn,
Sticks in her heart: She is hurry'd still,
'Twixt her wild paffions and her will:
Haunted and hagg'd where-e'er the roves,
By purling streams, and filent groves,
Or with her furies, or her loves.

Then our own native land we hate,
Too cold, too windy, or too wet;
Change the thick climate, and repair
To France or Italy for air;

In vain we change, in vain we fly;
Go, Sylvia, mount the whirling fky,
Or ride upon the feather'd wind
In vain; if this diseased mind
Clings faft, and ftill fits clofe behind.
Faithful difeafe, that never fails
Attendance at her lady's fide,
Over the defart or the tide,
On rolling wheels, or flying fails.

Happy the foul that virtue fhows
To fix the place of her repofe,
Needless to move; for the can dwell
In her old grandfire's hall as well.
Virtue that never loves to roam,
But fweetly hides herself at home.
And easy on a native throne
Of humble turf fits gently down.