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Or pierce the broken foe's remoteft lines,
The hardy veteran with tears refigns.

Unfortunate Tallard! Oh, who can name The pangs of rage, of forrow, and of shame, That with mix'd tumult in thy bofom fwell'd, When first thou faw'ft thy braveft troops repell'd,

Thine only fon pierc'd with a deadly wound,
Chok'd in his blood, and gafping on the ground;
Thyfelf in bondage by the victor kept!
The chief, the father, and the captive, wept.
An English Mufe is touch'd with generous woe,
And in th' unhappy man forgets the foe!
Greatly diftrefs'd! thy loud complaints forbear,
Blame not the turns of fate, and chance of war;
Give thy brave foes their due, nor blush to own
The fatal field by fuch great leaders won,
The field whence fam'd Eugenio bore away
Only the fecond honours of the day.

With floods of gore that from the vanquish'd fell The marshes ftagnate, and the rivers swell. Mountains of flain lie heap'd upon the ground, Or 'midst the roarings of the Danube drown'd; Whole captive hofts the conqueror detains In painful bondage, and inglorious chains; Ev'n thofe who 'fcape the fetters and the fword, Nor feek the fortunes of a happier lord, Their raging King difhonours, to complete Marlborough's great work, and finish the defeat. From Memminghen's high domes, and Augfburg's walls,

The diftant battle drives th' infulting Gauls;
Freed by the terror of the victor's name,
The refcued ftates his great protection claim;
Whilft Ulme th' approach of her deliverer waits,
And longs to open her obfequious gates.

The hero's breaft ftill fwells with great defigns,
In ev'ry thought the tow'ring genius fhines:
If to the foe his dreadful courfe he bends,
O'er the wide continent his march extends;
If fieges in his labouring thoughts are form'd,
Camps are affaulted, and an army ftorm'd;
If to the fight his active foul is bent,
The fate of Europe turns on its event.
What diftant land, what region, can afford
An action worthy his victorious fword?
Where will he next the flying Gaul defcat,
To make the series of his toils complete ?

Where the fwoln Rhine rufhing with all its force Divides the hoftile nations in its course, While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows, Enlarg'd or ftraiten'd as the river flows, On Gallia's fide a mighty bulwark stands, That all the wide-extended plain commands; Twice, fince the war was kindled, has it tried The victor's rage, and twice has chang'd its fide; As oft whole armies, with the prize o'erjoy'd, Have the long fummer on its walls employ'd. Hither our mighty chief his arms directs, Hence future triumphs from the war expects; And though the dog-ftar had its courfe begun, Carries his arms ftill nearer to the fun: Fix'd on the glorious action, he forgets The change of feafons, and increase of heats;

No toils are painful that can danger fhew,
No climes unlovely that contain a foe.

The roving Gaul, to his own bounds reftrain'd,
Learns to encamp within his native land;
But, foon as the victorious hoft he spies,
From hill to hill, from ftream to ftream he flies:
Such dire impreffions in his heart remain
Of Marlborough's fword, and Hochftet's fatal

In vain Britannia's mighty chief befets Their fhady coverts, and obfcure retreats; They fly the conqueror's approaching fame, That bears the force of armies in his name.

Auftria's young monarch, whose imperial sway Sceptres and thrones are deftin'd to obey, Whofe boafted ancestry fo high extends That in the Pagan gods his lineage ends, Comes from afar, in gratitude to own The great fupporter of his father's throne: What tides of glory to his bofom ran, Clafp'd in th' embraces of the godlike man! How were his eyes with pleafing wonder fix'd To fee fuch fire with fo much fweetnefs mix'd, Such eafy greatness, fuch a graceful port, So turn'd and finifh'd for the camp or court!

Achilles thus was form'd with ev'ry grace, And Nircus fhone but in the fecond place; Thus the great father of almighty Rome (Divinely flufh'd with an immortal bloom That Cytherea's fragrant breath bestow'd) In all the charms of his bright mother glow'd. The royal youth, by Marlborough's prefence charm'd,

Taught by his counfels, by his actions warm'd,
On Landau with redoubled fury falls,
Difcharges all his thunder on its walls;
O'er mines and caves of death provokes the fight,
And learns to conquer in the hero's fight.

The British chief, for mighty toils renown'd, Increas'd in titles and with conquefts crown'd, To Belgian coafts his tedious march renews, And the long windings of the Rhine pursues, Clearing its borders from ufurping focs, And bleft by refcued nations as he goes. Treves fears no more, freed from its dire alarms; And Traerbach feels the terror of his arms: Seated on rocks her proud foundations shake, While Marlborough preffes to the bold attack, Plants all his batt'ries, bids his cannon roar, And fhews how Landau might have fallen before. Scar'd at his near approach, great Louis fears Vengeance referv'd for his declining years, Forgets his thirft of univerfal fway, And fcarce can teach his fubjects to obey; His arms he finds on vain attempts employ'd, Th' ambitious projects for his race deftroy'd, The works of ages funk in one campaign, And lives of millions facrific'd in vain."

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But who can tell the joys of thofe that lie
Beneath the conftant influence of her eye!
Whilft in diffufive show'rs her bounties fall
Like Heaven's indulgence, and descend on all,
Secure the happy, fuccour the diftreft,
Make ev'ry fubject glad, and a whole people bleft.
Thus would I fain Britannia's wars rehearse,
In the fmooth records of a faithful verfe;
That, if fuch numbers can o'er time prevail,
May tell pofterity the wondrous tale.
When actions, unadora'd, are faint and weak,
Cities and countries must be taught to speak;
Gods may defcend in fictions from the fkies,
And rivers from their oozy beds arife;
Fiction may deck the truth with fpurious rays,
And round the hero caft a borrow'd blaze.
Marlborough's exploits appear divinely bright,
And proudly thine in their own native light:
Rais'd of themfelves, their genuine charms they

And those who paint them trueft, praise them moft.

§ 41. An Allegory on Man. PARNELL.

A THOUGHTFUL being, long and spare,

Our race of mortals call him Care
(Were Homer living, well he knew
What name the gods have call'd him too);
With fine mechanic genius wrought,
And lov'd to work, though no one bought.
This being, by a model bred
In Jove's eternal fable head,
Contriv'd a fhape empower'd to breathe,
And be the worldling here beneath.

The man rofe ftaring, like a ftake,
Wond'ring to fee himself awake!
Then look'd fo wife, before he knew
The bufincfs he was made to do,
That, pleas'd to fee with what a grace
He gravely thew'd his forward face,
Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
An under-fomething of the sky.

But ere he gave the mighty nod,
Which ever binds a poet's god
(For which his curls ambrotial shake,
And mother Earth's oblig'd to quake),
He faw old mother Earth arife;
She stood confefs'd before his eyes;
But not with what we read the wore,
A caftle for a crown before,

Nor with long streets and longer roads
Dangling behind her, like commodes:
As yet with wreaths alone fhe drefs'd,
And trail'd a landscape-painted veft.
Then thrice the rais'd, as Ovid faid,
And thrice the bow'd, her weighty head.

Halves, more than halves! cried honeft Care,
Your pleas would make your titles fair
You claim the body, you the foul,

But I, who join'd them, claim the whole.
Thus with the god's debate began,
On fuch a trivial caule as man.
And can celeftial tempers rage?
Quoth Virgil, in a later age.

As thus they wrangled, Time came by
(There's none that paint him fuch as I
For what the fabling ancients fung
Makes Saturn old when Time was young);

As yet his winters had not thed
Their filver honours on his head;
He juft had got his pinions free
From his old fire, Eternity.

Her honours made-Great Jove, fhe cried, This thing was fashion'd from my fide: His hands, his heart, his head, are mine; Then what haft thou to call him thine ? Nay, rather afk, the Monarch faid, What boots his hand, his heart, his head, Were what I gave remov'd away? Thy part's an idle shape of clay.

A ferpent girdled round he wore,
The tail within the mouth, before;
By which our almanacs are clear
That learned Egypt meant the year.
A ftaff he carried, where on high
A glats was fix'd to measure by,
As araber boxes made a fhow
For heads of canes an age ago.
His veft, for day and night, was pied;
A bending fickle arm'd his fide;

And Spring's new months his train adorn 4 The other Scafons were unborn.

Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause. O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, Where fince his hours a dial made; Then, leaning, heard the nice debate, And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate: Since body from the parent Earth, And foul from jove receiv'd a birth, Return they where they firft began; But, fince their union makes the man, Till Jove and Earth fh part theie two, To Care, who join'd them, man is due.

He faid, and fprung with fwift carcer To trace a circle for the year; Where ever fince the Seafons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, faid Jove; and, for confent, Thund'ring, he hook the firmament. Our umpire Time fhall have his way; With Care I let the creature stay : Let bufinefs vex him, v'rice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, Let error act, opinion fpeak, And want afflict, and fickness break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy diftract, and forrow kill; Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long deftructive blow; And wasted man, whofe quick decay Comes hurrying on before his day, Shall only find by this decree, The foul flies fooner back to me.

$42. The Book-Worm. PARNELL. COME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day

The Book-worm, rav'ning beaft of prey !
Prodat '&

Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds,
As Fame reports it, with the gods.
Him frantic hunger wildiy drives
Against a thoufand authors' lives:
Through all the fields of wit he flies;
Dreadful his wit with cluft'ring eyes,
With horns without, and tusks within,
And fcaies to ferve him for a skin.
Obferve him nearly, left he climb
To wound the bards of ancient time,
Or down the vale of Fancy go,
To tear fome modern wretch below.
On ev'ry corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he flips thee by.
See where his teeth a pallage eat:
We'll roufe him from the deep retreat.
But who the fheiter 's forc'd to give?
'Tis facred Virgil, as I live!
From leaf to leaf, from fong to fong,
He draws the tadpole form along;
He mounts the gilded edge before;
He's up, he fcuds the cover o'er;
He turns, he doubles, there he pafs'd;
And here we have him, caught at last.

Infatiate brute, whofe teeth abuse
The sweetest fervants of the Mufe!
(Nay, never offer to deny,
I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His rofes nipt in ev'ry page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;
By thee my Ovid wounded lics;
By thee my Lefbia's fparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half deftroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd;
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And fpoil'd the Blouzelird of Gay.
For all, for ev'ry fingle deed,
Relentlefs Juftice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myfelf the pricft, my desk the fhrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Taffo near,
To pile a facred altar here
Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,
You've reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;
You've reach'd me Philips' ruftic strain;
Pray take your mortal Bards again.

Come, bind the victim-there he lies,
And here between his num rous eyes
This venerable duft I lay,
From manufcripts juft fwept away.

The goblet in my hand I take
(For the libation 's yet to make)
A health to poets! all their days
May they have bread, as well as praise;
Senie may they feek, and lefs engage
In papers fill'd with party rage:
But, if their riches fpoil their vein,
Ye Mufes, make them poor again.

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade, With which my tuneful pens are made. I ftrike the fcales that arm thee round, And twice and thrice I print the wound The facred altar floats with red, And now he dies, and now he's dead.

How like the fon of Jove I ftand,
This Hydra ftretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To fee what dangers threat the year:
Ye gods! what fonnets on a wench!
What lean translations out of French!
'Tis plain, this lobe is so unfound,
Sprints before the months go round.

But hold-before I clofe the fcene,
The facred alrar fhould be clean.
Oh had I Shadwell's fecond bays,
Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never mifs'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the fhrine
(That only way you please the Nine);
But fince I chance to want these two,
I'll make the fongs of Durfey do.

Rent from the corps, on yonder pin
I hang the fcales that brac'd it in;
I hang my ftudious morning gown,
And write my own infcription down:

"This trophy from the Python won, "This robe in which the deed was done, "Thefe, Parnell, glorying in the feat, "Hung on thefe fhelves, the Mufes' feat. "Here ignorance and hunger found "Large realms of wit to ravage round; "Here ignorance and hunger fell; "Two foes in one I fent to hell. "Ye poets, who my labours fee, "Come fhare the triumph all with me! "Ye critics! born to vex the Muse, "To mourn the grand ally you lose.”

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Juft Heaven! what fin, ere life begins to

Devotes my head untimely to the tomb ?
Did e'er this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous knife?
Did e'er this tongue the flanderer's tale proclaim,
Or madly violate my Maker's name ?
Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might know?
As yet, juft ftarted from the lifts of time,
My growing years have scarcely told their prime;
Ufelets, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleafures tafted, and few duties done.
Ah who, ere autumn's mellowing funs appear,
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray?
Stern pow'r of Fate, whofe cbon fceptre rules
The Stygian deferts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rafhly fmite my youthful heart,]
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;

Ah, ftay till age fhall blaft my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the fhaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing thade shall go.

How weak is Man to Reason's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to afpire.
In vain our plans of happiness we raife,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praife;
Wealth, lineage, honours, conquest, or a throne,
Are what the wife would fear to call their own.
Health is at beft a vain precarious thing,
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing;
'Tis like the ftream befide whofe watʼry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head;
Nurs'd by the wave the fpreading branches rife,
Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in fecret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below:
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey.
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And finks, untimely, in the whelming tide.

§ 44. Ad Amicos. R. WEST.
YES, happy youths, on Camus' fedgy fide,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raife the genius, or the heart to mend;
Now pleas'd along the cloifter'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where focial oft, and oft alone, ye choofe
To catch the zephyr, and to court the Mufe.
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art

But why repine? Does life deferve my figh?
Few will lament my lofs whene'er I die.
For those, the wretches I defpife or hate,
I neither envy nor regard their fate.

Thefe lines give back the image of my heart)-For me, whene'er all-conquering Death fhall spread

At me the pow'r, that comes or foon or late,
Or aims, or feems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks, alone I stand,
Like fome fad exile in a defert land:

Around no friends their lenient care to join,
In mutual warmth, and mix their heart with

Or real pains, or thofe which fancy raife,
For ever blot the funfhine of my days;
To fickness still, and fill to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her rofy face away.

My youth met fortune fair array'd;
In all her pomp the fhone,
And might perhaps have well effay'd
To make her gifts my own;
But when I faw the bleffings fhow'r
On fome unworthy mind,
I left the chace, and own'd the Pow'r
Was justly painted blind.

I pafs'd the glories which adorn

The fplendid courts of kings;
And, while the perfons mov'd my fcorn,
I rofe to fcorn the things.

My manhood felt a vig'rous fire,
By love increas'd the more;
But years with coming years confpire
To break the chains I wore.

In weaknefs fafe, the fex I fee
With idle luftre fhine;

For what are all their joys to me,
Which cannot now be mine!

But hold-I feel my gout decrease,
My troubles laid to reft;
And truths which would disturb my peace
Are painful truths at best.

Vainly the time I have to roll
In fad reflection flies!

Ye fondling paffions of my foul!
Ye fweet deceits! arife.

I wifely change the fcene within
To things that us'd to pleafe;
In pain, philofophy is fpleen;

In health, 'tis only cafe.

His wings around my unrepining head,
I care not: tho' this face be feen no more,
The world will pafs as cheerful as before;
Bright as before the day-ftar will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor ftorms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor figns on earth, nor portents in the air;
Unknown and filent will depart my breath,
Nor nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet fome there are (ere spent my vital days)
Within whofe breasts my tomb I wish to raise.

*Almost all Tibullus's Elegy is imitated in this little Piece, from whence his tranfition to Mr. Pope's letter is very artfully contrived. and befpeaks a degree of judginent, much beyond Mr. Weft's years.

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$45. Hymn to Contentment. PARNELL. LOVELY, lafting peace of mind!

Sweet delight of human kind!
Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the fav'rites of the fky
With more of happiness below
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, oh whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented head?
What happy region' doft thou pleafe
To make the feat of calms and ease?

Ambition fearches all its fphere
Of pomp and ftate, to meet thee there:
Increafing avarice would find
Thy prefence in its gold enthrin'd:
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way
Through rocks, amidit the foaming fea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves;
The filent heart which grief affails,
Treads foft and lonefome o'er the vales,
Sees daifies open, rivers run,
And fecks (as I have vainly done)
Amufing thought; but learns to know
That folitude 's the nurfe of woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground;
Or in a foul exalted high,

To range the circuit of the fky,
Converfe with ftars above, and know
All Nature in its forms below;
The reft it feeks, in fecking dies;
And doubts at laft for knowledge rife.

Lovely, lafting peace, appear; This world itfelf, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden bleft, And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under fhade I stood, I fung my wishes to the wood, And, loft in thought, no more perceiv'd The branches whifper as they wav'd: It feem'd as all the quiet place Confefs'd the prefence of his grace, When thus the fpoke :--Go rule thy will, Bid thy wild paffions all be still; Know God, and bring thy heart to know The joys which from religion flow; Then ev'ry grace fhall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest.

Oh! by yonder moffy feat, In my hours of sweet retreat, Might I thus my foul employ, With fenfe of gratitude and joy: Rais'd as ancient prophets were, In heavenly vifion, praife, and pray'r; Pleafing all men, hurting none, Pleas'd and bleft with God alone;

Then while the gardens take my fight,
With all the colours of delight;
While filver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my fong;
I'll lift my voice and tune my ftring,
And thee, Great Source of Nature, fing.

The fun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that thines with borrow'd light;
The ftars that gild the gloomy night;
The feas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that fpreads its fhady leaves;
The field whofe cars conceal the grain,
The yellow treafure of the plain:
All of theft, and all I fee,
Should be fung, and fung by me:
They fpeak their Maker as they can,
But want and afk the tongue of man.

Go fearch among your idle dreams, Your bufy or your vain extremes ; And find a life of equal blifs, Or own the next begun in this.

§ 46. An Addrefs to Winter. CowPER. OH Winter! ruler of th' inverted year,

Thy fcatter'd hair with fleet like afhes fill'd,
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy checks
Fring'd with a beard made white with other fnows
Than thofe of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds;
A leaflefs branch thy fceptre; and thy throne
A fliding car indebted to no wheels,
But urg'd by forms along its flipp'ry way;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou feem'ft,
And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'ft the fun
A pris'ner in the yet undawning east,
Short'ning his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him impatient of his ftay
Down to the rofy weft: But kindly still
Compenfating his lofs with added hours
Of focial converfe and inftructive eafe,
And gathering at fhort notice in one group
The family difpers'd, and fixing thought
Not lefs difpers'd by daylight and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-fide enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.
No rattling wheels stop short before thefe gates
No powder'd pert proficient in the art
Of founding an alarm, assaults these doors
Till the ftreet rings. No ftationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while heedlefs of the found
The filent circle fan themfelves, and quake;
But here the needic plies its bufy task,
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r
Wrought patiently into the fnowy lawn
Unfolds its bofom, buds, and leaves, and fprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully difpos'd,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair,

A wreath that cannot fade, of flow'rs that blow
With most fuccefs when all befides decay.
The poet's or hiftorian's page, by one

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