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On his having a BAY LEAF fent him from VIRGIL'S
ORGIVE me, Sir, if I approve
The judgment of your friend,
Who chose this token of his love
From Virgil's tomb to fend.
You, who the Mantuan
In purest English lays,
Who all his foul and flame exprefs,
May juftly claim his bays.
Those bays, which, water'd by your hand,
From Vida's fpring shall rise,
And, with fresh verdure crown'd, withstand
The lightning of the skies.
Let hence your emulation fir'd
His matchlefs ftrains purfue,
As, from Achilles' tomb infpir'd,
The youth a rival grew.
An EPISTLE to DR. EDWARD YOUNG, At Eaftbury, in Dorsetshire,
On the REVIEW at Sarum, 1722.
HILE with your Dodington retir'd you fit, Charm'd with his flowing Burgundy and wit; By turns relieving with the circling draught, Each pause of chat, and interval of thought: Or through the well-glaz'd tube, from business freed, Draw the rich spirit of the Indian weed; Or bid your eyes o'er Vanbrugh's models roam, And trace in miniature the future dome (While bufy fancy with imagin'd power Builds up the work of ages in an hour) Or, loft in thought, contemplative you rove, Through opening vifta's, and the shady grove; Where a new Eden in the wilds is found, And all the seasons in a spot of ground: There, if you exercise your tragic rage, To bring fome hero on the British stage;
Whofe cause the audience with applause will crown;
And make his triumphs or his tears their own:
Throw by the bold defign; and paint no more
Imagin'd chiefs, and monarchs of an hour;
From fabled worthies, call thy Muse to fing
Of real wonders, and Britannia's king.
Oh! hadft thou feen him, when the gathering train
Fill'd up proud Sarum's wide-extended plain!
Then, when he stoop'd from awful majesty,
Put on the man, and laid the fovereign by;
When the glad nations faw their king appear;
Begirt with armies, and the pride of war;
More pleas'd his people's longing eyes to bless,
He look'd, and breath'd benevolence and peace
When in his hand Britannia's awful Lord,
Held forth the olive, while he grafp'd the sword.
So Jove, though arm'd to blast the Titan's pride,
With all his burning thunders at his side,
Fram'd, while he terrify'd the distant foe;
His fcheme of bleflings for the world below.
This hadft thou feen, thy willing Muse would raise
Her ftrongeft wing, to reach her fovereign's praise.
To what bold heights our daring hopes may climb?
The theme fo great! the Poet fo sublime !
I faw him, Young, and to these ravish'd eyes,
Ev'n now his godlike figure feems to rise :
Mild, yet majeftic, was the monarch's mien,
Lovely though great, and awful though ferene.
(More than a coin or picture can unfold;
Too faint the colours, and too bafe the gold!)
At the bleft fight, tranfported and amaz'd,
One universal shout the thousands rais'd,
And crowds on crowds grew loyal as they gaz'd.
His foes (if any) own'd the monarch's cause,
And chang'd their groundless clamours to applause;
Ev'n giddy Faction hail'd the glorious day,
And wondering Envy look'd her rage away.
As Ceres o'er the globe her chariot drew,
And harvests ripen'd where the goddess flew;
So, where his gracious footsteps he inclin'd,
Peace flew before, and Plenty march'd behind.
Where wild affliction rages, he appears
To wipe the widow's and the orphan's tears:
The fons of mifery before him bow,
And for their merit only plead their woe.
So well he loves the public liberty,
His mercy fets the private captive free.
Scon as our royal angel came in view,
The prifons burft, the ftarting hinges flew ;
The dungeons open'd, and refign'd their prey,
To joy, to life, to freedom, and the day:
The chains drop off; the grateful captives rear
Their hands unmanacled in praise and prayer.
Had thus victorious Cæfar fought to please,
And rul'd the vanquish'd world with arts like these ;
The generous Brutus had not fcorn'd to bend,
But funk the rigid patriot in the friend;
Nor to that bold excefs of virtue ran,
To ftab the monarch, where he lov'd the man.
And Cato, reconcil'd, had ne'er disdain'd
To live a fubject, where a Brunswick reign'd.
But I detain your nobler Mufe too long,
From the great theme, that mocks my humble fong,
A theme that asks a Virgil, or a Young,
On the approaching DELIVERY of Her ROYAL HIGHNESS, in the Year 1721.
O D E.
E angels, come without delay;
Britannia's genius, come away,
Defcend, ye fpirits of the sky;
Stand, all ye winged guardians, by;
Your golden pinions kindly spread,
And watch round Carolina's bed:
Here fix your refidence on earth,
To haften on the glorious birth;
Her fainting fpirits to supply,
Catch all the Zephyrs as they fly.
Oh! fuccour nature in the ftrife,
And gently hold her up in life;
Nor let her hence too foon remove,
To join your facred choirs above:
But live, Britannia to adorn
With kings and princes yet unborn.
Ye angels, come without delay;
Britannia's genius, come away.