All fly the fun, and feek a cool retreat,
Nor envy fwarms, who joy in fcorching heat."
She faid, and fudden all the Elfin Fair
Vanish'd unfeen, and mixt with trackless air.
But thou, O Wyndham, who didst ne'er difdain
The shepherd's gift, nor scorn the rural strain;
(Tho' to no pompous found the ear inclines,
While the mean fenfe is propt by ftronger lines)
Accept the fylvan fong-
With pleafing look the fearful bard receive;
You bad him first the humble cottage leave;
Ready to praife, and willing to excufe,
You gave affurance to the bashful Mufe.
How would I now describe a generous mind,
Improv'd by ftudy, and by courts refin'd?
But you (ah! too refolv'd) will not allow
The verse to tell, what men already know;
Envy itself their conduct must approve,
Whom the prince honours, and the people love.
Tho' you, in this, unkind deny the bard
The only fubject can his pains reward,
You cannot make the tuneful Dryads cease,
For Goddeffes will fing of whom they please;
Long will the grateful woods your name repeat,
And Wyndham be the theme, when next the Dryads
Et vincere inglorium, et atteri fordidum, arbitrabatur.
N a fair mead a dunghill lay,
That rotting smoak'd, and stunk away;
To an exceffive bigness grown,
By nightmen's labours on hi.n thrown.
Ten thousand nettles from him fprung;
Who ever came but near was ftung.
Nor ever fail'd he to produce
The baneful hemlock's deadly juice:
Such as of old at Athens grew,
When patriots thought it Phocion's due;
And for the man its poifon preft,
Whofe merit fhone above the rest.
Not far from hence, ftrong-rooted flood
A fturdy oak; itself a wood!
With friendly height, o'ertopt the grove,
And look'd the favourite tree of Jove.
Beneath his hofpitable shade,
The fhepherds all at leifure play'd;
They fear'd no ftorms of hail, or rain;
His boughs protected all the plain; .
Gave verdure to the grafs around,
And beautified the neighbouring ground.
The gracious landlord joy'd to fee
The profperous vigour of his tree;
And often fought, when in diftrefs,
This oak's oracular redrefs:
Sprung from the fam'd Dodonian grove,
Which told to men the will of Jove.
His boughs he oft with chaplets crown'd,
With azure ribbons wreath'd them round;
And there, in golden letters wrought,
"Ill to the man, who evil thought."
With envious rage, the dunghill view'd
Merit, with honour, thus purfued:
Th' injuftice of the times he moan'd;
With inward jealousy he groan'd.
A voice at length pierc'd thro' the smoke,
And thus, the patriot dunghill spoke:
"If a proud look forerun a fall,
And infolence for vengeance call;
Dost thou not fear, insulting oak!
The juft, th' impending hatchet's ftroke?
When all the farmers of the town,
Shall come, with joy, to pull thee down;
And wear thy leaves, all blithe, and gay,
Some happy Restoration Day:
For 'tis referv'd to thofe good times,
To punish all thy matchlefs crimes.
Beyond the Alps, my mind now fees
The man, fhall fell fuch traytor trees.
To heaven, 'tis true, thy branches grow;
But thy roots stretch to hell below.
Oh! that my utterance could keep pace
In curfing thee, and all thy race!
Thou plunderer! grown rich by crimes:
Thou Wolfey of these modern times!
Thou curft Sejanus of the plain!
Thou flave, of a Tiberian reign!
Empfon and Dudley!-Star and garter!
a Menzicoff!. -a Tartar!"
Th' aftonifh'd farmers all around
Stood gaping, at th' impetuous founds,
The dunghill in high triumph lay,
And fwore the oak had nought to say.
His work was done; -the farmers all
Might gather round, and fee him fall.
Not fo th' event-the oak was feen
To flourish more, in fresher green.
By fcandal unprovok'd he ftood;
And anfwer'd thus, the heap of mud:
"When Folly, Noise, and Slander rage, And Calumny reforms the age;
They, in the wife no paffions raise ;
Their clamours turn to real praise.
Yet fure, hard-fated is the tree
Reduc'd to fpatter dirt with thee.
Soon fhould a branch, from off my fide,
Chastise thine infolence and pride,
Did not the wife obtain their ends,
As well from enemies as friends.
Thus, fome increase thy heap receives,
Even from the falling of my leaves;
Which, like falfe friends, when dropt from me,
Affimilate, and turn to thee.
But be they thine:-New feafons spread
New honours o'er my rifing head."
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