(Smiling, in justice to their own degree,)
This proud reward by majesty bestow'd

On worth like that whence first the peerage flow'd.
From frowns of fate Britannia's bliss to guard,
Let subjects merit, and let kings reward.
Gods are most gods by giving to excel,

And kings most like them, by rewarding well.
Though strong the twanging nerve, and drawn aright,
Short is the wingèd arrow's upward flight;

But if an eagle it transfix on high,

Lodged in the wound, it soars into the sky.
Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays,

And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise ;
Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame,
Not lifted by my genius, but my theme.

No more for in this dread suspense of fate,
Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate
Weigh peace and war, now Europe's eyes are bent
On mighty Brunswick, for the great event,
Brunswick of kings the terror or defence!
Who dares detain thee at a world's expense ?

AN EPISTLE

TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

1712.

Parnassia laurus

Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra.-VIRG.

WHEN Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone,
And great Augustus ruled the globe alone,
While suppliant kings in all their pomp and state
Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace gate;
Horace did oft the mighty man detain,

And soothed his breast with no ignoble strain ;
Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string;
And taught the Roman genius how to sing.
Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue,
Who know no want of Cæsar, finding you;
The muse's friend is pleased the muse should press
Through circling crowds, and labour for access,

That partial to his darling he may prove,
And shining throngs for her reproach remove,
To all the world industrious to proclaim

His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame.

Long has the western world reclined her head, Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead; Fell discord through her borders fiercely ranged, And shook her nations, and her monarchs changed; By land and sea, its utmost rage employ'd; Nor heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd.

In vain kind summers plenteous fields bestow'd,
In vain the vintage liberally flow'd;

Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chased,
And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste;
The smiles of nature could no blessing bring,
The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring;
Time was distinguish'd by the sword and spear,
Not by the various aspects of the year;
The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky,
And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh.

But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen,
When such as you are near her glorious queen !)
Now peace, though long repulsed, arrives at last,
And bids us smile on all our labours past;
Bids every nation cease her wonted moan,
And every monarch call his crown his own:
To valour gentler virtues now succeed;
No longer is the great man born to bleed;
Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle shall tell,
Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell:
Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame,
And without trembling we resound his name.

No more the rising harvest whets the sword,
No longer waves uncertain of its lord ;

Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim,
Nor chance of battle change the master's name.
Each stream unstain'd with blood more smoothly flows;
The brighter sun a fuller day bestows;

All nature seems to wear a cheerful face,
And thank great Anna for returning peace.
The patient thus, when on his bed of pain,

No longer he invokes the gods in vain,
But rises to new life; in every field
He finds Elysium, rivers nectar yield;

Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please,
And borrow beauties from his late disease.

Nor is it peace alone, but such a peace, As more than bids the rage of battle cease. Death may determine war, and rest succeed, 'Cause naught survives on which our rage may feed: In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes, And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose. See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance, Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France; So well received, so welcome, so at home, (Bless'd change of fate) in Bourbon's stately dome; The monarch pleased, descending from his throne, Will not that Anna call him all her own; He claims a part, and looking round to find Something might speak the fulness of his mind, A diamond shines, which oft had touch'd him near Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear; Now first with joy beheld, well placed on one, Who makes him less regret his darling son; So dear is Anna's minister, so great, Your glorious friend in his own private state. To make our nations longer two, in vain Does nature interpose the raging main : The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows, For Louis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows : From conflicts pass'd each others' worth we find, And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd; Each wound received, now pleads the cause of love, And former injuries endearments prove. What Briton but must prize the illustrious sword, That cause of fear to Churchill could afford? Who sworn to Bourbon's sceptre, but must frame Vast thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard tame? Thus generous hatred in affection ends,

And war, which raised the foes, completes the friends.
A thousand happy consequences flow

(The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow);
Commerce shall lift her swelling sails, and roll
Her wealthy fleets secure from pole to pole;
The British merchant, who with care and pain
For many moons sees only skies and main;
When now in view of his loved native shore,
The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er,

Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find,
Nor curse the mercy of the sea and wind;
By hardest fate condemn'd to serve a foe,
And give him strength to strike a deeper blow.
Sweet Philomela providently flies

To distant woods and streams, for such supplies,
To feed her young, and make them try the wing,
And with their tender notes attempt to sing :
Meanwhile, the fowler spreads his secret snare,
And renders vain the tuneful mother's care.
Britannia's bold adventurer of late

The foaming ocean plough'd with equal fate.

Goodness is greatness in its utmost height, And power a curse, if not a friend to right: To conquer is to make dissension cease, That man may serve the King of kings in peace. Religion now shall all her rays dispense, And shine abroad in perfect excellence ; Else we may dread some greater curse at hand, To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land: Now war is weary, and retired to rest; The meagre famine, and the spotted pest, Deputed in her stead, may blast the day, And sweep the relics of the sword away. When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne, Jove in the fulness of his glory shone ; Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword, Was born to raise a temple to the Lord. Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle. Those mighty souls, whom military care Diverted from their only great affair, Shall bend their full united force, to bless Th' Almighty author of their late success. And what is all the world subdued to this? The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss ; But there are conquests to great Anna known, Above the splendour of an earthly throne; Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within The scanty bounds of matter to begin ; Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run Beyond this darkness of the stars and sun, And shall whole ages past be still, still but begun. Heroic shades! whom war has swept away,

Look down, and smile on this auspicious day:
Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell,
Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell;

Then deep into eternity retire,

Of greater things than peace or war inquire ;
Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know
What farther passes in the world below.

The bravest of mankind shall now have leave
To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave:
On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet
Sad melancholy numbers in each street
(Owners of bones dispersed on Flandria's plain,
Or wasting in the bottom of the main);

To turn us back from joy, in tender fear,
Lest it an insult of their woes appear,

And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their blood
Perhaps preserved, who starve, or beg for food.
Devotion shall run pure, and disengage

From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage
On heaven without a sin we now may call,
And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall;
Be Christians while we pray, nor in one breath
Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death.

But O! I view with transport arts restored,
Which double use to Britain shall afford;
Secure her glory purchased in the field,
And yet for future peace sweet motives yield:
While we contemplate on the painted wall,
The pressing Briton, and the flying Gaul,
In such bright images, such living grace,
As leave great Raphael but the second place;
Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise,
And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes;
Much we shall triumph in our battles past,
And yet consent those battles prove our last;
Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive,
We lose the means to keep that fame alive.
In silent groves the birds delight to sing,

Or near the margin of a secret spring:
Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve,
Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.

But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string,
Or breathing canvas, when the muses sing?
The muse, my lord, your care above the rest,

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