Chief of confederate hosts to fight the cause
Of Liberty and Justice, grateful raised
This palace sacred to her leader's fame;
A trophy of success with spoils adorn'd
Of conquer'd towns, and glorying in the name
Of that auspicious field where Churchill's sword
Vanquish'd the might of Gallia, and chastised
Rebel Bavar.-Majestic in its strength
Stands the proud dome, and speaks its great design.
Hail, happy chief! whose valour could deserve
Reward, so glorious! grateful nation hail!
Who paidst his service with so rich a meed!
Which most shall I admire, which worthiest
praise,

The hero or the people? Honour doubts,
And weighs their virtues in an equal scale.
Not thus Germania pays th' uncancell'd debt
Of gratitude to us.-Blush Cæsar! blush,
When thou beholdst these towers, ingrate! to thee
A monument of shame! Canst thou forget
Whence they are named, and what an English arm
Did for thy throne that day? but we disdain
Or to upbraid or imitate thy guilt.

Steel thy obdurate heart against the sense
Of obligation infinite, and know

Britain, like Heaven, protects a thankless world
For her own glory, nor expects reward.

Pleased with the noble theme her task the Muse
Pursues untired, and through the palace roves
With ever-new delight. The tapestry rich
With gold, and gay with all the beauteous paint
Of various colour'd silks, disposed with skill,
Attracts her curious eye. Here Ister rolls
His purple wave, and there the Granick flood
With passing squadrons foams; here hardy Gaul
Flies from the sword of Britain, there to Greece
Effeminate Persia yields.-In arms opposed
Marlb'rough and Alexander vie for fame
With glorious competition, equal both
In valour and in fortune; but their praise
Be different, for with different views they fought,
This to subdue, and that to free mankind.

Now through the stately portals issuing forth The Muse to softer glories turns, and seeks The woodland shade delighted. Not the vale Of Tempe, famed in song, or Ida's grove, Such beauty boasts. Amid the mazy gloom Of this romantic wilderness once stood The bower of Rosamonda, hapless fair! Sacred to grief and love: the crystal fount In which she used to bathe her beauteous limbs Still warbling flows, pleased to reflect the face Of Spenser, lovely maid when tired she sits Beside its flowery brink, and views those charms Which only Rosamond could once excel. But see where flowing with a nobler stream A limpid lake of purest waters rolls Beneath the wide-stretch'd arch, stupenduous

work!

Through which the Danube might collected pour
His spacious urn: silent a while and smooth
The current glides, till with a headlong force
Broke and disorder'd down the steep it falls
In loud cascades; the silver-sparkling foam
Glitters relucent in the dancing ray.

In these retreats reposed the mighty soul
Of Churchill, from the toils of war and state
Splendidly private, and the tranquil joy
Of Contemplation felt, while Blenheim's dome
Triumphal ever in his mind renew'd

The memory of his fame, and soothed his thoughts
With pleasing record of his glorious deeds.
So by the rage of Faction home recall'd
Lucullus, while he waged successful war
Against the pride of Asia and the power
Of Mithridates, whose aspiring mind
No losses could subdue, enrich'd with spoils
Of conquer'd nations back return'd to Rome,
And in magnificent retirement past
The evening of his life.-But not alone
In the calm shades of honourable ease
Great Marlb'rough peaceful dwelt, indulgent

Heaven

Gave a companion to his softer hours,
With whom conversing he forgot all change
Of fortune or of state, and in her mind
Found greatness equal to his own, and loved
Himself in her-Thus each by each admired
In mutual honour mutual fondness join'd;

Like two fair stars with intermingled light
In friendly union they together shone,
Aiding each other's brightness, till the cloud
Of night eternal quench'd the beams of one.
Thee Churchill! first the ruthless hand of Death
Tore from thy Consort's side, and call'd thee hence
To the sublimer seats of joy and love,

When Fate again shall join her soul to thine,
Who now, regardful of thy fame erects
The column to thy praise, and sooths her woe
With pious honours to thy sacred name
Immortal. Lo! where towering in the height
Of yon aerial pillar proudly stands

Thy image, like a guardian god sublime,
And awes the subject plain : beneath his feet
The German eagles spread their wings; his hand
Grasps Victory, its slave. Such was thy brow
Majestic, such thy martial port, when Gaul
Fled from thy frown, and in Danube sought

A refuge from thy sword.-There where the field
Was deepest stain'd with gore, on Hockstet's plain,
The theatre of thy glory, once was raised
A meaner trophy by th' imperial-hand;
Extorted gratitude, which now the rage
Of malice impotent, beseeming ill

A regal breast, has levell'd to the ground;
Mean insult! this with better auspices
Shall stand on British earth to tell the world
How Marlb'rough fought, for whom and how
repaid

His services. Nor shall the constant love
Of her who raised this monument be lost
In dark oblivion; that shall be the theme
Of future bards in ages yet unborn
Inspired with Chaucer's fire, who in these groves
First tuned the British harp, and little deem'd
His humble dwelling should the neighbour be
Of Blenheim, house superb! to which the throng
Of travellers approaching, shall not pass
His roof unnoted, but respectful hail
With reverence due. Such honour does the Muse
Obtain her favourites!-But the noble pile
(My theme) demands my voice.-O shade adored,
Marlb'rough! who now above the starry sphere
Dwell'st in the palaces of heaven enthroned
Among the demigods, deign to defend
This thy abode, while present here below
And sacred still to thy immortal fame,
With tutelary care: preserve it safe
From Time's destroying hand, and cruel stroke
Of factious Envy's more relentless rage.
Here may long ages hence the British youth,
When honour calls them to the field of war,
Behold the trophies which thy valour raised,
The proud reward of thy successful toils
For Europe's freedom and Britannia's fame,
That fired with generous envy, they may dare
To emulate thy deeds.-So shall thy name,
Dear to thy country, still inspire her sons
With martial virtue, and to high attempts
Excite their arms, till other battles won
And nations saved new monuments require,
And other Blenheims shall adorn the land.

ON GOOD HUMOUR. WRITTEN AT ETON SCHOOL, 1729. TELL me, ye sons of Phoebus! what is this Which all admire, but few, too few, possess? A virtue 'tis to ancient maids unknown, And prudes who spy all faults except their own, Loved and defended by the brave and wise, Though knaves abuse it and like fools despise. Say, Wyndham! if 'tis possible to tell, What is the thing in which you most excel? Hard is the question, for in all you please; Yet sure good nature is your noblest praise: Secured by this your parts no envy move, For none can envy him whom all must love. This magic power can make even folly please; This to Pitt's genius adds a brighter grace, And sweetens every charm in Cælia's face.

ADVICE TO A LADY, 1731.

THE Counsels of a friend, Belinda! hear, Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,

1

Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,

Such truths as women seldom learn from men ;
Nor think I praise you ill when thus I show
What female vanity might fear to know.
Some merit's mine, to dare to be sincere,
But greater's your sincerity to bear.

Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends;
All who approach them their own ends pursue:
Lovers and ministers are seldom true :
Hence oft from reason heedless Beauty strays,
And the most trusted guide the most betrays;
Hence by fond dreams of fancied power amused,
When most ye tyrannize you're most abused.

What is your sex's earliest latest care,
Your heart's supreme ambition ?-To be fair.
For this the toilet every thought employs,
Hence all the toils of dress and all the joys
For this, hands, lips, and eyes, are put to school,
And each instructed feature has its rule;
And yet how few have learnt when this is given
Not to disgrace the partial boon of heaven!
How few with all their pride of form can move!
How few are lovely that are made for love!
Do you, my Fair! endeavour to possess
An elegance of mind as well as dress;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By graceful Nature's unaffected ease.

Nor make to dangerous wit a vain pretence,
But wisely rest content with moulded sense,
For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,
Too strong for feeble women to sustain;

Of those who claim it more than half have none,
And half of those who have it are undone.
Be still superior to your sex's arts,
Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts:
For you the plainest is the wisest rule,
"A cunning woman is a knavish fool."

Be good yourself, nor think another's shame Can raise your merit or adorn your fame. Prudes rail at whores, as statesmen in disgrace At ministers, because they wish their place. Virtue is amiable, mild, serene,

Without all beauty, and all peace within;
The honour of a prude is rage and storm;
Tis ugliness in its most frightful form;
Fiercely it stands defying gods and men,
As fiery monsters guard a giant's den.

Seek to be good, but aim not to be great;
A woman's noblest station is retreat:
Her fairest virtues fly from public sight,
Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light.
To rougher man Ambitions task resign;
'Tis ours in senates or in courts to shine,
To labour for a sunk corrupted state,
Or dare the rage of envy, and be great.
One only care your gentle breast should move;
Th' important business of your life is love:
To this great point direct your constant aim,
This makes your happiness, and this your fame.
Be never cool reserve with passion join'd;
With caution choose, but then be fondly kind,
The selfish heart that but by halves is given,
Shall find no place in Love's delightful heaven;
Here sweet extremes alone can truly bless:
The virtue of a lover is excess.

A maid unask'd may own a well-placed flame: Not loving first but loving wrong is shame.

Contemn the little pride of giving pain, Nor think that conquest justifies disdain: Short is the period of insulting power; Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour, Soon will resume the empire which he gave, And soon the tyrant shall become the slave.

Bless'd is the maid and worthy to be bless'd, Whose soul entire by him he loves possess'd, Feels every vanity in fondness lost,"

And asks no power but that of pleasing most:
Her's is the bliss in just return to prove
The honest warmth of undissembled love;
For her inconstant man might cease to range,
And gratitude forbid desire to change.

But lest harsh care the lover's peace destroy,
And roughly blight the tender buds of joy,
Let reason teach what passion fain would hide,
That Hymen's bands by prudence should be tied.
Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown
If angry Fortune on their union frown;
Soon will the flattering dream of bliss be o'er,
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more:
Then waking to the sense of lasting pain
With mutual tears the nuptial couch they stain,

And that fond love which should afford relief
Does but increase the anguish of their grief,
While both could easier their own sorrows bear
Than the sad knowledge of each other's care.

Yet may you rather feel that virtuous pain,
Than sell your violated charms for gain,
Than wed the wretch whom you despise or hate
For the vain glare of useless wealth or state.
The most abandon'd prostitutes are they
Who not to love but avarice falls a prey:
Nor aught avails the specious name of wife;
A maid so wedded is a whore for life.

E'en in the happiest choice, where favouring
heaven,

Has equal love and easy fortune given,
Think not the husband gain'd that all is done
The prize of happiness must still be won;
And oft the careless find it to their cost
The lover in the husband may be lost:
The Graces might alone his heart allure;
They and the Virtues meeting must secure.

Let e'en your prudence wear the pleasing dress
Of care for him and anxious tenderness.
From kind concern about his weal or woe
Let each domestic duty seem to flow.
The household sceptre if he bids you bear,
Make it your pride his servant to appear:
Endearing thus the common acts of life
The mistress still shall charm him in the wife,
And wrinkled age shall unobserved come on
Before his eye perceives one beauty gone;
E'en o'er your cold, your ever-sacred urn,
His constant flame shall unextinguish'd burn.
Thus I, Belinda! would your charms improve,
And form your heart to all the arts of love:
The task were harder to secure my own
Against the power of those already known,
For well you twist the secret chains that bind
With gentle force the captivated mind,
Skill'd every soft attraction to employ,
Each flattering hope and each alluring joy.
I your own genius, and from you receive
The rules of pleasing which to you I give.

VERSES

Written at Mr. Pope's House at Twickenham, which he had lent to Mrs. Greville, in August 1735.

Go, Thames! and tell the busy town,
Not all its wealth or pride

Could tempt me from the charms that crown
Thy rural flowery side;

Thy flowery side, where Pope has placed
The muses' green retreat,

With every smile of nature graced,
With every art complete.

But now, sweet bard! thy heavenly song
Enchants us here no more,

Their darling glory lost too long
Thy once loved shades deplore.

Yet still for beauteous Greville's sake,
The muses here remain;
Greville! whose eyes have power to make
A Pope of every swain.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

WRITTEN AT WICKHAM IN 1746.
To Miss Fortescue.

YE sylvan scenes with artless beauty gay,
Ye gentle shades of Wickham! say
What is the charm that each successive year
Which sees me with my Lucy here,
Can thus to my transported heart

A sense of joy unfelt before impart?

Is it glad summer's balmy breath, that blows
From the fair jess'mine and the blushing rose ?
Her balmy breath and all her blooming store
Of rural bliss was here before;

Oft have I met her on the verdant side
Of Norwood hill, and in the yellow meads

Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,
Array d in all her flowery pride;

No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
No brighter colours paint th' enamell'd field.

Is it to Love those new delights I owe?
Four times has the revolving sun

His annual circle through the zodiac run,
Since ali that Love's indulgent power
On favour'd mortals can bestow
Was given me in this auspicious bower.

Here first my Lucy, sweet in virgin charms,
Was yielded to my longing arms;
And round our nuptial bed

Hovering with purple wings th' Idalian boy
Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires
Of innocent desires,

While Venus scatter'd myrtles o'er her head.
Whence then this strange increase of joy?
He, only he, can tell, who match'd like me,
(If such another happy man there be)
Has by his own experience tried

How much the wife is dearer than the bride.

TO THE MEMORY

OF

THE SAME LADY.

A MONODY, A. D. 1747.

"Ipse cava solans ægrum testudine amorem, Te dulcis conjux, te solo in littore secum, Te veniente die, te decedente canebat."

Ar length escaped from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a

share,

Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry,
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss the happiest love
Can on the ennobled mind bestow
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires inelegant and low.

Ye tufted groves! ye gently falling rills!
Ye high o'ershadowing hills!

Ye lawns! gay-smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!

But never shall you now behold her more,
Nor will she now with fond delight

And taste refined your rural charms explore:
Closed are those beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes, where beaming used tc
shine

Reason's pure light and Virtue's spark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice

To hear her heavenly voice;

For her despising when she deign'd to sing
The sweetest songsters of the spring,

The woodlark and the linnet pleased no more,

The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's flute

Was cast in silent scorn away,

While all attended to her sweeter lay.

Ye larks and linnets! now resume your song,

And thou, melodious Philomel!

Again thy plaintive story tell,

For death has stopt that tuneful tongue

Whose music could alone your warbling notes

excel.

In vain I look around

O'er all the well known ground

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry,

Where oft we used to walk,

Where oft in tender talk

We saw the summer sun go down the sky;

Nor by yon fountain's side,

Nor where its waters glide

Along the valley can she now be found.

In all the wide-stretch'd prospect's ample bound

O shades of Hagley! where is now your boast?
Your bright inhabitant is lost.

You she preferr'd to all the gay resorts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities and the pride of courts:
Her modest beauties shunn'd the public eye:
To your sequester'd dales

And flower-embroider'd vales

From an admiring world she chose to fly;
With nature there retired and nature's God
The silent paths of wisdom trod,

And banish'd every passion from her breast,
But those, the gentlest and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal and the maternal love.

Sweet babes! who like the little playful fawns
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns
By your delighted mother's side,

Who now your infant steps shall guide?

Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care
To every virtue would have form'd your youth,
And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth?
O loss beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone

To weep their dire misfortune and thy own!

How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe,
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe,
Now she, alas! is gone,

From folly and from vice their helpless age to save?

Where were ye, Muses! when relentless fate
From these fond arms your fair disciple tore,
From these fond arms, that vainly strove
With hapless ineffectual love

To guard her bosom from the mortal blow?
Could not your favouring power, Aonian maids!
Could not, alas! your power prolong her date,
From whom so oft in these inspiring shades,
Or under Campden's moss-clad mountains hoar,
You open'd all your sacred store,

Whate'er your ancient sages taught, Your ancient bards sublimely thought,

[glow?

And bade her raptured breast with all your spirit

Nor then did Pindus or Castalia's plain,

Or Aganippe's fount, your steps detain,
Nor in the Thespian vallies did you play,

Nor then on Mincio's bank,

Beset with osiers dank,

Nor where Clitumnust rolls his gentle stream,
Nor where through hanging woods

Steep Anio pours his floods,

Nor yet where Meles§ or Ilissus stray.

Ill does it now beseem

That of your guardian care bereft

To dire disease and death your darling should be left.

Now what avails it that in early bloom,

When light fantastic toys

Are all her sex's joys,

With you she search'd the wit of Greece and Rome,

And all that in her latter days

To emulate her ancient praise

Italia's happy genius could produce,

Or what the Gallic fire

Bright sparkling could inspire,

By all the graces temper'd and refined,
Or what in Britain's isle,

Most favour'd with your smile,

The powers of reason and of fancy join'd

To full perfection have conspired to raise ?
Ah! what is now the use

Of all these treasures that enrich'd her mind,
To black Oblivion's gloom for ever now consign'd?

The Mincio runs by Mantua, the birth place of Virgil.

The Clitumnus is a river of Umbria, the residence of Propertius.

The Anio runs through Tiber or Trivoli, where Horace had a villa.

§ The Meles is a river of Ionia, from whence Homer, supposed to be born on its banks, is called Melesigenes.

The Ilissus is a river at Athens.

At least, ye Nine! her spotless name 'Tis yours from death to save,

And in the temple of immortal fame

With golden characters her worth engrave.

Come then, ye virgin sisters! come,

And strew with choicest flowers her hallow'd tomb;
But foremost thou, in sable vestment clad,
With accents sweet and sad,

Thou plaintive muse! whom o'er his Laura's urn
Unhappy Petrarch call'd to mourn,

O come! and to this fairer Laura pay
A more impassion'd tear, a more pathetic lay.

Tell how each beauty of her mind and face
Was brighten'd by some sweet peculiar grace!
How eloquent in every look
[spoke
Through her expressive eyes her soul distinctly
Tell how her manners by the world refined
Left all the taint of modish vice behind,

And made each charm of polish'd courts agree
With candid Truth's simplicity
And uncorrupted Innocence !

Tell how to more than manly sense
She join'd the softening influence
Of more than female tenderness!

How in the thoughtless days of wealth and joy,
Which oft the care of others' good destroy.
Her kindly melting heart

To every want and every woe,

To guilt itself, when in distress,

The balm of pity would impart,

And all relief that bounty could bestow!

E'en for the kid or lamb that pour'd its life
Beneath the bloody knife

Her gentle tears would fall,

Tears from sweet Virtue's source, benevolent to all!

Not only good and kind,

But strong and elevated was her mind;

A spirit that with noble pride

Could look superior down

On Fortune's smile or frown;
That could without regret or pain
To Virtue's lowest duty sacrifice,

Or interest or ambition's highest prize;
That injured or offended never tried
Its dignity by vengeance to maintain,
But by magnanimous disdain;
A wit that temperately bright
With inoffensive light

All pleasing shone, nor ever pass'd

The decent bounds that wisdom's sober hand,
And sweet benevolence's mild command,
And bashful modesty, before it cast;
A prudence undeceiving, undeceived,
That nor too little nor too much believed,
That scorn'd unjust Suspicion's coward fear,
And without weakness knew to be sincere !
Such Lucy was when in her fairest days,
Amidst th' acclaim of universal praise,
In life's and glory's freshest bloom,
Death came remorseless on and sunk her to the

[tomb.

So where the silent streams of Liris glide
In the soft bosom of Campania's vale,
When now the wintry tempests all are fled
And genial summer breathes her gentle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head,
From every branch the balmy flowerets rise,
On every bough the golden fruits are seen,
With odours sweet it fills the smiling skies,
The wood-nymphs tend and th' Idalian queen,
But in the midst of all its blooming pride
A sudden blast from Appenninus blows
Cold with perpetual snows,

[dies.

The tender plighted plant shrinks up its leaves and

Arise, O Petrarch! from th' Elysian bowers
With never-fading myrtles twined,
And fragrant with ambrosial flowers,
Where to thy Laura thou again art join'd;
Arise, and bither bring the silver lyre,
Tuned by the skilful hand

To the soft notes of elegant desire,
With which o'er many a land

Was spread the fame of thy disastrous love;
To me resign the vocal shell,
And teach my sorrows to relate
Their melancholy tale so well
As may e'en things inanimate,

Rough mountain oaks and desert rocks to pity move.

What were, alas! thy woes compared to mine?
To thee thy mistress in the blissful band

Of Hymen never gave her hand;

The joys of wedded love were never thine.
In thy domestic care

She never bore a share,

Nor with endearing art

Would heal thy wounded heart

Of every secret grief that fester'd there;
Nor did her fond affection on the bed

Of sickness watch thee, and thy languid head
Whole nights on her unwearied arm sustain,
And charm away the sense of pain;

Nor did she crown your mutual flame

With pledges dear, and with a father's tender

name.

O best of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms
Were yielded to my arms!

How can my soul endure the loss of thee?
How is the world to me a desert grown,

Abandon'd and alone

Without my sweet companion can I live!
Without thy lovely smile,

The dear reward of every virtuous toil,

What pleasures now can pall'd Ambition give? E'en the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise Unshared by thee no more my lifeless thoughts could raise.

For my distracted mind

What succour can I find?

On whom for consolation shall I call?
Support me every friend,

Your kind assistance lend

To bear the weight of this oppressive woe.
Alas each friend of mine,

My dear departed love! so much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.

My books, the best relief

In every other grief,

Are now with your idea sadden'd all :

Each favourite author we together read

My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead.

We were the happiest pair of human kind.
The rolling year its varying course performed,
And back return'd again,

Another and another smiling came,

And saw our happiness unchanged remain:
Still in her golden chain

Harmonious concord did our wishes bind,
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same.
O fatal, fatal stroke!

That all this pleasing fabric Love had raised
Of rare felicity,

On which e'en wanton vice with envy gazed,
And every scheme of bliss our hearts had form'd
With soothing hope for many a future day,

In one sad moment broke !

Yet, O my soul! thy rising murmurs stay,
Nor dare th' all-wise Disposer to arraign,

Or against his supreme decree

With impious grief complain.

That all thy full blown joys at once should fade

Was his most righteous will-and be that will

obey'd.

Would thy fond love his grace to her control,
And in these low abodes of sin and pain
Her pure exalted soul

Unjustly for thy partial good detain ?

No-rather strive thy groveling mind to raise
Up to that unclouded blaze

That heavenly radiance of eternal light,
In which enthroned she now with pity sees
How frail, how insecure, how slight,
Is every mortal bliss ;

E'en love itself, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds of this imperfect state,
Whose fleeting joys so soon must end,
It does not to its sovereign good ascend.
Rise then, my soul! with hope elate,
And seek those regions of serene delight
Whose peaceful path and ever open gate
No feet but those of harden'd guilt shall miss;
There Death himself thy Lucy shall restore,
There yield up all his power e'er to divide you

more.

B

VIRTUE AND FAME.

TO THE COUNTESS OF EGREMONT.

VIRTUE and Fame the other day
Happen'd to cross each other's way;
Said Virtue, "Hark ye, Madame Fame!
Your ladyship is much to blame;
Jove bids you always wait on me,
And yet your face I seldom see;

The Paphian queen employs your trumpet,
And bids it praise some handsome strumpet,
Or thundering through the ranks of war,
Ambition ties you to her car."

Saith Fame, "Dear Madam, I protest
I never find myself so blest

As when I humbly wait behind you;
But 'tis so mighty hard to find you,
In such obscure retreats you lurk,
To seek you is an endless work."

"Well," answer'd Virtue, " I allow Your plea; but hear, and mark me now. I know, without offence to others)

I know the best of wives and mothers,
Who never pass'd a useless day
In scandal, gossiping, or play,

Whose modest wit chastised by sense
In lively cheerful innocence,

Whose heart nor envy knows nor spite,
Whose duty is her sole delight,
Nor ruled by whim nor slave to fashion,
Her parents' joy, her husband's passion."
Fame smiled, and answer'd; " On my life
This is some country parson's wife,
Who never saw the Court nor Town,
Whose face is homely as her gown,
Who banquets upon eggs and bacon-"

"No, Madam, no,-you're much mistaken

I beg you'll let me set you right-
'Tis one with every beauty bright,
Adorn'd with every polish'd art
That rank or fortune can impart;
'Tis the most celebrated toast

That Britain's spacious isle can boast:
"Tis princely Petworth's noble dame,
'Tis Egremont-Go tell it fame."

ADDITION EXTEMPORE,

BY EARL HARDWICKE.

FAME heard with pleasure-straight reply'd,
"First on my roll stands Wyndham's bride;
My trumpet oft I've raised to sound
Her modest praise the world around,
But notes were wanting.-Canst thou find
A Muse to sing her face, her mind?

Believe me I can name but one,

A friend of yours-'tis Lyttleton."

LETTER TO EARL HARDWICKE.

OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING VERSES.

MY LORD,

A THOUSAND thanks to your Lordship for your Addition to my verses. If you can write such extempore, it is well for other poets that you chose to be Lord Chancellor rather than a Laureate. They explain to me a vision I had the night before.

Methought I saw before my feet,
With countenance serene and sweet,
The Muse who in my youthful days
Had oft inspired my careless lays;

She smiled, and said, "Once more I see
My fugitive returns to me;

Long had I lost you from my bower,
You scorn'd to own my gentle power;
With me no more your genius sported,
The grave historic Muse you courted,
Or raised from earth with straining eyes,
Pursued Urania through the skies;
But now to my forsaken track
Fair Egremont has brought you back:
Nor blush by her and Virtue led,
That soft, that pleasing path to tread;
For there beneath to-morrow's ray
E'en Wisdom's self shall deign to play.
Lo! to my flowery groves and springs
Her favourite son the goddess brings
The councils and the senate's guide,
Law's oracle, the nation's pride;
He comes, he joys with thee to join
In singing Wyndham's charms divine;
To thine he adds his nobler lays,
E'en thee, my friend! he deigns to praise.
Enjoy that praise, nor envy Pitt
His fame with burgess or with cit;
For sure one line from such a bard
Virtue would think her best reward."

HYMN TO ELIZA.

MADAM, before your feet I lay
This ode upon your wedding day,
The first indeed I ever made,
For writing odes is not my trade:
My head is full of household cares
And necessary dull affairs;

Besides that sometimes jealous frumps
Will put me into doleful dumps,
And then no clown beneath the sky
Was e'er more ungallant than I:
For you alone I now think fit

To turn a poet and a wit

For you, whose charms I know not how
Have power to smooth my wrinkled brow,
And make me, though by nature stupid,
As brisk and as alert as Cupid.
These obligations to repay,
Whene'er your happy nuptial day
Shall with the circling years return,
For you my torch shall brighter burn
Than when you first my power adored,
Nor will I call myself your Lord.
But am (as witness this my hand)
Your humble servant at command.

HYMEN.

ing ear

Of silent Night, when on the verdant banks
Of Siloe's hallow'd brook celestial harps,

According to seraphic voices sung.
"Glory to God on high, and on earth
Peace and good will to men!"-Resume the lyre,
Chantress divine! and every Briton call
Its melody to hear-so shall thy strains,
More powerful than the song of Orpheus, tame
The savage heart of brutal Vice, and bend
At pure Religion's shrine the stubborn knees
Of bold Impiety,-Greece shall no more
Of Lesbian Sappho boast, whose wanton Muse,
Like a false Siren, while she charm'd, seduced
To guilt and ruin. For the sacred head
Of Britain's poetess the Virtues twine
A nobler wreath, by them from Eden's grove
Unfading gather'd, and direct the hand"
Of to fix it on her brows.