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There mighty nations shall inquire their doom,
The world's great oracle in times to come ;
There kings shall sue, and suppliant states be seen,
Once more to bend before a British queen.

Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leavetheir woods,
And half thy forests rush into the floods,
Bear Britain's thunder, and her cross display
To the bright regions of the rising day;
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll,
Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole;
Or under southern skies exalt their sails,
Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales !
For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow,
The coral redden, and the ruby glow,
The pearly sheli its lucid globe infold,
And Phæbus warm the ripening ore to gold.
The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind,
Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind,
Whole nations enter with each swelling tide,
And seas but join the regions they divide;
Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold,
And the new world launch forth to seek the old.
Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide,
And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side;
And naked youths and painted chiefs admire
Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire!
O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore,
Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more;
Till the freed Indians in their native groves
Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves;
Peru once more a race of kings behold,
And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold.
Exiļd by thee from earth to deepest hell,

In brazen bonds, shall barbarous Discord dwell: * Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care,

And mad Ambition, shall attend her there : There purple Vengeance, bathi'd in gore, retires, Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires : There hated Envy her own snakes shall feel, And Persecution mourn her broken wheel :

There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain,
And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain."

Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays,
Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days:
The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite,
And bring the scenes of opening fate to light.
My humble Muse, in unambitious strains,
Paints the green forests and the flowery plains,
Where Peace descending bids her olives spring,
And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing.
Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days,
Pleas'd in the silent shade with empty praise ;
Enough for me, that to the listening swains
First in these fields I sung the silvan strains.

EPISTLES.

SUCH

To Robert Earl of Oxford and Mortimer.*

were the notes thy once-lov'd poet sung, Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld and lost! admir'd and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts, adorn'd! Bless'd in each ścience ! bless'd in every strain ! Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear-in vain!

For him thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him despis'd the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great ; Dextrous the craving, fawning, crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.

• Sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell's poems, published by our author after the said Earl's imprison ment in the Tower and retreat into the country, in the year 1791.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays;
Who, careless now of interest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great ;
Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure if aught below the seats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine ;
A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
Above all pain, all passion, and all pride,
The rage of pow'r, the blast of public breath,
The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made,
The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade:
Tis ber's the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and digoify disgrace.
When Interest calls off all her sneaking train,
And all the oblig'd desert, and all the vain,
She waits, or to the scaffold or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Ev'o now she shades thy evening walk with bays;
(No hireling she, no prostitute to praise)
Ev'a now, observant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day,
Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.

To James Craggs, Esq. Secretary of State. 1720. A Soul, as full of worth as void of pride,

Which nothing seeks to show, or needs to hide, Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes, And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows. A face untaught to feign ; a judging eye, That darts severe upon a rising lie, And strikes a blush through frontless flattery.

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All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know kings and fortune cannot make thee more.
Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways,
Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise ;
But candid, free, sincere, as you began,
Proceed-a minister, but still a man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Asham'd of any friend, not ev'n of me:
The patriot's plain but untrod path pursue ;
If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of you.

THIS

To Mr. Jervas, with Mr. Dryden's Translation of

Fresnoy's Art of Painting.* verse be thine, my friend ! nor thou refuse This from no venal or ungrateful Muse. Whether thy hand strike out some free design, Where life awakes, and dawns at every line, Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass, And from the canvass call the mimic face; Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire Fresnoy's close art and Dryden's native fire; And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame, So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name; Like them to shine through long succeeding age, So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of sister-arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame ; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new strength and light. How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day, While summer-suns roll unperceiv'd away! How oft our slowly-growing works impart, While images reflect from art to art! How oft review; each finding, like a friend, Something to blame, and something to commend!

This epistle, and the two following were written some ? years before the rest, and originally printed in 1717.

What flattering scenes our wandering fancy wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought! Together o'er the Alps, methinks we fly, Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy. With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn, Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn: With thee repose where Tully once was laid, Or seek some ruin's formidable shade. While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view, And builds imaginary Rome anew, Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye; A fading fresco here demands a sigh : Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare, Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air, Carracci's strength, Correggio's softer line, Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.

How finish'd with illustrious toil appears
This small well-polish'd gem, the work of * years!
Yet still how faint by precept is exprest
The living image in the painter's breast !
Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence beauty, waking all her forms, supplies
An angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.

Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrows shed
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;
Call round her tomb each object of desire,
Each purer frame inform’d with purer fire;
Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,
The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife ;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore,
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!

Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage,
Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flow'r, that every season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise,
And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes;

• Fresnoy employed above 20 years in finishing his poem.

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