For, blended with the bad, the good
The common ftroke have felt,
And heaven's dire vengeance ftruck alike
At innocence and guilt.
The wrath divine pursues the wretch,
At prefent lame, and flow,
But yet, though tardy to advance,
She gives the furer blow.
The THIRD ODE of the Fourth Book of
HOM firft, Melpomene, thy eye
With friendly aspect views,
Shall from his cradle rife renown'd,
And facred to the Mufe.
Nor to the Ifthmian games his fame
And deathlefs triumphs owe;
Nor fhall he wear the verdant wreath,
That shades the champion's brow.
Nor in the wide Elæan plains
Fatigue the courser's speed;
Nor through the glorious cloud of duft,
Provoke the bounding steed.
Nor, as an haughty victor, mount
The Capitolian heights,
And proudly dedicate to Jove
The trophies of his fights.
Because his thundering hand in war
Has check'd the fwelling tide
Of the ftern tyrant's power, and broke
The measures of his pride.
But by fweet Tybur's groves and streams
His glorious theme pursues,
And fcorns the laurels of the war,
For thofe that crown the Mufe.
There in the moft retir'd retreats,
He fets his charming fong,
To the fweet harp which Sappho touch'd,
Or bold Alcæus ftrung.
Rank'd by thy fons, Imperial Rome,
Among the poet's quire,
Above the reach of envy's hand
I fafely may afpire.
Thou facred Mufe, whofe artful hand
Can teach the bard to fing;
Can animate the golden lyre,
And wake the living string:
Thou, by whofe mighty power, may fing,
In unaccustom'd strains,
The filent fishes in the floods,
As on their banks the fwans.
To thee I owe my spreading fame,
That thousands, as they gaze,
Make me their wonder's common theme,
And object of their praise.
If first I ftruck the Lesbian lyre,
No fame belongs to me;
I owe my honours, when I please,
(If e'er I please) to thee.
On the approaching CONGRESS of CAMBRAY. Written in 1721.
E patriots of the world, whofe cares combin'd
Confult the public welfare of mankind,
One moment let the crowding kingdoms wait,
And Europe in fufpence attend her fate,
Which turns on your great councils; nor refufe
To hear the ftrains of the prophetic Mufe;
Who fees thofe councils with a generous care
Heal the wide wounds, and calm the rage
of war;
She fees new verdure all the plain o'erspread,
Where the fight burn'd, and where the battle bled.
The fields of death a fofter fcene disclose,
And Ceres fmiles where iron harvests rofe.
The bleating flocks along the bastion pass,
And from the awful ruins crop the grafs.
Freed from his fears, each unmolested fwain,
In peaceful furrows cuts the fatal plain ;
Turns the high bulwark and aspiring mound,
And fees the camp with all the feafons crown'd.
Beneath each clod, bright burnish'd arms appear;
Each furrow glitters with the pride of war;
The fields refound and tinkle as they break,
And the keen faulchion rings against the rake;
At reft beneath the hanging ramparts laid,
He fings fecurely in the dreadful fhade.
Hark! o'er the feas, the British lions roar
Their monarch's fame to every distant shore :
Swift on their canvass wings his navies go,
Where-ever tides can roll, or winds can blow;
Their fails within the arctic circle rife,
Led by the ftars that gild the northern skies;
Tempt frozen feas, nor fear the driving blast,
But fwell exulting o'er the hoary wake;
O'er the wide ocean hold fupreme command,
And active commerce fpread through every land;
Or with full pride to fouthern regions run,
To diftant worlds, on t'other fide the fun;
And plow the tides, where odoriferous gales
Perfume the smiling waves, and stretch the bellying fails.
See! the proud merchant feek the precious fhore,
And trace the winding veins of glittering ore;
Low in the earth his wondering eyes behold
Th' imperfect metal ripening into gold.
The mountains tremble with alternate rays,
And caft at once a fhadow and a blaze:
Streak'd o'er with gold, the pebbles flame around,
Gleam o'er the foil, and gild the tinkling ground;
Charg'd with the glorious prize, his vessels come,
And in proud triumph bring an India home.
Fair Concord, hail; thy wings o'er Brunswick spread,
And with thy olives crown his laural'd head.
Come ; in thy most diftinguish'd charms appear ;
Oh! come, and bolt the iron-gates of war.
The fight ftands ftill when Brunswick bids it ceafe,
The monarch speaks, and gives the world a peace;
Like awful justice, fits superior lord,
To poife the balance, or to draw the fword;
In due fufpenfe the jarring realms to keep,
And hush the tumults of the world to fleep.
Now with a brighter face, and nobler ray,
Shine forth, thou Source of light, and God of day;
Say, didst thou ever in thy bright career
Light up before a more diftinguish'd year ?
Through all thy journeys paft thou canst not fee
A perfect image of what this fhall be:
Scarce the Platonic year fhall this renew,
Or keep the bright original in view.
YOUNG MAN and his CAT.
A Haplefs youth, whom fates avere had drove
To a ftrange paffion, and prepofterous love,
Long'd to poffefs his pufs's spotted charms,
And hug the tabby beauty in his arms.
To what odd whim fies love inveigles men?
Sure if the boy was ever blind, 'twas then.
Rack'd with his paffion, and in deep despair,
The youth to Venus thus addreft his prayer.
O queen of beauty, fince thy Cupid's dart
Has fir'd my foul, and rankles in my heart;
Since doom'd to burn in this unhappy flame,
From thee at least a remedy I claim;
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