An Epistle to Dr. EDWARD YOUNG, at Eaftbury, in Dorfetfhire, on the Review at Sarum, 1722.
HILE with your Doddington retir'd you fit,
Charm'd with his flowing Burgundy and wit;
By turns relieving with the circling draught,
Each paufe of chat, and interval of thought:
Or through the well-glaz'd tube, from bufinefs freed,
Draw the rich fpirit of the Indian weed;
Or bid your eyes o'er Vanbrugh's models roam,
And trace in miniature the future dome
(While bufy fancy with imagin'd power
Builds up the work of ages in an hour);
Or, loft in thought, contemplative you rove,
Through opening vifta's, and the fhady grove;
Where a new Eden in the wilds is found,
And all the feafons in a fpot of ground:
There, if you exercife your tragic rage,
To bring fome hero on the British stage;
Whofe caufe the audience with applaufe will crown,
And make his triumphs or his tears their own:
Throw by the bold defign; and paint no more
Imagin'd chiefs, and monarchs of an hour;
From fabled worthies, call thy Mufe to fing
Of real wonders, and Britannia's king.
Oh! hadft thou feen him, when the gathering train
Fill'd up proud Sarum's wide-extended plain!
Then, when he stoop'd from awful majesty,
Put on the man, and laid the fovereign by;
When the glad nations faw their king appear,
Begirt with armies, and the pride of war;
More pleas'd his people's longing eyes to bless,
He look'd, and breath'd benevolence and peace:
When in his hand Britannia's awful Lord,
Held forth the olive, while he grafp'd the fword.
So Jove, though arm'd to blaft the Titan's pride,
With all his burning thunders at his fide,
Fram'd, while he terrify'd the diftant foe,
His fcheme of bleffings for the world below.
This hadft thou feen, thy willing Mufe would raise
Her ftrongeft wing, to reach her fovereign's praife.
To what bold heights our daring hopes may climb ?
The theme fo great! the Poet fo fublime!
I faw him, Young, and to thefe ravish'd eyes,
Ev'n now his godlike figure feems to rife:
Mild, yet majestic, was the monarch's mein,
Lovely though great, and awful though ferene.
(More than a coin or picture can unfold;
Too faint the colours, and too bafe the gold')
At the bleft fight, tranfported and amaz'd,
One univerfal fhout the thousands rais'd,
And crowds on crowds grew loyal as they gaz'd.
His foes (if any) own'd the monarch's caufe,
And chang'd their groundlefs clamours to applaufe;
Ev'n giddy Faction hail'd the glorious day,
And wondering Envy look'd her rage away.
As Ceres o'er the globe her chariot drew,
And harvefs ripen'd where the goddess flew ;
So, where his gracious footfteps he inclin'd,
Peace flew before, and plenty march'd behind.
Where wild affliction rages, he appears
To wipe the widow's and the orphan's tears:
The fons of mifery before him bow,
And for their merit only plead their woe.
So well he loves the public liberty,
His mercy fets the private captive free.
Soon as our royal angel came in view,
The prifons burft, the starting hinges flew ;
The dungeons open'd, and refign'd their prey,
To joy, to life, to freedom, and the day:
The chains drop off; the grateful captives rear
Their hands unmanacled in praise and prayer.
Had thus victorious Cefar fought to please,
And rul'd the vanquifh'd world with arts like thefe;
The generous Brutus had not fcorn'd to bend,
But funk the rigid patriot in the friend;
Nor to that bold excefs of virtue ran,
To ftab the monarch, where he lov'd the man.
And Cato, reconcil'd, had ne'er difdain'd
To live a fubject, where a Brunswick reign'd.
But I detain your nobler Mufe too long,
From the great theme, that mocks my humble fong,
A theme that afks a Virgil, or a Young.
On the approaching Delivery of Her Royal Highness, in the Year 1721.
E angels, come without delay;
Britannia's genius, come away.
Defcend, ye fpirits of the sky;
Stand, all ye winged guardians, by;
Your golden pinions kindly fpread,
And watch round Carolina's bed:
Here fix your residence on earth,
To haften on the glorious birth ;
Her fainting fpirits to fupply,
Catch all the Zephyrs as they fly.
Oh! fuccour nature in the ftrife,
And gently hold her up in life;
Nor let her hence too foon remove,
To join your facred choirs above :
But live, Britannia to adorn
With kings and princes yet unborn.
Ye angels, come without delay ;.
Britannia's genius, come away.
Affuage her pains, and Albion's fears,
For Albion's life depends on her's.
Oh then to fave her from defpair,
Lean down, and liften to her prayer.
Crown all her tortures with delight,
And call th' aufpicious babe to light.
We hope from your propitious care,
All that is brave, or all that 's fair.
A youth, to match his fire in arms;
Or nymph, to match her mother's charms :
A youth, who over kings shall reign,
Or nymph, whom kings fhall court in vain.
From far the royal flaves fhall come,
And wait from him or her their doom;
To each their different fuits shall move,
And pay their homage, or their love.
Ye angels, come without delay;
Britannia's genius, come away.
When the foft powers of fleep fubdue
Thofe eyes, that shine as bright as you;
With scenes of blifs, transporting themes!
Prompt and inspire her golden dreams:
Let vifionary bleffings rife,
And fwim before her clofing eyes.
The fenfe of torture to fubdue,
Set Britain's happiness to view;
That fight her fpirits will fuftain,
And give her pleasure from her pain.
Ye angeis, come without delay;
Britannia's genius, come away.
|