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They saw him destin’d for some greater day,
And in his looks the omens read of his imperial sway!
Nor do his civil virtues less appear,
To perfect the illustrious character;
To merit just, to needy virtue kind,
True to his word, and faithful to his friend !
What's well resolv'd, as firinly he pursues ;
Fix'd in his choice, as careful how to chuse !
Honour was born, not planted in his heart;
And virtue came by nature, not by art.
Albion ! forget thy sorrows, and adore
That prince, who all the blessings does restore,
That Charles, the faint, made thee enjoy before !
'Tis done; with turrets crown'd, I see her rise,
And tears are wip'd for ever from her eyes !

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LONG has the tribe of poets on the flage

Groan'd under persecuting critics' rage,
But with the sound of railing and of rhyme, .
Like bees united by the tinkling chime,
The little stinging infects swarm the more,
Their buzzing greater than it was before.
But, oh! ye leading voters of the Pit,
That infect others with your too much wit,

That

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That well-affeeted members do seduce,
And with your malice poifon half the house ;
Know, your ill-manag'd arbitrary fway
Shall be no more endur’d, but ends this day.
Rulers of abler conduct we will chufe,
And more indulgent to a trembling Muse;
Women, for ends of government more fit,
Women shall rule the Boxes and the Pit,
Give laws to Love, and influence to Wit.
Find me one man of fense in all your roll,
Whom fome one woman has not made a fool.
Ev'n business, that intolerable load
Under which man does groan, and yet is proud,
Much better they could manage would they please;
'Tis not their want of wit, but love of eafe.
For, spite of art, more wit in them appears,
Though we boast ours, and they dissemble theirs :
Wit once was ours,

and shot

up

for a while,
Set shallow in a hot and barren foil;
But when transplanted to a richer ground,
Has in their Eden its perfection found.
And 'tis but just they should our wit invade,
Whilst we set up their painting parching trade;
As for our courage, to our shame 'tis known,
As they can raise it, they can pull it down.
At their own weapons they our bullies awe,
Faith! let them make an anti-falick law;
Prescribe to all Mankind, as well as Plays,
And wear the breeches, as they wear the bays,

:

TO TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND.

A DETESTATION OF CIVIL WAR.

FROM HORACE, EPOD. VII.

OH
H! whither do ye rush, and thus prepare

To rouze again the sleeping war?
Has then so little English blood been spilt

On sea and land with equal guilt ?
Not that again we might our arms advance,

To check the insolent pride of France ;
Not that once more we might in fetters bring

An humble captive Gallic king?
But, to the wish of the insulting Gaul,

That we by our own hands should fall.
Nor wolves nor lions bear fo fierce a mind;

They hurt not their own savage kind :
Is it blind rage, or zeal, more blind and strong,

Or guilt, yet stronger, drives you on?
Answer ; but none can answer; mute and pale

They ftand; guilt does o'er words prevail : 'Tis so : heaven's justice threatens us from high;

And a king's death from earth does cry; E’er since the martyr's innocent blood was shed, Upon our fathers, and on ours, and on our childrens*

head.

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TO

TOM R.

CRE E CH,

On his TRANSLATION of LUCRETIUS.

WHA

HAT to begin would have been madness thought,

Exceeds our praise when to perfection brought; Who could believe Lucretius' lofty fong Could have been reach'd by any modern tongue ? Of all the suitors to immortal fame, That by translations (trove to raise a name, This was the test, this the Ulysses' bow, Too tough by any to be bent but you. Carus himself of the hard task complains, To fetter Grecian thoughts in Roman chains ; Much harder thine, in an unlearned tongue To hold in bonds, so easy yet so strong, The Greek philosophy and Latin song. If then he boasts that round his sacred head Fresh garlands grow, and branching laurels spread, Such as not all the mighty Nine before E’er gave, or any of their darlings wore ; What laurels should be thine, what crowns thy due, What garlands, mighty Poet, should be grac'd by you! Though deep, though wondrous deep, his fense does

flow, Thy shining style does all its riches show; So clear the stream, that through it we defcry | All the bright gems that at the bottom lie;

Here

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Here you

the troublers of our peace remove, Ignoble fear, and more ignoble love : Here we are taught how first our race began, And by what steps our fathers climb’d to man ; To man as now he is---with knowledge fillid In arts of peace and war, in manners skill’d, Equal before to fellow-grazers of the field ! Nature's first state, which, well transpos'd and own'd (For owners in all ages have been found), Has made a * modern wit so much renown'd, When thee we read, we find to be no more Than what was fung a thousand

years

before.
Thou only for this noble task wert fit,
To shame thy age to a just sense of wit,
By showing how the learned Romans writ.
To teach fat heavy clowns to know their trade,
And not turn wits, who were for porters made ;
But quit false claims to the poetic rage,
For fquibs and crackers, and a Smithfield stage.
Had Providence e'er meant that, in despight
Of art and nature, such dull clods should write,
Bavius and Mævius had been fav’d by Fate
For Settle and for Shadwell to translate,
As it fo many ages has for thee
Preferv'd the mighty work that now we see.

* Hobbes.

VIRGIL'S

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