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Because his thundering hand in war

Has check’d the swelling tide
Of the stern tyrant's power, and broke

The measures of his pride.
But by sweet Tybur's groves and streams

His glorious theme pursues,
And scorns the laurels of the war,

For those that crown the Muse.

There in the most retir'd retreats,

He fets his charming song,
To the sweet harp which Sappho touch'd,

Or bold Alcæus Atrung.
Rank'd by thy fons, Imperial Rome,

Among the poet's quire,
Above the reach of envy's hand

I safely may aspire.
Thou sacred Muse, whose artful hand

Can teach the bard to fing;
Can animate the golden lyre,

And wake the living string :
Thou, by whose mighty power, may sing,

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.

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Tf first I truck 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, whose cares combin'd

Consult the public welfare of mankind,
One moment let the crowding kingdoms wait,
And Europe in suspence attend her fate,
Which turns on your great councils

; nor refuse
To hear the strains of the prophetic Muse;
Who sees those councils with a generous care
Heal the wide wounds, and calm the rage

She sees new verdure all the plain o’erspread,
Where the fight burn'd, and where the battle bled.
The fields of death a softer scene disclose,
And Ceres smiles where iron harvests rose.
The bleating flocks along the bastion pass,
And from the awful ruins crop the grass.
Freed from his fears, each unmolested swain,
In peaceful furrows cuts the fatal plain ;
Turns the high bulwark and aspiring mound,
And sees the camp with all the seasons crown'd.
Beneath each clod, bright burnish'd arms appear;
Each furrow glitters with the pride of war;
The fields resound and tinkle as they break,
And the keen faulchion rings against the rake;


At rest beneath the hanging ramparts laid,
He sings securely in the dreadful shade.

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 rise,
Led by the stars that gild the northern skies;
Tempt frozen seas, nor fear the driving blast,
But swell exulting o’er the hoary waste ;
O’er the wide ocean hold supreme command,
And active commerce spread through every land;
Or with full pride to southern regions run,
To distant worlds, on t'other side the fun;
And plow the tides, where odoriferous gales
Perfume the smiling waves, and stretch the bellying fails.

See! the proud merchant seek the precious shore,
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 cast at once a thadow and a blaze :
Streak’d o'er with gold, the pebbles flame around,
Gleam o'er the soil, and gild the tinkling ground;
Charg'd with the glorious prize, his vessels coine,
And in proud triumph bring an India home.

Fair Concord, hail; thy wings o'er Brunswick Spread,
And with thy olives crown his laureld head.
Come; in thy most distinguish'd charms appear ;
Oh! come, and bolt the iron-gates of war.


The fight stands ftill when Brunswick bids it ceafe,
The monarch speaks, and gives the world a peace;
Like awful justice, fits superior lord,
To poise the balance, or to draw the fword;
In due suspense the jarring realms to keep,
And hush the tumults of the world to sleep.

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 distinguish'd year ?
Through all thy journeys past thou canst not see
A perfect image of what this shall be :
Scarce the Platonic year shall this renew,
Or keep the bright original in view.



A Hapless

youth, whom fates averse had drove

To a strange passion, and preposterous love,
Long'd to possess his puss's spotted charms,
And hug the tabby beauty in his arms.
To what odd whimsies love inveigles men ?
Sure if the boy was ever blind, 'twas then.
Rack'd with his passion, and in deep despair,
The youth to Venus thus addireit his prayer.

O queen of beauty, fince thy Cupid's dart
Has fir'd my soul, and rankles in my
Since doom'd to burn in this unhappy flame,
From thee at least a remedy I claim;



If once, to bless Pigmalion's longing arms,
The marble soften’d into living charms;
And warm with life the purple current ran
In circling streams through every flinty vein ;
If, with his own creating hands display'd,
He hugg'd the statue, and embrac'd a maid ;
And with the breathing image fir'd his heart,
The pride of nature, and the boast of art :
Hear my request, and crown my wondrous Aame,
The same its nature, be thy gift the same;
Give me the like unusual joys to prove,
And though irregular, indulge my love.

Delighted Venus heard the moving prayer,
And soon resolv’d to ease the lover's care,
To set Miss Tabby off with every grace,
To dress, and fit her for the youth's embrace.

Now she by gradual change her form forsook,
First her round face an oval figure took ;
The roguish dimples next his heart beguile,
And each grave whisker soften'd to a snile;
Unusual ogles wanton'd in her eye,
Her solemn purring dwindled to a sigh :
Sudden, a huge hoop-petticoat display'd,
A wide circumference! intrench'd the maid,
And for the tail in waving circles play'd.
Her fur, as deftin'd still her charms to deck,
Made for her hands a muff, a tippet for her neck.

In the fine lady now her Mape was lost,
And by such strange degrees she grew a toast ;


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