Ah! why should Nature in an angel dress,
To lure with seeming worth unwary eyes,
Conceal rank thoughts and gross voluptuousness,
Too apt to poison without Virtue's guise?

Pride of thy country, Wilmot, and her shame!
By every grace adorn'd, and Muse inspir'd!
Thy early fall how pitied! and thy name,
How much detested, and how much admir'd!

Yet must unbiass'd posterity admit,

For all thou wrot'st and acted'st to atone, Thy failings were the age's, but thy wit, Thy parts and dying penitence, thine own.

But now prevailing o'er the hubbub wild,
The clanging trumpet kindles great acclaim;
And all around are warlike trophies pil'd,

And crouds triumphant echo Churchill's fame.

And thronging senates in the glorious csuse, Repell'd oppression, liberty maintain’d, Accord with gratulant vote the loud applause; The fairest prize by British valor gain'd.

Who erst implor'd, and soon obtain❜d relief,

High-fated monarchs grateful homage pay, And fulgent honors crown the matchless chief. And verse harmonious, never to decay:

And humbled Gallia kneels with distant awe,
Her generals baffled, and her warriors slain;
No more to dictate but receive the law,

No longer to impose but wear the chain.

But venom'd Faction spreading o'er the land,
Too soon forgets the mighty debt to owe;
And Envy stretches out her lurid hand,

The victor's meed to blast and overthrow.

And yet unfinish'd stands the votive dome,
By all his toil and all his danger bought:
When just resentment calls him far from home,
Revisiting the fields where late he fought.

In vain auspicious Brunswick's happy reign,
Blunting the rancorous point of party strife,
Restores the hero to his friends again;

Too late to chear the dregs of lengthen'd life!

The lofty column and the voice of praise

In vain proclaim him great, and just, and brave; Tardy repentance merit ill repays,

Unheard, unheeded, in the silent grave!

In conquest equal, and alike in fate,

Rome's mounting genius, godlike Scipio stood; And propp'd by worth and dignity innate, Contemn'd the venal censure of the crowd.

Yet once again the visionary scene,

Ductile, for sorrow social beauty yields;
A temperate sunshine and an air serene,
Fostering the upland downs and level fields.

And tepid showers bedew the frolic herd,
Bounding in gamesome measure o'er the lea,
With daisies crimson-tipt, and green parterr'd,
And shadowing fragrance drops from every tree.

The wide expanded prospect gently clos'd,
On visto'd walks leading to high arcades;
Each waving copse in symmetry dispos'd,
Points to the terras capt with colonnades.

And more remote the cloister'd wings confine,
In architecture elegant and just,

A portall'd front where niches deep inshrine
The marble statue, and the gilded bust.

Unfolding wide the hospitable port

On ready hinges, to the searching eye Reveals unblemish'd Childhood's harmless sport, And placid parents stand delighted by.

For here unmindful of the call of State,

The smile of Favor, or the voice of Power;

In tranquil pleasure, even and sedate,

Great Churchill's heir enjoy'd the wasting hour.

And beaming rapture glisten'd on his brow,

And glad dependants share their patron's joy, No frowns their heart-bred transports disallow, Debasing worth in Servitude's alloy.

Such charms hath Innocence! such virtues Pride!
From starry height her sacred powers descend,

The garish pomp of Grandeur to deride,
And giddy Fortune's rash decrees amend.

A day he flourish'd in the peaceful soil,
Another saw him on the hostile strand,
Guiding the thunders of the white-cliff'd isle,
Ambition's wasteful rapine to withstand.

To match his great progenitor in war,
Elate with hope his generous bosom burns;
But inauspicious twinkled every star,
And heaven averted all his wishes spurns.

Too high request in every sphere to shine,
In peace a pattern, and a chief in blood;
The gods to each a separate path assign,

But he alone is great who's truly good.

ELEGY III.

WRITTEN AMONGST THE RUINS OF

PONTEFRACT CASTLE.

MDCCLVI.

RIGHT

sung the bard, that all-involving age, With hand impartial deals the ruthless blow ; That war, wide-wasting, with impetuous rage, Lays the tall spire, and sky-crown'd turret low.

A pile stupendous, once of fair renown,
This mould'ring mass of shapeless ruin rose,
Where nodding heights of fractur'd columns frown,
And birds obscene in ivy-bow'rs repose;

Oft the pale matron from the threatning wall,
Suspicious, bids her heedless children fly;

Oft, as he views the meditated fall,

Full swiftly steps the frighted peasant by.