Well fends our queen her mitred Bristol forth,
For early counfels fam'd, and long-try'd worth;
Who, thirty rolling years, had oft withheld
The Swede and Saxon from the dusty field;
Completely form'd to heal the Chriftian wounds,
To name the kings, and give each kingdom bounds;
The face of ravag'd nature to repair,

By leagues to foften earth, and heaven by prayer,
To gain by love, where rage and flaughter fail,
And make the crofier o'er the fword prevail.

So when great Mofes, with Jehovah's wand,
· Had scatter'd plagues o'er stubborn Pharaoh's land,
Now fpread an hoft of locufts round the fhore,
Now turn'd Nile's fattening streams to putrid gore;
Plenty and gladness mark'd the priest of God,
And fudden almonds fhot from Aaron's rod.

O thou, from whom thefe bounteous bleffings flow,

To whom, as chief, the hopes of peace we owe,
(For next to thee, the man whom kings contend
To ftile companion, and to make their friend,
Great Strafford, rich in every courtly grace,
With joyful pride accepts the fecond place)
From Britain's ifle, and Ifis' facred spring,
One hour, oh! liften while the Mufes fing.
Though minifters of mighty monarchs wait,
With beating hearts to learn their masters' fate,
One hour forbear to speak thy queen's commands,
Nor think the world, thy charge, neglected ftands;

The

The blissful profpects, in my verfe display'd,
May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd perfuade :
Ev'n thou to peace fhalt speedier urge the way,
And more be haften'd by this short delay.

ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE.

THE haughty Gaul, in ten campaigns o'erthrown,

Now ceas'd to think the western world his own.
Oft had he mourn'd his boafting leaders bound,
And his proud bulwarks fmoking on the ground:
In vain with powers renew`d he fill'd the plain,
Made timorous vows, and brib'd the faints in vain;
As oft his legions did the fight decline,

Lurk'd in the trench, and skulk'd behind the line.
Before his eyes the fancied javelin gleams,

At feats he starts, and feems dethron'd in dreams;
On glory past reflects with fecret pain,

On mines exhausted, and on millions slain.

To Britain's Queen the fceptred fuppliant bends,
To her his crowns and infant race commends,
Who grieves her fame with Chriftian blood to buy,
Nor afks for glory at a price fo high.

At her decree, the war fufpended stands,
And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands,
Their open brows no threatening frowns difguife,
But gentler paffions fparkle in their eyes.
The Gauls, who never in their courts could find
Such temper'd fire with manly beauty join'd,

Doubt if they're those, whom dreadful to the view
In forms fo fierce their fearful fancies drew;
At whofe dire names ten thousand widows prest
Their helpless orphans clinging to the breast.
In filent rapture each his foe furveys;

They vow firm friendship, and give mutual praise.
Brave minds, howe'er at war, are secret friends;
Their generous discord with the battle ends ;
In peace they wonder whence diffenfion rofe,
And ask how fouls fo like could e'er be foes.

Methinks I hear more friendly fhouts rebound,
And focial clarions mix their fprightly found.
The British flags are furl'd, her troops disband,
And fcatter'd armies feek their native land.
The hardy veteran, proud of many a scar,
The manly charms and honours of the war,
Who hop'd to share his friends' illuftrious doom,
And in the battle find a foldier's tomb,
Leans on his fpear to take his farewell view,
And fighing bids the glorious camp adieu.

Ye generous fair, receive the brave with smiles, O'er-pay their fleepless nights, and crown their toils; Soft beauty is the gallant foldier's due,

you.

For you they conquer, and they bleed for
In vain proud Gaul with boastful Spain conspires,
When English valour English beauty fires;
The nations dread your eyes, and kings despair
Of chiefs fo brave, till they have nymphs fo fair.
See the fond wife, in tears of transport drown'd,
Hugs her rough lord, and weeps o'er every wound,

Hangs

Hangs on the lips that fields of blood relate,
And smiles, or trembles, at his various fate.
Near the full bowl he draws the fancy'd line,
And marks feign'd trenches in the flowing wine,
Then fets th' invested fort before her eyes,

And mines, that whirl'd battalions to the skies;
His little listening progeny turn pale,

And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.

Such dire achievements fings the bard, that tells
Of palfrey'd dames, bold knights, and magic fpells,
Where whole brigades one champion's arms o'erthrow,
And cleave a giant at a random blow,

Slay paynims vile, that force the fair, and tame
The goblin's fury, and the dragon's flame.

Our eager youth to distant nations run,
To vifit fields, their valiant fathers won;
From Flandria's fhore their country's fame they trace,
Till far Germania fhews her blafted face.
Th' exulting Briton asks his mournful guide,
Where his hard fate the loft Bavaria try'd:
Where Stepney grav'd the ftone to Anna's fame,
He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar name;
Here fled the Houfhold, there did Tallard yield,
Here Marlborough turn'd the fortune of the field,
On those steep banks, near Danube's raging flood,
The Gauls thrice started back, and trembling stood:
When, Churchill's arm perceiv'd, they stood not long,
But plung'd amidst the waves, a defperate throng,
Crowds whelm'd on crowds dash'd wide the watery bed,
And drove the current to its diftant head.

As when by Raphael's, or by Kneller's hands
A warlike courfer on the canvas ftands,
Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore,
Or fet young Ammon on the Granic shore ;
If chance a generous steed the work behold,
He fnorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold;
So, Hocftet feen, tumultuous paffions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's foul,
In fancy'd fights he fees the troops engage,
And all the tempeft of the battle rage.

Charm me, ye powers, with fcenes lefs nobly bright, Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious Mufe delight, Content to fee the honours of the field

By plough-fhares level'd, or in flowers conceal'd.
O'er fhatter'd walls may creeping ivy twine,
And grafs luxuriant clothe the harmless mine.
Tame flocks afcend the breach without a wound,
Or crop the baftion, now a fruitful ground;
While fhepherds fleep, along the rampart laid,
Or pipe beneath the formidable fhade.

Who was the man? Oblivion blast his name,
Torn out, and blotted from the lift of fame!
Who, fond of lawlefs rule, and proudly brave,
First funk the filial fubject to a slave,

His neighbour's realms by frauds unkingly gain'd, In guiltless blood the facred ermine ftain'd,

Laid fchemes for death, to flaughter turn'd his heart, And fitted murder to the rules of art.

Ah! curft ambition, to thy lures we owe All the great ills, that mortals bear below.

Curft