She fpoke, the dy'd, her corse was borne,
The bridegroom blithe to meet,
He in his wedding-trim fo gay,
She in her winding-fheet.
Then what were perjur❜d Colin's thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,
At once his bofom fwell :
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
He fhook, he groan'd, he fell.
From the vain bride, ah, bride no more!
The varying crimson fled,
When, ftretch'd before her rival's corfe,
She faw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling fwains,
One mould with her, beneath one fod,
For ever he remains.
Oft at this grave, the constant hind
And plighted maid are seen ;
With garlands gray, and true-love knots,
They deck the facred green;
But, fwain forfworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.
TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER AT HIS
O Whitton's shades, and Hounslow's airy plain,
Thou, Kneller, tak'ft thy fummer flights in vain,
In vain thy wish gives all thy rural hours
To the fair villa, and well-order'd bowers;
To court thy pencil early at thy gates,
Ambition knocks, and fleeting Beauty waits;
The boaftful Mufe, of others fame fo fure,
Implores thy aid to make her own secure;
The Great, the Fair, and, if aught nobler be,
Aught more belov'd, the Arts folicit thee.
How canft thou hope to fly the world, in vain
From Europe fever'd by the circling main ;
Sought by the kings of every distant land,
And every hero worthy of thy hand?
Haft thou forgot that mighty Bourbon fear'd
He still was mortal, till thy draught appear'd?
That Cofmo chofe thy glowing form to place,
Amidst her mafters of the Lombard race?
See on her Titian's and her Guido's urns,
Her falling arts forlorn Hefperia mourns ;
While Britain wins each garland from her brow,
Her wit and freedom firft, her painting now.
Let the faint copier, on old Tiber's fhore,
Nor mean the task, each breathing bust explore,
Line after line with painful patience trace,
This Roman grandeur, that Athenian grace:
Vain care of parts; if, impotent of foul,
Th' industrious workman fails to warm the whole,
Each theft betrays the marble whence it came,
And a cold ftatue ftiffens in the frame.
Thee Nature taught, nor Art her aid deny'd,
The kindest mistress, and the surest guide,
To catch a likeness at one piercing fight,
And place the fairest in the fairest light;
Ere yet thy pencil tries her nicer toils,
Or on thy palette lie the blended oils,
Thy careless chalk has half atchiev'd thy art,
And her juft image makes Cleora start.
A mind that grafps the whole is rarely found, Half learn'd, half painters, and half wits abound; Few, like thy genius, at proportion aim, All great, all graceful, and throughout the fame. Such be thy life, O fince the glorious rage That fir'd thy youth, flames unfubdued by age; Though wealth, nor fame, now touch thy fated mind, Still tinge the canvas, bounteous to mankind; Since after thee may rife an impious line, Coarfe manglers of the human face divine, Paint on, till Fate diffolve thy mortal part, And live and die the monarch of thy art.
ON THE DEATH OF THE EARL OF
F Marlborough's captains and Eugenio's friends,
The laft, Cadogan, to the grave defcends:
Low lies each hand, whence Blenheim's glory sprung,
The chiefs who conquer'd, and the bards who fung.
From his cold corfe though every friend be filed,
Lo! Envy waits, that lover of the dead:
Thus did the feign o'er Nassau's hearse to mourn;
Thus wept infidious, Churchill, o'er thy urn;
To blast the living, gave the dead their due,
And wreaths, herself had tainted, trim'd anew.
Thou, yet unnam'd to fill his empty place,
And lead to war thy country's growing race,
Take every wish a British heart can frame,
Add palm to palm, and rise from fame to fame.
An hour must come, when thou shalt hear with rage
Thyfelf traduc'd, and curse a thankless age:
Nor yet for this decline the generous ftrife,
Thefe ills, brave man, thall quit thee with thy life;
Alive though ftain'd by every abject slave,
Secure of fame and justice in the grave.
Ah! no- when once the mortal yields to Fate,
The blaft of Fame's fweet trumpet founds too late,
Too late to stay the fpirit on its flight,
Or footh the new inhabitant of light;
Who hears regardless, while fond man, diftrefs'd,
Hangs on the abfent, and laments the blest.
Farewell then Fame,ill fought through fields and blood, Farewell unfaithful promifer of good:
Thou music, warbling to the deafen'd ear!
Thou incenfe wafted on the funeral bier!
Through life pursued in vain, by death obtain'd,
When afk'd deny'd us, and when given disdain'd.
AN ODE INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF SUNDERLAND AT WINDSOR.
HOU dome, where Edward first enroll'd
His red-crofs knights and barons bold,
Whofe vacant feats, by Virtue bought,
Ambitious emperors have fought :
Where Britain's foremoft names are found,
In peace belov'd, in war renown'd,
Who made the hoftile nations moan,
Or brought a bleffing on their own:
Once more a fon of Spencer waits,
A name familiar to thy gates;
Sprung from the chief whofe prowess gain'd
The Garter while thy founder reign'd,
He offer'd here his dinted fhield,
The dread of Gauls in Creffi's field,
Which, in thy high-arch'd temple rais'd,
For four lorg centuries hath blaz’d.
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