ODE III.

THE

RURAL REFLECTIONS

OF A

WELCH POET.

STOP, Stop, my steed! hail, Cambria, hail,
With craggy cliffs and darksome vale,
May no rude steps defile 'em!
Your poet, with a vengeance sent
From London, post, is hither bent,
To find a safe asylum.

Bar, bar the doors, exclude e'en Fear,
Who press'd upon my horse's rear,

And made the fleet still fleeter;
Here shall my hurried soul repose,
And, undisturb'd by Irish prose,
Renew my lyric metre.

Thus Flaccus, at Philippi's fields,
Behind him left his little shield,

And sculk'd in Sabine cavern:

Had I not wrote that cursed ode,

My coward heart I ne'er had show'd,
The jest of every tavern.

Ye guardians of Mercurial men,
I boast from you my sprightly pen,
I rhyme by your direction :

Why did you partial gifts impart ?
You gave a head, but gave no heart,
No heart for head's protection.

Hence 'tis my wit outruns my strength,
And scans each inch of Hussey's length,
His length of sword forgetting;
Hence angry boys my rhyme provoke :
I ne'er (too serious proves the joke)
Can think on't without sweating.

What the Lieutenant once deny'd,
My inauspicious wit supply'd,

And forc'd me into action;
To me, as to this scribe indite,
Hibernia's sons———— -I cannot write,
To give them satisfaction.

Fool, could I sing for others sport,
The taking of the Dutchess' FORT,
And which the way to win her;
I, undisturb'd, my town enjoy'd,
Then (Nero like) with fire destroy'd,
By springing mines within her.

Oh! had I sung sweet roundelay,

Great George's birth, or New-year's-day, As innocent as Colly,

Your other Pope, (oh hear, ye Nine!)

He'd gladly all his odes refine,

And screen himself in folly.

Ah! since my fear has forc'd me hither, I feel no more that sweet blue weather The Muses most delight in ;

Dark and more dark each cloud impends, And ev'ry message from my friends Conveys sad hints of fighting.

To harmless themes I'll tune my reed,
Listen, ye lambkins, whilst you feed,
Ye shepherds, nymphs, and fountains!
Ye bees, with soporif'rous hums,
Ye pendent goats, if Hussey comes,
Convey me to your mountains!

There

may I sing secure, nor Fear
Shall pull the songster by the ear,
T' advise me while I 'm writing;
Or if my satire will burst forth,
I'll lampoon parsons in my wrath :
Their cloth forbids them fighting.

Whene'er I think, can Williams brook To sculk beneath this lonely nook,

And tamely bear what few will? Harcourt like Priam's son appears, Cries, as he shakes his bloody ears, Beware of Irish duel!

I flutter like Macbeth! Arise

Strange scenes, and swim before my eyes,
Swords, pistols, bloody-shocking!
Whole crowds of Irish cross my view,
I feel th' involuntary dew

Run trickling down my stocking.

Sure sign how all's within, I trow: Connel once forc'd such streams to flow, So dreadful he to meet is;

Should gentle Cornbury, Leicester, Bath, Or drowsy Stanhope wake in wrath, "Twould cause a diabetes.

Oh Patrick! courage-giving saint,
Reverse my pray'r thou late didst grant,
Or I'm for ever undone !

Rust all their pistols, break their swords,
And if they'll fight it out in words,
I'll come again to London.

ODE IV.

ΤΟ

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

OCCASIONED BY THE PRECEDING ODE, ASCRIBED TO

THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

WHO's this?-what! Hanbury the lyric?
Changing his notes to panegyric,

In fearful dread of fighting?

But 'tis in vain: for Hanbury swears,
If Cynthius won't, he'll lug your ears,
And make you leave off writing.

Think you, because you basely fled
To Saxony, to hide your head,

On odes you still may venture
Or wipe off scandal left at home,
By meanly daubing him, in whom
All commendations centre ?

No; Stanhope chooses thy abuse,
Detesting such a filthy Muse,
Whose very praise is satire ;