Him Virtue crowns with wreaths that ne'er decay; And glory circles him with endless day.

Such he who deep in VIRTUE roots his fame; And such through ages shall be LONSDALE's name.

EPISTLE VI.

ON

NOBILITY.

TO THE EARL OF ***.

BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ.

[Late Poet Laureat.]

POETS, my Lord, by some unlucky fate
Condemn'd to flatter the too easy great,
Have oft, regardless of the heaven-born flame,
Enshrin'd a title, and ador'd a name;
For idol deities forsook the true,

And paid to greatness what was virtue's due.

Yet hear, at least, one recreant bard maintain Their incense vapor, and your honors vain : Teach you to scorn th' auxiliar props, that raise The painted produce of these sun-shine days; Proud from yourself, like India's worm, to weave Th' ennobling thread which fortune cannot give. In two short precepts your whole lesson lies; Would you be great ?-be virtuous, and be wise.

In elder time, ere heralds yet were known To gild the vain with glories not their own; Or infant language say such terms prevail, As Fess and Chevron, Pale and Contrepale ; 'Twas he alone the shaggy spoils might wear, Whose strength subdued the lion, or the bear For him the rosy spring with smiles beheld Her honors stript from every grove and field; For him the rustic choirs with songs advance; For him the virgins form the annual dance. Born to protect, like Gods they hail the brave; And sure 'twas godlike, to be born to save!

In Turkey still these simple manners reign, Though Pharamond has liv'd, and Charlemagne : The cottage hind may there admitted rise

A chief, or statesman, as his talent lies;
And all, but Othman's race, the only proud,
Fall with their sires, and mingle with the crowd.

Politer courts, ingenious to extend The father's virtues, bid his pomps descend; Chiefs premature with suasive wreaths adorn, And force to glory heroes yet unborn. Plac'd like Hamilcar's son, their paths confin'd, Forward they must, for monsters press behind ; Monsters more dire than Spain's or Barca's snakes: If fame they grasp not, infamy o'ertakes. 'Tis the same virtue's vigorous, just effort, Must grace alike St. James's, or the Porte;

Alike, my Lord, must Turk, or British peer,
Be to his King and to his country dear;
Alike must either honor's cause maintain,
You to preserve a fame, and they to gain.

For birth-precarious were that boasted gem,
Though worth flow'd copious in the vital stream:
(Of which a sad reverse historians preach,
And sage Experience proves the truths they teach.)
For say, ye great, who boast another's scars,
And, like Busiris, end among the stars,
What is this boon of Heaven? dependent still
On woman's weakness, and on woman's will.
Might not, in Pagan days, and open air,

Some wand'ring Jove surprise th' unguarded fair?
And did your gentle grandames always prove
Stern rebels to the charms of lawless love?
And never pity'd at some tender time,
A dying Damian, withering in his prime?
Or, more politely to their vows untrue,
Lov'd, and elop'd, as modern ladies do?

But grant them virtuous, were they all of birth? Did never nobles mix with vulgar earth, And city maids to envy'd heights translate, Subdu'd by passion, and decay'd estate ? Or, sigh, still humbler, to the passing gales By turf-built cots in daisy-painted vales? Who does not, Pamela, thy sufferings feel? Who has not wept at beauteous Grisel's wheel;

And each fair Marchioness, that Gallia pours (Exotic sorrows) to Britannia's shores?

Then blame us not, if backward to comply
With your demands: we fear a forgery.
In spite of patents, and of kings decrees,
And blooming coronets on parchment-trees,
Your proofs are gone, your very claims are lost,
But by the manners of that race you boast.
O, if true virtue fires their generous blood,
The feel for fame, the pant for public good,
The kind concern for innocence distrest,
The Titus' wish to make a people blest,
At every deed we see their father's tomb
Shoot forth new laurels in eternal bloom;
We hear the rattling car, the neighing steeds,
A Poitiers thunders, and a Cressy bleeds!
Titles and birth, like di'monds from the mine,
Must by your worth be polish'd ere they shine;
Thence drink new lustre, there unite their rays,
And stream through ages one unsulli'd blaze.

But what avails the crest with flow'rets crown'd, The mother virtuous, or the sires renown'd, If, from the breathing walls, those sires behold The midnight gamester trembling for his gold: And see those hours, when sleep their toils repair'd,

(Or if they wak'd, they wak'd for Britain's guard,)