Diffusive o'er the place; complacent airs, Sedately sweet, were heard within the spheres; And, bowing, all adore the sovereign mind, And fly to execute the work design'd.

This done, the guardian on the wing repairs,

Where Anna sate, revolving public cares

Presenting peaceful images of good;

On Fancy's airy stage, returning trade,
A sunk exchequer fill'd, an army paid:

The fields with men, the men with plenty bless'd,
The towns with riches, and the world with rest.
Such pleasing objects on her bosom play,
And give the dawn of glory's golden day;
When all her labours at their harvest shown
Shall, in her subjects' joy, complete her own.
Then breaking silence; "T is enough," she cries,
"That War has rag'd to make the nations wise.
Heaven prospers armies whilst they fight to save,
And thirst of further fame destroys the brave;
The vanquish'd Gauls are humbly pleas'd to live,
And but escap'd the chains they meant to give.
Now let the powers be still'd, and each possess'd
Of what secures the common safety best."

So spake the queen; then, fill'd with warmth divine,

She call'd her Oxford to the grand design;
Her Oxford, prudent in affairs of state,
Profoundly thoughtful, manifestly great
In every turn, whose steady teinper steers
Above the reach of gold, or shock of fears;
Whom no blind chance, but merit understood,
By frequent trials, power of doing good,
And will to execute, advanc'd on high:

Oh, soul created to deserve the sky!
And make the nation, crown'd with glory, see
How much it rais'd itself by raising thee!
Now let the schemes which labour in thy breast,
The long alliance, crown'd with lasting rest,
Weigh all pretences with impartial laws,
And fix the separate interests of the cause!

These toils the graceful Bolingbroke attends, A genius fashion'd for the greatest ends; Whose strong perception takes the swiftest flight, And yet its swiftness ne'er obscures its sight: When schemes are fix'd, and each assign'd a part, None serves his country with a nobler heart; Just thoughts of honour all his mind control, And expedition wings his lively soul. On such a patriot to confer the trust, The monarch knows it safe, as well as just.

Then next proceeding in her agents' choice, And ever pleas'd that worth obtains the voice, She, from the voice of high-distinguish'd fames, With pious Bristol, gallant Strafford names: One form'd to stand a church's firm support, The other fitted to adorn a court: Both vers'd in business, both of fine address, By which experience leads to great success: And both to distant lands the monarch sends, And, to their conduct, Europe's peace commends.

Now ships unmoor'd, to waft her agents o'er, Spread all their sail, and quit the flying shore; The foreign agents reach th' appointed place, The congress opens, and it will be peace. Methinks the war, like stormy winter, flies, When fairer months unveil the bluish skies; A flowery world the sweetest season spreads, And doves, with branches, flutter round heads.

their

In everlasting song embalm the dead;
To realms that weeping heard the loss I'd tell,
What courage, sense, and faith, with Brandon fell!
But Britain more than one for glory breeds,
And polish'd Talbot to the charge succeeds;
Whose far-projecting thoughts, maturely clear,
Like glasses, draw their distant objects near.
Good parts, by gentle breeding much refin'd,
And stores of learning, grace his ample mind;
A cautious virtue regulates his ways,
And honour gilds them with a thousand rays.
To serve his nation, at his queen's command,
He parts, commission'd for the Gallic land:
With pleasure Gaul beholds him on her shore,
And learns to love a name she fear'd before.

Once more aloft, there meet for new debates,
The guardian angels of Europa's states:
And mutual concord shines in every face,
And every bosom glows with hopes of peace;
While Britain's steps, in one consent, they praise,
Then gravely mourn their other realms' delays;
Their doubtful claims, through seas of blood pur-
sued,

Their fears that Gallia fell but half subdued;
And all the reasonings which attempt to show
That war should ravage in the world below.
"Ab, fall'n estate of inan! can rage delight,
Wounds please the touch, or ruin charm the sight!
Ambition make unlovely. Mischief fair!
Or ever Pride be Providence's care!
When stern oppressors range the bloody field,
'Tis just to conquer, and unsafe to yield:
There save the nations; but no more pursue,
Nor in thy turn become oppressor too."

Our rebel angels for ambition fell,
And, war in Heaven produc'd a fiend in Hell.
Thus, with a soft concern for man's repose,
The tender guardians join to moan our woes;
Then awful rise, combin'd with all their might,
To find what fury, 'scap'd the den of night,
The pleasing labours of their love withstands,
And spreads a wild distraction o'er the lands.
Their glittering pinions sound in yielding air,
And watchful Providence approves the care.
In Flandria's soil, where camps have mark'd the
plain,

The fiend, impetuous Discord, fix'd her reign; A tent her royal seat. With full resort Stern shapes of Horrour throng'd her busy court; Blind Mischief, Ambush close concealing Ire, Loud Threatenings, Ruin arm'd with sword and fire; Assaulting Fierceness, Anger wanting breath, High reddening Rage, and various forms of Death; Dire imps of darkness, whom with gore she feeds, When war beyond its point of good proceeds. In Galtic armour, cail'd with alter'd name Great love of empire, to the field she came; Now, still supporting feud, she strives to hide Beneath that name, and only change the side: But, as she whiri'd the rapid wheels around, Where mangled limbs in heaps pollute the ground | (A sullen joyless sport); with searching eye, The shining chiefs regard her as they fly;

ELYSIUM.

In airy fields, the fields of bliss below,
Where woods of myrtle, set by Maro, grow;
Where grass beneath, and shade diffus'd above,
Refresh the fevers of distracted love:

There, at a solemn tide, the beauties, slain
By tender passion, act their fates again,
Through gloomy light, that just betrays the grove,
In orgies, all disconsolately rove:
They range the reeds, and o'er the poppies sweep,
That nodding bend beneath their load of sleep,
By lakes subsiding with a gentle face,
And rivers gliding with a silent pace;
Where kings and swains, by ancient authors sung,
Now chang'd to flowerets o'er the margin hung;
The self-admirer, white Narcissus, so
Fades at the brink, his picture fades below:
In bells of azure, Hyacinth arose ;

In crimson painted, young Adonis glows;
The fragrant Crocus shone with golden flame,
And leaves inscrib'd with Ajax' haughty name.
A sad remembrance brings their lives to view,
And, with their passion, makes their tears renew;
Unwinds the years, and lays the former scene,
Where, after death, they live for deaths again.
Lost by the glories of her lover's state,
Deluded Semele bewails her fate;

And runs, and seems to burn, the flames arise,
And fan with idle fury as she flies.

The lovely C, whose transforming shape Secur'd her ur from a second rape,

[own;

Now moan:
first, with ruffled dress appears,
Feels her whole sex return, and bathes with tears.
The jealous Procris wipes a seeming wound,
Whose trickling crimson dyes the bushy ground;
Knows the sad shaft, and calls before she go,
To kiss the favourite hand that gave the blow,
Where Ocean feigns a rage, the Sestian fair
Holds a dim taper from a tower of air;
A noiseless wind assaults the wavering light,
The beauty tumbling mingles with the night,
Where curling shades for rough Leucate rose,
With love distracted tuneful Sappho goes;
Sings to mock clifts a melancholy lay,
And with a lover's leap affrights the sea.
The sad Eryphile retreats to moan,
What wrought her husband's death, and caus'd her
Surveys the glittering veil, the bribe of fate,
And tears the shadow, but she tears too late.
In thin design, and airy picture, fleet
The tales that stain the royal house of Crete;
To court a lovely bull, Pasiphaë flies,
The snowy phantom feeds before her eyes.
Lost Ariadne raves, the thread she bore
Trails on unwinding, as she walks the shore;
And Phædra, desperate, seeks the ionely groves,
To read her guilty letter while she roves;
Red shame confounds the first, the second wears
A starry crown, the third a halter bears.
Fair Leodamia mourns her nuptial night
Of love defrauded by the thirst of fight;
Yet, for another as delusive cries,
And, dauntless, sces her hero's ghost arise.

Here Thishe, Canace, and Dido, stand,
All arm'd with swords, a fair but angry band;
This sword a lover own'd; a father gave
The next; a stranger chane'd the last to leave,
And there ev'n she, the goddess of the grove,
Join'd with the phantom-fairs, aflects to rove,

As once, for Latmos, she forsook the plain,
To steal the kisses of a slumbering swain:
Around her head a starry fillet twines,
And at the front a silver crescent shines.
These, and a thousand, and a thousand more,
With sacred rage recall the pangs they bore,
Strike the deep dart afresh, and ask relief,
Or sooth the wound with softening words of grief.
At such a tide, unheedful Love invades
The dark recesses of the madding shades;
Through long descent he fans the fogs around;
His purple feathers, as he flies, resound.
The nimble beauties, crowding ali to gaze,
Perceive the common troubler of their ease;
Though dulling mists and dubious day destroy
The fine appearance of the fluttering boy,
Though all the pomp that glitters at his side,
The golden belt, the clasp and quiver hide;
And though the torch appear a gleam of white,
That faintly spots, and moves in hazy night,
Yet still they know the god, the general foe,
And threatening lift their airy bands below.

From hence they lead him where a myrtle stood,
The saddest myrtle in the mournful wood;
Devote to vex the gods, 't was here before
Hell's awful empress soft Adonis bore,
When the young hunter scorn'd her graver air,
And only Venus warm'd his shadow there.

Fix'd to the trunk the tender boy they bind,
They cord his feet beneath, his hands behind;
He mourns, but vainly mourns his angry fate,
For Beauty, still relentless, acts in hate.
Though no offence be done, no judge be nigh,
Love must be guilty by the common cry;
For all are pleas'd, by partial passion led,
To shift their follies on another's head.

Now sharp reproaches ring their shrill alarms,
And all the heroines brandish all their arms;
And every heroine makes it her decree,
That Cupid suffer just the same as she.
To fix the desperate halter one essay'd,
One seeks to wound him with an empty blade.
Some headlong hang the nodding rocks of air,
They fall in fancy, and he feels despair.
Some toss the hollow seas around his head
(The seas that want a wave afford a dread).
Or shake the torch, the sparkling fury ties,
And flames that never burn'd afflict his eyes.

The mournful Myrrha bursts her rended womb,
And drowns his visage in a moist perfume.
While others, seeming mild, advise to wound
With humorous pains by sly derision found.
That prickling bodkins teach the blood to flow,
From whence the roses first begin to glow;
Or in their flames, to singe the boy prepare,
That all should choose by wanton Fancy where,
The lovely Venus, with a bleeding breast,
She too securely through the circle prest,
Forgot the parent, urg'd his hasty fate,
And spurr'd the female rage beyon debate;
O'er all her scenes of frailty swiftly runs,
Absolves herself, and makes the crime her son's,
That clasp'd in chains with Mars she chaned to
A noted fable of the laughing sky;
[ie,

That, from her love's intemperate heat, began
Sicanian Fryx, born a savage man;
The loose Priapus, and the monster-wight,
In whom the sexes shamefully unite,

Nor words suffice the goddess of the fair,
She suzps the rosy wreath that binds her hair;

Then on the god, who fear'd a fiercer woe,
Her hands, unpitying, dealt the frequent blow:
From all his tender skin a purple dew
The dreadful scourges of the chaplet drew,
From whence the rose, by Cupid ting'd before,
Now, doubly tinging, flames with lustre more.

Here ends their wrath, the parent seems severe,
The stroke's unfit for little Love to bear;
To save their foe the melting beauties fly,
And, cruel mother, spare thy child, they cry.
To Love's account they plac'd their death of late,
And now transfer the sad account to Fate:
The mother, pleas'd, beheld the storm asswage,
Thank'd the calm mourners, aud dismiss'd her
rage.

Thus Fancy, once in dusky shade express'd, With empty terrours work'd the time of rest. Where wretched Love endur'd a world of woe, For all a winter's length of night below. Then soar'd, as sleep dissolv'd, unchain'd away, And through the port of ivory reach'd the day. As, mindless of their rage, he slowly sails On pinions cumber'd in the misty vales; (Ab, fool to light!) the nymphs no more obey, Nor was this region ever his to sway: Cast in a deepen'd ring they close the plain, And seize the god, reluctant all in vain.

THE JUDGEMENT OF PARIS.

WHERE waving pines the brows of Ida shade,
The swain, young Paris, half supinely laid,
Saw the loose flocks through shrubs unnumber'd
rove,

[pair

And, piping, call'd them to the gladded grove.
'T was there he met the message of the skies,
That he, the judge of beauty, deal the prize.
The message known; one Love with anxious mind,
To make his mother guard the time assign'd,
Drew forth her proud white swans, and trac'd the
That wheel her chariot in the purple air:
A golden bow behind his shoulder bends,
A golden quiver at his side depends;
Pointing to these he nods, with fearless state,
And bids her safely meet the grand debate.
Another Love proceeds, with anxious care,
To make his ivory sleek the shining hair;
Moves the loose curls, and bids the forehead show,
In full expansion, all its native snow.
A third enclasps the many-colour'd cest,
And, rul'd by Fancy, sets the silver vest;
When, to her sons, with intermingled sighs,
The goddess of the rosy lips applies:

""T is now, my darling boys, a time to show
The love you feel, the filial aids you owe:
Yet, would we think that any dar'd to strive
For charms, when Venus and her Love's alive?
Or should the prize of beauty be deny'd,
Has beauty's empress aught to boast beside?
And, ting'd with poison, pleasing while it harms,
My darts I trusted to your infant arms;

If, when your hands have arch'd the golden bow,
The world's great ruler, bending, owns the blow,
Let no contending form invade my due,
Tall Juno's mien, nor Pallas' eyes of blue.
But, grac'd with triumph, to the Paphian shore
Your Venus bears the palms of conquest o'er;
And joyful see my hundred altars there,
With costly gums perfume the wanton air."

While thus the Cupids hear the Cyprian dame, The groves resounded where a goddess came. The warlike Pallas march'd with mighty stride, Her shield forgot, her helmet laid aside. Her hair unbound, in curls and order flow'd, And peace, or something like, her visage show'd; So, with her eyes serene, and hopeful haste, The long-stretch'd alleys of the wood she trac'd; But, where the woods a second entrance found, With scepter'd pomp and golden glory crown'd, The stately Juno stalk'd, to reach the seat, And hear the sentence in the last debate; And long, severely long, resent the grove; In this, what boots it she's the wife of Jove? Arm'd with a grace at length, secure to win, The lovely Venus, smiling, enters in; All sweet and shining, near the youth she drew, Her rosy neck ambrosial odours threw ; The sacred scents diffus'd among the leaves, Ran down the woods, and fill'd their boary caves; The charms, so amorous all, and each so great, The conquer'd judge no longer keeps his seat; Oppress'd with light, he drops his weary'd eyes, And fears he should be thought to doubt the prize.

ON MRS. ARABELLA FERMOR LEAVING

LONDON.

FROM town fair Arabella flies:

The beaux unpowder'd grieve; The rivers play before her eyes; The breezes, softly breathing, rise; The Spring begins to live.

Her lovers swore they must expire:
Yet quickly find their ease;
For, as she goes, their flames retire,
Love thrives before a nearer fire,
Esteem by distant rays.
Yet soon the fair-one will return,

When Summer quits the plain: Ye rivers, pour the weeping urn; Ye breezes, sadly s'ghing, mourn; Ye lovers, burn again.

'Tis constancy enough in love

That nature's fairly shown: To search for more, will fruitless prove; Romances, and the turtle-dove,

The virtue boast alone.

A RIDDLE.
UPON a bed of humble clay,
In all her garments loose,
A prostitute my mother lay,
To every comer's use.

Till one gallant, in heat of love,
His own peculiar made her;
And to a region far above,

And softer beds, convey'd her.
But, in his absence, to his place
His rougher rival came;
And, with a cold constrain'd embrace,
Begat me on the dame.