In lazy palaces supinely rust;

My sword shall justify my people's trust,
For which-but I your victory delay;
Come on; I and my genius lead the way."

He said, new life and joy ran through the host,
And sense of danger in their wonder lost;
Precipitate they plunge into the flood,

In vain, the waves, the banks, the men, withstood:
The king leads on, the king does all inflaine,
The king-and carries millions in the name.

As when the swelling ocean bursts his bounds, And, foaming, overwhelms the neighbouring grounds,

The roaring deluge, rushing headlong on,
Sweeps cities in its course, and bears whole forests
So on the foe the firm battalions prest, [down;
And he, like the tenth wave, drove on the rest;
Fierce, gallant, young, he shot through every
place,

Urging their flight, and hurrying on the chase;
He hung upon their rear, or lighten'd in their face.
Stop! stop! brave prince! allay that generous
flame,

Enough is given to England and to fame.
Remember, sir, you in the centre stand,
Europe's divided interests you cominand,
All their designs uniting in your hand:
Down from your throne descends the golden chain,
Which does the fabric of our world sustain;
That once dissolv'd by any fatal stroke,
The scheme of all our happiness is broke.
Stop! stop! brave prince! fleets may repair
And routed armies rally on the plain; [again,
But ages are requir'd to raise so great a man!
Hear how the waves of French ambition roar,
Disdaining bounds, and breaking on the shore,
Which you, ordain'd to curb their wild destructive
power,

That strength remov'd; again, again, they flow,
Lay Europe waste, nor law, nor limits know.

Stop! stop! brave prince!-what, does your
Muse, sir, faint?

Proceed, pursue his conquests-faith, I can't:
My spirits sink, and will no longer bear;
Rapture and fury carry'd me thus far
Transported and amaz'd

That rage once spent, I can no more sustain
Your flights, your energies, and tragic strain,
But fall back to my natural pace again;
In humble verse provoking you to rhyme;
I wish there were more Dorsets at this time.
Oh! if in France this hero had been born,
What glittering tinsel would his acts adorn!
There 'tis immortal fame and high renown,
To steal a country, and to buy a town:
There triumphs are o'er kings and kingdoms sold,
And captive Virtue led in chains of gold.
If courage.could, like courts, be kept in pay,

What sums would Lewis give, that France might

say

That victory follow'd where he led the way?
He all his conquests would for this refund,
And take th' equivalent, a glorious wound.
Then, what advice, to spread his real fame,
Would pass between Versailles and Nôtredame?
Their plays, their songs, would dwell upon his
wound,

And operas repeat no other sound;

Boyne would, for ages, be the painter's theme,
The Gobelins' labour, and the poets dream:

The wounded arm would furnish all their rooms,
And bleed for ever scarlet in the looms:
Boileau with this would plume his artful pen:
And can your Muse be silent? Think again.
Spare your advice; and since you have begun,
Finish your own design; the work is done.

Done! nothing's done! nor the dead colours
laid,

And the most glorious scenes stand undisplay'd;
A thousand generous actions close the rear;
A thousand virtues, still behind, stand crowding
to appear.

The queen herself, the charming queen should
grace

The noble piece, and in an artful place
Soften war's horrour with her lovely face.
Who can omit the queen's auspicious smile,
The pride of the fair sex, the goddess of our
isle?

Who can forget, what all admir'd of late,
Her fears for him, her prudence for the state?
Disguising cares, she smooth'd her looks with
grace,

Doubts in her heart, and pleasure in her face.
As danger did approach, her spirits rose,
And, putting on the king, dismay'd his foes.
Now, all in joy, she gilds the cheerful court;
In every glance descending angels sport.
As on the hills of Cynthus, or the meads
Of cool Eurotas, when Diana leads
The chorus of her nymphs, who there advance
A thousand shining maids, and form the dance;
The stately goddess with a graceful pride,
Sweet and majestic, does the figure guide,
Treading in just and easy measures round;
The silver arrows on her shoulder sound;
She walks above them all. Such is the scene
Of the bright circle, and the brighter queen.
These subjects do, my lord, your skill com-

mand,

These none may touch with an unhallow'd hand;
Tender the strokes must be, and nicely writ,
Disguis'd encomiums must be hid in wit,
Which modesty, like theirs, will e'er admit,
Who made no other steps to such a throne,
But to deserve, and to receive, the crown.

WRITTEN AT ALTHROP,

IN A BLANK LEAF OF WALLER'S POEMS,

Upon seeing Vandyke's picture of the old lady
Sunderland.

VANDYKE had colours, softness, fire, and art,
When the fair Sunderland inflam'd his heart.
Waller had numbers, fancy, wit, and fire,
And Sacharissa was his fond desire.
Why then at Althrop seem her charms to faint,
In these sweet numbers and that glowing paint
This happy seat a fairer mistress warms;
This shining offspring has eclips'd her charms:
The different beauties in one face we find;
Soft Amoret with brightest Sacharissa join'd.
As high as Nature reach'd, their art could soar;
But she ne'er made a finish'd piece before.