STAYING ALL THE WINTER IN THE COUNTRY.
CEASE rural conquests, and set free your swains,
To Dryads leave the groves, to Nymphs the plains:
In pensive dales alone let Echo dwell,
And each sad sigh she hears with sorrow tell.
Haste, let your eyes at Kent's pavilion shine,
It wants but stars, and then the work's divine.
Of late, Fame only tells of yielding towns,
Of captive generals, and protected crowns:
Of purchased laurels, and of battles won,
Lines forced, states vanquish'd, provinces o'errun,
And all Alcides' labours summ'd in one.
The brave must to the fair now yield the prize,
And English arms submit to English eyes :
In which bright list among the first you stand;
Though each a goddess, or a Sunderland.
ON HIS VOLUNTARY BANISHMENT.
Go, mighty Prince, and those great nations see, Which thy victorious arms before made free; View that famed column, where thy name engraved, Shall tell their children who their empire saved;
A gallery the Earl of Kent had built at St. James's.
Point out that marble where thy worth is shown, To every grateful country but thy own:
O censure undeserved! unequal fate!
Which strove to lessen him who made her great:
Which, pamper'd with success and rich in fame,
Extol'd his conquests, but condemn'd his name.
But virtue is a crime when placed on high,
Though all the fault's in the beholder's eye;
Yet he untouch'd, as in the heat of wars,
Flies from no danger but domestic jars ;
Smiles at the dart which angry envy shakes,
And only fears for her whom he forsakes:
He grieves to find the course of virtue cross'd,
Blushing to see our blood no better lost;
Disdains in factious parties to contend,
And proves, in absence most, Britannia's friend.
So the great Scipio of old, to shun
That glorious envy which his arms had won,
Far from his dear, ungrateful Rome retired,
Prepared, whene'er his country's cause required,
To shine in peace or war, and be again admired.
EARL OF GODOLPHIN.
WHILST Weeping Europe bends beneath her ills, And where the sword destroys not, famine kills, Our isle enjoys, by your successful care,
The pomp of amidst the woes of war.
So much the public to your prudence owes,
You think no labours long for our repose:
Such conduct, such integrity are shown,
There are no coffers empty, but your own.
From mean dependance, merit you retrieve;
Unask'd you offer, and unseen you give:
Your favour, like the Nile, increase bestows,
And yet conceals the source from whence it flows,
No pomp or grand appearance you approve ;
A people at their ease is what you love :
To lessen taxes, and a nation save,
Are all the grants your services would have.
Thus far, the state-machine wants no repair,
But moves in matchless order by your care;
Free from confusion, settled, and serene;
And, like the universe, by springs unseen.
But now some star sinister to our prayers, Contrives new schemes, and calls you from affairs; No anguish in your looks, or cares appear, But how to teach the' unpractised crew to steer, Thus, like a victim, no constraint you need, To expiate their offence by whom
you bleed. Ingratitude 's a weed of every clime, It thrives too fast at first, but fades in time. The god of day and your own lot's the same; The vapours you have raised, obscure your flame: But though you suffer, and awhile retreat', Your globe of light looks larger as you set.
1 This seems to have been written when Lord Godolphin was removed from the office of Lord High Treasurer.
HER MAJESTY'S STATUE,
IN ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD.
NEAR the vast bulk of that stupendous frame,
Known by the Gentiles' great apostle's name ;
With grace divine, great Anna 's seen to rise,
An awful form that glads a nation's eyes:
Beneath her feet four mighty realms appear,
And with due reverence pay their homage there.
Britain and Ireland seem to own her grace,
And even wild India wears a smiling face.
But France alone with downcast eyes is seen
The sad attendant of so good a Queen:
Ungrateful country! to forget so soon
All that great Anna for thy sake has done :
When sworn the kind defender of thy cause,
Spite of her dear religion, spite of laws;
For thee she sheath'd the terrors of her sword,
For thee she broke her general-and her word;
For thee her mind in doubtful terms she told,
And learn'd to speak like oracles of old.
For thee, for thee alone, what could she more?
She lost the honour she had gain'd before;
Lost all the trophies, which her arms had won,
(Such Cæsar never knew, nor Philip's son)
Resign'd the glories of a ten year's reign,
And such as none but Marlborough's arm could
For thee in annals she 's content to shine,
Like other monarchs of the Stuart line.
THE NEW CONSPIRACY, 1716.
WHERE, where, degenerate countrymen-how high
Will your fond folly and your madness fly?
Are scenes of death and servile chains so dear,
To sue for blood and bondage every year;
Like rebel Jews, with too much freedom cursed,
To court a change-though certain of the worst?
There is no climate which you have not sought,
Where tools of war and vagrant kings are bought;
O! noble passion, to your country kind,
To crown her with-the refuse of mankind.
As if the new Rome, which your schemes unfold,
Were to be built on rapine, like the old,
While her asylum openly provides
For every ruffian every nation hides.
Will you still tempt the great avenger's blow,
And force the bolt-which he is loath to throw?
Have there too few already bit the plains,
To make you seek new Prestons and Dumblains?
If vengeance loses its effect so fast,
Yet those of mercy sure-should longer last.
Say, is it rashness or despair provokes
Your harden'd hearts to these repeated strokes ?
Reply-Behold, their looks their souls declare,
All pale with guilt, and dumb with deep despair.
Hear then, you sons of blood! your destined
fate,
Hear, ere you sin too soon-repent too late.
Madly you try to weaken George's reign,
And stem the stream of Providence in vain.
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