« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.
PARDON, great Duke, if Britain's style delights;
Oh! when shall Europe, by her Marlborough's
Where your soft partner, far from martial noise,
Hail, Woodstock ! hail, ye celebrated glades ! Grow fast, ye woods! and florish thick, ye shades ! Ye rising towers, for your new Lord prepare, Like your old Henry, come from Gallia's war. The General's arms as far the King's o'erpower, As this new structure does surpass the bower.
The pleasing prospects and romantic scite, The spacious compass, and the stately height, The painted gardens, in their flowery prime, Demand whole volumes of immortal rhyme; And, if the Muse would second the design, Mean as they are, should in my numbers shine; There live the joy and wonder of our isles, Happy in Albion's love and Anna's smiles.
While, from the Godlike race of Churchill born, Four beauteous Rosamonds this bower adorn, Who with the ancient Syren of the place In charms might vie and every blooming grace; But, bless'd with equal virtues had she been, Like them she had been favour'd by the Queen,
Whom your high merit, and their own, prefers
Thus the great Eagle, when Heaven's wars are
o'er, And the loud thunder has forgot to roar, Jove's fires laid by, with those of Venus burns, To his forsaken mate and shades returns ; On some proud tree more sacred than the rest, With curious art he builds his spacious nest; In the warm sun lies basking all the day, While round their Sire the generous Eaglets play; Their Sire, well pleas'd to see the noble brood Fill all the loftiest cedars of the wood.
Sure there's a fate in excellence, too strong
Give me profuse of tears o'er Craggs to mourn, And, grateful, consecrate the much-lov'd urn. Severe Disease! what power shall mock thy speed, Elusive of the skilful hand of Mead ? Yet was his course complete, though finish'd soon ; His sun was strong, though darken'd in its noon. O may no tongue profane thy tomb invade, Nor envy posthumous pursue thy shade! Fair shine thy fame, and be thy praises just, And mix with Addison's thy sosial dust! The sweet-tongu'd Addison, whose happy vein First rival’d, Plato, thy immortal strain; Though Tully with a strong resemblance vy'd, And Lewis crowded Academies try'd. Illustrious friends! (if this poor verse can give Life to your names) your friendly names shall live, Long as the structure that your urns contains, Or liberty with George's line remains.
Who thinks of liberty, but Stanhope's name Beats in his breast, and sets his soul on fame? O much-lamented Ghost! thy virtues show Like stars which through yon azure convex glow; A beauteous train, that speak the power divine, And strong in brightness, as in number shine. Grant Heaven some influence from his ashes dart, To warm and actuate each British heart ! Divide his gifts! This be the Warrior's heir, Here let the Statesman, there the Scholar share :