Yet, Hall, while thy judicious ear
Admires the well-dissembled art
That can such harmony impart
To the lame pace of Gallic rhymes;
While wit from affectation clear,
Bright images, and passions true,
Recall to thy assenting view
The envied bards of nobler times;

Say, is not oft his doctrine wrong? This priest of Pleasure, who aspires To lead us to her sacred fires, Knows he the ritual of her shrine? Say (her sweet influence to thy song So may the goddess still afford) Doth she consent to be ador'd

With shameless love and frantic wine?

Nor Cato, nor Chrysippus here
Need we in high indignant phrase
From their Elysian quiet raise :
But Pleasure's oracle alone
Consult; attentive, not severe.

O Pleasure, we blaspheme not thee;
Nor emulate the rigid knee
Which bends but at the stoic throne.

We own had Fate to man assign'd
Nor sense, nor wish, but what obey
Or Venus soft or Bacchus gay,
Then might our bard's voluptuous creed
Most aptly govern human kind:
Unless perchance what he hath sung
Of tortur'd joints and nerves unstrung,
Some wrangling heretic should plead.

But now with all these proud desires
For dauntless truth and honest fame;
With that strong master of our fraine,
The inexorable judge within,
What can be done? Alas! ye fires
Of love; alas! ye rosy smiles,
Ye nectar'd cups from happier soils,
-Ye have no bribe his grace to win.

ODE VII.

TO THE RIGHT REVEREND

BENJAMIN LORD BISHOP OF WINCHESTER.

M.DCC. LIV.

I.

FOR toils which patriots have endur'd, For treason quell'd and laws secur'd, In every nation Time displays The palm of honourable praise. Envy may rail; and Faction fierce May strive; but what, alas! can those (Though bold, yet blind and sordid foes) To gratitude and love oppose, To faithful story and persuasive verse?

O nurse of Freedom, Albion, say,
Thou tamer of despotic sway,
What man, among thy sons around,
Thus heir to glory hast thou found?

What page, in all thy annals bright, Hast thou with purer joy survey'd Than that where Truth, by Hoadly's aid, Shines through Imposture's solemn shade, Through kingly and through sacerdotal night?

To him the Teacher bless'd,

Who sent Religion, from the palmy field
By Jordan, like the morn to cheer the west,
And lifted up the veil which Heaven from Earth
conceal'd,

To Hoadly thus his mandate he address'd:
"Go thon, and rescue my dishonour'd law
From hands rapacious and from tongues impure:
Let not my peaceful name be made a lure
Fell Persecution's mortal snares to aid:
Let not my words be impious chains to draw
The freeborn soul in more than brutal awe,
To faith without assent, allegiance unrepaid."

II.

No cold or unperforming hand

Was arm'd by Heaven with this command. The world soon felt it: and, on high,

To William's ear with welcome joy Did Locke among the blest unfold The rising hope of Hoadly's name, Godolphin then confirm'd the fame; And Somers, when from Earth he came, And generous Stanhope the fair sequel told.

Then drew the lawgivers around, (Sires of the Grecian name renown'd) And listening ask'd, and wondering knew, What private force could thus subdue The vulgar and the great combin'd; Could war with sacred Folly wage; Could a whole nation disengage From the dread bonds of many an age, And to new habits mould the public mind.

For not a conqueror's sword,

Nor the strong powers to civil founders known, Were his but truth by faithful search explord, And social sense, like seed, in genial plenty sown. Wherever it took root, the soul (resterd To freedom) freedom too for others sought. Not monkish craft, the tyrant's claim divine, Not regal zeal, the bigot's cruel shrine, Could longer guard from reason's warfare sage; Not the wild rabble to sedition wrought, Nor synods by the papal genius taught, Nor St. John's spirit loose, nor Atterbury's rage,

III.

But where shall recompense be found?
Or how such arduous merit crown'd?
For look on life's laborious scene;
What rugged spaces lie between
Adventurous Virtue's early toils
And her triumphal throne! The shade
Of Death, mean time, does oft invade
Her progress; nor, to us display'd,
Wears the bright heroine her expected spoils.

Yet born to conquer is her power:
-O Hoadly, if that favourite hour
On Earth arrive, with thankful awe
We own just Heaven's indulgent law,

And proudly thy success behold; We attend thy reverend length of days With benediction and with praise, And hail thee in our public ways Like some great spirit fam'd in ages old.

While thus our vows prolong

Thy steps on Earth, and when by us resign'd Thou join'st thy seniors, that heroic throng Who rescued or preserv'd the rights of human kind, O! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongue Thee still, her friend and benefactor, name: O! never, Hoadly, in thy country's eyes, May impious gold, or pleasure's gaudy prize, Make public virtue, public freedom, vile; Nor our own manners tempt us to disclaim That heritage, our noblest wealth and fame, Which thou hast kept entire from force and factious guile.

ODE VIII.

It rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix'd in love's decrees,
That beauty ought not to be tried

But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell, What fair can Amoret excel?

Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet (she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen)
We nought but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

But neither music, nor the powers

Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half that sunshine to the hours,

Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by.

Yet not a satirist could there
Or fault or indiscretion find;
Nor any prouder sage declare

One virtue, pictur'd in his mind, Whose form with lovelier colours glows Than Amoret's demeanour shows.

This sure is beauty's happiest part:
This gives the most unbounded sway:
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of Time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

ODE IX.

AT STUDY.

WHITHER did my fancy stray?
By what magic drawn away
Have I left my studious theme?

From this philosophic page,
From the problems of the sage,

Wandering through a pleasing dream?

'Tis in vain, alas! I find,

Much in vain, my zealous mind

Would to learned Wisdom's throne Dedicate each thoughtful hour: Nature bids a softer power

Claim some minutes for his own.

Let the busy or the wise
View him with contemptuous eyes;
Love is native to the heart:
Guide its wishes as you will;
Without Love, you 'll find it still
Void in one essential part.

Me though no peculiar fair
Touches with a lover's care;

Though the pride of my desire Asks immortal friendship's name, Asks the palm of honest fame,

And the old heroic lyre;

Though the day have smoothly gone,
Or to letter'd leisure known,

Or in social duty spent;
Yet at eve my lonely breast
Seeks in vain for perfect rest;
Languishes for true content.

ODE X.

ΤΟ

THOMAS EDWARDS, ESQUIRE,

ON THE LATE EDITION OF MR. POPE'S WORKS.

M.DCC. LI.

BELIEVE me, Edwards, to restrain
The licence of a railer's tongue

Is what but seldom men obtain

By sense or wit, by prose or song: A task for more Herculean powers, Nor suited to the sacred hours Of leisure in the Muse's bowers.

In bowers where laurel weds with palm,
The Muse, the blameless queen, resides;
Fair Fame attends, and Wisdom calm

Her eloquence harmonious guides:
While, shut for ever from her gate,
Oft trying, still repining, wait
Fierce Envy and calumnious Hate.

Who then from her delightful bounds Would step one moment forth to heed What impotent and savage sounds

From their unhappy mouths proceed?
No: rather Spenser's lyre again
Prepare, and let thy pious strain
For Pope's dishonour'd shade complain.

Tell how displeas'd was every bard,
When lately in the Elysian grove
They of his Muse's guardian heard,
His delegate to Fame above;
And what with one accord they said
Of wit in drooping age misled,
And Warburton's officious aid:"

How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fate To that melodious lyre assign'd, Beneath a tutor who so late

With Midas and his rout combin'd By spiteful clamour to confound That very lyre's enchanting sound, Though listening realms admir'd around :

How Horace own'd he thought the fire
Of his friend Pope's satiric line
Did further fuel scarce require

From such a militant divine:

How Milton scorn'd the sophist vain, Who durst approach his hallow'd strain With unwash'd hands and lips profane.

Then Shakspeare, debonnair and mild,

Brought that strange comment forth to view; Conceits more deep, he said and smil'd,

Than his own fools or madmen knew: But thank'd a generous friend above, Who did with free adventurous love Such pageants from his tomb remove.

And if to Pope, in equal need,

The same kind office thou wouldst pay, Then, Edwards, all the band decreed

That future bards with frequent lay
Should call on thy auspicious name,
From each absurd intruder's claim,
To keep inviolate their fame.

ODE XI.

TO THE

COUNTRY GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND.

M. DCC. LVIII.

WHITHER is Europe's ancient spirit fled?

Where are those valiant tenants of her shore, Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped, Or with firm hand the rapid pole-ax bore? Freeman and soldier was their common name, Who late with reapers to the furrow came, Now in the front of battle charg'd the foe: Who taught the steer the wintry plough to endure, Now in full councils check'd encroaching power, And gave the guardian laws their majesty to know.

But who are ye? from Ebro's loitering sons

To Tiber's pageants, to the sports of Seine; From Rhine's frail palaces to Danube's thrones And cities looking on the Cimbric main, Ye lost, ye self-deserted? whose proud lords Have baffled your tame hands, and given your swords

To slavish ruffians, hir'd for their command: These, at some greedy monk's or harlot's nod, See rifled nations crouch beneath their rod; These are the public will, the reason of the land.

Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas! the while
Dost thou presume? O inexpert in arms,
Yet vain of freedom, how dost thou beguile,
With dreams of hope, these near and lond
alarms?

Thy splendid home, thy plan of laws renown'd,
The praise and envy of the nations round,

But what hath force or war to do with thee?
Girt by the azure tide, and thron'd sublime
Amid thy floating bulwarks, thou canst see,

With scorn, the fury of each hostile clime
Dash'd ere it reach thee. Sacred from the foe
Are thy fair fields. Athwart thy guardian prow
No bold invader's foot shall tempt the strand-
Yet say, my country, will the waves and wind
Obey thee? Hast thou all thy hopes resign'd
To the sky's tickle faith? the pilot's wavering hand?

For oh! may neither fear nor stronger love
(Love, by thy virtuous princes nobly won)
Thee, last of many wretched nations, move,

With mighty armies station'd round the throne To trust thy safety. Then, farewell the claims Of Freedom! Her proud records to the flames Then bear, an offering at Ambition's shrine; Whate'er thy ancient patriots dar'd demand From furious John's, or faithless Charles's hand, Or what great William seal'd for his adopted line.

But if thy sons be worthy of their name,

If liberal laws with liberal hearts they prize, Let them from conquest, and from servile shaine,

In War's glad school their own protectors rise. Ye chiefly, heirs of Albion's cultur'd plains, Ye leaders of her bold and faithful swains, Now not unequal to your birth be found: The public voice bids arm your rural state, Paternal hamlets for your ensigns wait, And grange and fold prepare to pour their youth around.

Why are ye tardy? what inglorious care

Detains you from their head, your native post? Who most their country's fame and fortune share, 'Tis theirs to share her toils, her perils most. Each man his task in social life sustains: With partial labours, with domestic gains, Let others dwell: to you indulgent Heaven By counsel and by arms the public cause To serve for public love and love's applause, The first employment far, the noblest hire, hath given.

Have ye not heard of Lacedæmon's fame?

Of Attic chiefs in Freedom's war divine? Of Rome's dread generals? the Valerian name? The Fabion sons? the Scipios, matchiess Ine? Your lot was theirs. The farmer and the swain Met his lov'd patron's summons from the plain;