Howe'er he'll needs launch out beyond his reach,
For who ne'er made a theme, makes no good speech.
Hence the loud laugh and scornful sneer arise,
Hence round and round the piquant raill'ry flies,
And thus (fad fhame) though now he's twenty-four,
He's finely laf'd that ne'er was lafh'd before.
While each, mean time, or commoner or peer,
Who pafs'd the discipline in practice here,
Convinc'd applauds the doctor's wholesome plan,
Who made the youngster smart to save the man.
For what though fome the good old man defert,
Grow learn'd with eafe, and grasp the shade of art;
For us, we fofter here no vain pretence,
Nor fill with empty pride the void of sense;
We rife with pains, nor think the labour light
To speak like Romans, and like Romans write.
'Tis ours to court with care the learned throng,
To catch their fpirit as we gain their tongue;
To enjoy the charms in Cæfar's works that shine,
And learn to glow at Virgil's lofty line.
'Twas thus you mov'd, and thus in riper years,
With fuch fuperior luftre fill your spheres;
'Twas thus you learn'd to rife, nor can you blame
If as we tread your steps we hope your fame.
And oh! may Weftminster for ever view
Sons after fons fucceed, and all like you!
May every doubt your great examples clear,
And Education fix her empire here!
A LETTER to Sir ROBERT WALPOLE.
HILE at the helm of state you ride,
Our nation's envy and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And justly all your counfels praise,
Which, in contempt of faction's force,
Steer, though oppos'd, a fteady course,
Would you not wonder, Sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you
And yet the sequel proves it true.
You know, Sir, certain ancient fellows
Philofophers, and others, tell us,
That no alliance e'er between
Greatness and happiness is seen;
If fo, may heaven still deny
To you, to be as great as I.
Befides, we're taught, it does behove us,
To think those greater who're above us :
a The excellent author of Tom Jones, Jofeph Andrews, &c. He'
died at Litbon, 8th Oct. 1754.
Who live above you twice two story,
And from my garret can look down,
As from an hill, on half the town.
Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted:
This too does in my favour speak;
Your levee is but twice a week,
From mine I can exclude but one day;
My door is quiet on a Sunday.
The distance too at which they bow Does my fuperior greatness fhew. Familiar you to admiration,
May be approach'd by all the nation;
While I, like Great Mogul in Indo,
Am never seen but at a window.
The family that dines the latest,
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest,
But greater him we furely call,
Who hardly deigns to dine at all.
If with my greatness you're offended, The fault is eafily amended:
You have it, Sir, within your power,
To take your humble fervant lower.
An EPISTLE from the Elector of BAVARIA to the FRENCH King, after the Battle of RAMILIES.
F yet, great Sir, your heart can comfort know,
And the returning fighs lefs frequent flow;
If yet your ear can fuffer ANNA's fame,
And bear, without a start, her MARLBRO's name;
If half the flain o'er wide Ramillia spread,
Are yet forgot, and in your fancy dead:
Attend, and be yourself, while I recite
(Oh! that I only can of loffes write!)
To what a mighty fum our ills amount,
And give a faithful, though a fad account.
Let not Bavaria be condemn'd unheard,
Nor, 'till examin'd, have his conduct clear'd;
Charge not on me alone that fatal day,
Your own commanders bore too great a sway.
Think! Sir, with pity think! what I have loft,
My native realms and my paternal coast,
All that a firm confed'rate could bestow,
Ev'n faith and fame, if you believe the foe.
a Fought on Whitfunday, 12th May, 1706. According to Bishop Burnet's Account, the French in this battle, by killed, by deserters, and by prifoners, loft above 20,000 men.
Think what a heavy load o'erwhelms my breast,
With its own forrows and with yours opprest;
After one battle loft, and country gone,
Vanquish'd again, alas! and twice undone.
Oh! where fhall I begin? what language find
To heal the raging anguish of your mind?
Or, if you deign a willing ear to lend,
Oh! where will my disastrous story end?
Conqueft I often promis'd, I confess,
And who from fuch a pow'r could promise lefs?
There Gallia's force, and here Bavaria's fhines,
Th' experienc'd houfhold fills our crowded lines;
Already had our tow'ring thoughts o'erthrown`
The Belgian hoft, while we furvey'd our own,
Destroy'd their provinces with fword and flame,
Let in their feas, and fack'd their Amfterdam;
Already had we shar'd the fancy'd spoil,
(Imaginary trophies crown'd our toil)
Batavian standards to this temple gave,
In that the British croffes doom'd to wave,
A rural feat affign'd each captive chief,
In flow'ry gardens to affuage his grief,
And by his arts, and first escape prepar'd,
On MARLBRO had bestow'd a double guard.
Paris, impatient for the conquer'd foe,
Haften'd the tuneful hymn and folemn show;
Triumphal chariots for the victor stay'd,
And finish'd arches cast a pompous shade;
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