(Smiling, in justice to their own degree,) On worth like that whence first the peerage flow'd. And kings most like them, by rewarding well. But if an eagle it transfix on high, Lodged in the wound, it soars into the sky. And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise ; No more for in this dread suspense of fate, AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE. 1712. Parnassia laurus Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra.-VIRG. WHEN Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone, And soothed his breast with no ignoble strain ; That partial to his darling he may prove, His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame. Long has the western world reclined her head, Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead; Fell discord through her borders fiercely ranged, And shook her nations, and her monarchs changed; By land and sea, its utmost rage employ'd; Nor heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd. In vain kind summers plenteous fields bestow'd, Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chased, But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen, No more the rising harvest whets the sword, Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim, All nature seems to wear a cheerful face, No longer he invokes the gods in vain, Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please, Nor is it peace alone, but such a peace, As more than bids the rage of battle cease. Death may determine war, and rest succeed, 'Cause naught survives on which our rage may feed: In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes, And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose. See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance, Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France; So well received, so welcome, so at home, (Bless'd change of fate) in Bourbon's stately dome; The monarch pleased, descending from his throne, Will not that Anna call him all her own; He claims a part, and looking round to find Something might speak the fulness of his mind, A diamond shines, which oft had touch'd him near Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear; Now first with joy beheld, well placed on one, Who makes him less regret his darling son; So dear is Anna's minister, so great, Your glorious friend in his own private state. To make our nations longer two, in vain Does nature interpose the raging main : The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows, For Louis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows : From conflicts pass'd each others' worth we find, And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd; Each wound received, now pleads the cause of love, And former injuries endearments prove. What Briton but must prize the illustrious sword, That cause of fear to Churchill could afford? Who sworn to Bourbon's sceptre, but must frame Vast thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard tame? Thus generous hatred in affection ends, And war, which raised the foes, completes the friends. (The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow); Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find, To distant woods and streams, for such supplies, The foaming ocean plough'd with equal fate. Goodness is greatness in its utmost height, And power a curse, if not a friend to right: To conquer is to make dissension cease, That man may serve the King of kings in peace. Religion now shall all her rays dispense, And shine abroad in perfect excellence ; Else we may dread some greater curse at hand, To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land: Now war is weary, and retired to rest; The meagre famine, and the spotted pest, Deputed in her stead, may blast the day, And sweep the relics of the sword away. When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne, Jove in the fulness of his glory shone ; Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword, Was born to raise a temple to the Lord. Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle. Those mighty souls, whom military care Diverted from their only great affair, Shall bend their full united force, to bless Th' Almighty author of their late success. And what is all the world subdued to this? The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss ; But there are conquests to great Anna known, Above the splendour of an earthly throne; Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within The scanty bounds of matter to begin ; Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run Beyond this darkness of the stars and sun, And shall whole ages past be still, still but begun. Heroic shades! whom war has swept away, Look down, and smile on this auspicious day: Then deep into eternity retire, Of greater things than peace or war inquire ; The bravest of mankind shall now have leave To turn us back from joy, in tender fear, And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their blood From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage But O! I view with transport arts restored, Or near the margin of a secret spring: But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string, 2 E |