7. If 'tis a rugged path you go,
And thousand foes your steps surround,
Tread the thorns down, charge thro' the foe;
The hardest fight is highest crown'd.


Few happy matches, Aug. 1701.

Say, mighty Love, and teach my song
To whom my sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs
Whose yielding hearts and joining hands
Find blessings twisted with their bands
To foften all their cares.



Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into the chains
As custom leads the way:
If there be bliss without design
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine
And be as bless'd as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould,
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold
To dull embraces move:
So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too
And make a world of love.

18 24


Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires
The parer bliss destroy:
On Ætna’ö top let Furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble formis
None of the melting paffions warms
Can mingle hearts and hands :
Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are marry'd just like Stoick souls,
With ofiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still filent or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless :
As well may beav'nly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,
The rugged and the keen:
Samson's young foxes might as well
In bands of cheerful wedlock dwell
With firebrands ty'd between.




Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind,
For Love abhors the âght :
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet;
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentleit birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.


To David Polbill, Esq.

An epiftle, December 1902.

Let useless souls to woods retreat;
Polhill should leave a country-seat
When Virtue bids him dare be great.

Nor Kent nor Sussex * should have charms
While Liberty with loud alarms
Calis you to counsels and to arms.

* His country-seat and dwelling.



your sword.

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Lewis, by fawning slaves ador'd,
Bids you receive a baseborn lord *;
Awake your cares, awake

Factions amongst the Britons f rise,
And warring tongues and wild Surmise,
And burning Zeal without her eyes.

A vote decides the blind debate;
Resolv'd “ 'Tis of diviner weight
“To save the steeple than the state."

The bold machine is form’d and join'd
To ftretch the conscience, and to bind
The native freedom of the mind.

18 VII. Your grandfires' shades with jealous eye Frown down to see their offspring lie Careless, and let their country die.

21 VIII. If Trevia || fear to let you stand Against the Gaul with spear in hand, At least petition f for the land.

* The Pretender proclaimed king in France.
+ The parliament.
1 The bill against occasional conformity, 1702.
ll Mrs. Polhill, of the family of the Lord Trevor.

* Mr. Polhill was one of those five zealous gentlemen who presented the famous Kentith petition to the parliament in the reign of King William to haften their supplies, in order to sup. port the King in his war with France.

24 IO

The celebrated victory of the Poles over Osman the Turlisle

Enperour in the Dacian battle.

Translated from Cafimire, b. iv. ode 4. with large additious. GADOR the old, the wealthy, and the strong, Cheersul in years, (nor of the heroick Muse Unknowing nor unknown) held fair possessions Where flows the fruitful Danube: fev’nty springs Smil'd on his feed, and sev'nty harvest moons 5 Fill'd his wide gran'ries with autumnal joy; Still he resum'd the toil, and Fame reports, While he broke up new ground, and tir'd his plough In grassy furrows, the torn earth disclos'd Helmets and fwords (bright furniture of war Sleeping in rust) and heaps of mighty bones. The sun descending to the western deep Bid him lie down and rest; he loos’d the yoke, Yet held his weary'd oxen from their food With charming numbers and uncommon song. 55

Go, fellow-lab'rers, you may rove secure Or feed beside nie; taste the greens and boughs That you have long forgot; crop the sweet herb, And graze in safety, while the vicior Pole Leans on his spear and breathes, yet still his eye 20 Jealous and fierce. How large, old soldier, say, How fair a harvest of the slaughter'd Turks Strew'd the Moldavian fieids? what mighty piles Of valt defruction and of Thracian dead

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