She bred the Marfian who ne'er knew to yield,
And tough Ligurian, fit for either Field:
Triumphant Cottagers, whofe frugal hand
Held both the Spade and Truncheon of command: Decii devoted for the Publick Good,
Compounding for whole Armies with their Blood:
Camillus Saviour of the finking State,
Who refcu'd Rome ev'n from the midft of Fate.
Marii who Roman Eagles bore fo far,
And Scipio's, the two Thunder-bolts of War.
You laft, Great Cafar, whofe green years did more
Than Generals old in Triumphs could before.
You towards th' East your glorious Course do runi,
India forgets now to adore the Sun.
Hail! happy Soil, Learning and Empire's Seat,
Mother of Hero's, Saturn's foft Retreat.
To you I Gracian Arts in Triumph bring,
And your just praise in lafting Numbers fing.
The IX. ODE of the
FOURTH BOOK of HORACE.
Erfes Immortal (as my Bays) I fing,
When fuited to my trembling ftring:
When by ftrange Art both Voice and Lyre agree
To make one pleasant Harmony.
All Poets are by their blind Captain led,
(For none e'er had the facrilegious pride
To tear the well-plac'd Laurel from his aged head.)
Yet Pindar's rolling Dithyrambique Tide,
Hath ftill this praise, that none prefume to fly.
Like him, but flag too low, or foar too high.
Still do's Stefichorus his Tongue
Sing sweeter than the Bird which on it hung.
Anacreon ne'er too old can grow,
Love from every Verse do's flow:
Still Sappho's ftrings do seem to move,
Inftru&ting all her Sex to Love.
IL.
Golpen Rings of flowing Hair,
More than Hellen did infnare;
Others a Prince's Grandeur did admire,
And wondring, melted to defire.
Not only skilful Tencer knew
To direct Arrows from the bending Yeugh,
Troy more than once did fall,
Tho' hireling Gods rebuilt its nodding Wall.
Was Sthenelus the only valiant He,
A Subject fit for lafting Poetry?
Was Hector that prodigious Man alone,
Who, to fave others Lives, expos'd his own!
Was only he fo brave to dare his Fate,
And be the Pillar of a tott'ring State?
No, others buried in Oblivion lye,
As filent as their Grave,
- Because no charitable Poet, gave
`Their well-deserved Immortality.
Virtue with Sloth, and Cowards with the Brave, Are levell'd in the impartial Grave,
If they no Poet have.
But I will lay my Mufick by,
And bid the mournful strings in filence lye;
Unless my Songs begin and end with you,
To whom my Strings, to whom my Songs are due.
No pride does with your rifing honours grow,
You meekly look on fuppliant Crowds below.
Should Fortune change your happy State,
You could admire, yet envy not, the Great.
Your equal Hand holds an unbyass'd Scale,
Where no rich Viêes, guilded Baits, prevail.
You with a gen'rous honefty despise,
What all the meaner World fo dearly prize.
Nor does your Virtue disappear,
With the small, Circle of one fhort-liv'd Year.
Others, like Comets, vifit and away;
Your Luftre (great as theirs) finds no decay,
But with the conftant Sun makes an eternal Day.
IV.
We barbarously call those bleft,
Who are of largeft Tenements poffeft,
Whilft fwelling Coffers break their Owner's reft.
More truly happy those! who can
Govern the little Empire, Man:
Bridle their Paffions, and direct their Will
Through all the glitt'ring paths of charming ill.
Who spend their Treasure freely, as 'twas giv'n
By the large bounty of indulgent Heav'n.
Who in a fixt unalterable ftate,
Smile at the doubtful Tide of Fate,
And fcorn a-like her Friendship and her Hate.
Who Poifon less than Falfhood fear,
Loth to purchase Life so dear;
But kindly for their Friend embrace cold Death, And feal their Countries Love with their departing
HOR. ODE IS. Lib. 2. Imitated.
Fam pauca aratro jugera.
In fui feculi luxuriam.
By Mr. CHETWOOD.
HEN this unweildy Factious Town To fuch prodigious Bulk is grown, It on whole Counties ftands, and now Land will be wanting for the Plow,
Those remnants too the Boors forfake,
Frith muft the Nation undertake.
As in a Plague the Fields fhall defart lye,
Whilft all men to the mighty Pesthouse fly.
If any Tree is to be seen,
'Tis Myrtle, Bays, and Ever-Green.
Lime-trees, and Plane, for pleasure made,
Which for their Fruit bear only Shade.
Such as do Female Men content,
With useless fhew and barren scent.
The British Oak will fhortly be as rare,
As Orange-Trees here once, or Cedar were.
Not by thefe Arts, my Mafters, fure Your Fathers did thofe Lands procure. They preferr'd Ufe to empty Shew, No foftning French refinements knew.
Themselves, their Houfe, their Table, plain, Noble, and richly clad their Train. Temp'rance did Health without Physicians keep, And Labour crown'd hard Beds with eafie Aleep. IV.
To th' Publick rich, in private poor,
Th' Exchequer held their greateft ftore.
They did adorn their Native Place
With Structures, which their Heirs deface.
They in large Palaces did dwell,
Which we to Undertakers fell.
Stately Cathedrals they did found,
Whofe Ruins now deform the Ground,
Churches and Colleges endow'd with Lands,
Whofe poor Remains fear Sacrilegious Hands,
N Storms when Clouds the Moon do hide,
And no kind Stars the Pilot guide,
Shew me at Sea the boldest there,
Who does not wish for quiet here.
For quiet (Friend) the Souldier fights,
Bears weary Marches, fleepless Nights,
For this feeds hard, and lodges cold,
Which can't be bought with hills of Gold.
Since Wealth and Power too weak we find
To quell the Tumults of the Mind;
Or from the Monarch's Roofs of State
Drive thence the Cares that round him wait
Happy the man with little bleft
Of what his Father left poffeft;
No bafe defires corrupt his Head,
No fears difturb him in his Bed..
What then in life, which foon must end,
Can all our vain designs intend?
From fhoar to fhoar why should we run,
When none his tirefome felf can fhun?
For baneful Care will ftill prevail,
And overtake us under fail;
'Twill dodge the Great Man's Train behind,
Out-run the Roe, out-fly the Wind.
If then thy Soul rejoice to day,
Drive far to-morrows cares away.
In laughter let them all be drown'd,
No perfect good is to be found :
One Mortal feels Fate's fudden blow,
Another's lingring Death comes flow;
|