AND must the hero, that redeem'd our land,
Here in the front of vice and scandal stand-
The man of wondrous soul, that scorn'd his ease,
Tempting the winters, and the faithless seas,
And paid an annual tribute of his life
To guard his England from the Irish knife,
And crush the French dragoon? Must William's name,
That brightest star that gilds the wings of Fame,
William the brave, the pious, and the just,
Adorn these gloomy scenes of tyranny and lust?
Polhill, my blood boils high, my spirits flame!
Can your zeal sleep? Or are your passions tame?
Nor call revenge and darkness on the poet's name?
Why smoke the skies not? Why no thunders roll?
Nor kindling lightnings blast his guilty soul?
Audacious wretch! to stab a monarch's fame,
And fire his subjec:s with a rebel flame;
To call the painter to his black designs,
To draw our guardian's face in hellish lines:
Painter, beware! the monarch can be shown
Under no shape but angels, or his own,
Gabriel, or William, on the British throne.
O! could my thoughts but grasp the vast design,
And words with infinite ideas join,
I'd rouse Apelles from his iron sleep,
And bid him trace the warrior o'er the deep.
Trace him, Apelles ! o'er the Belgian plain
Fierce: how he climbs the mountains of the slain,
Scattering just vengeance thro' the red campaign!
Then dash the canvass with a flying stroke,
Till it be lost in clouds of fire and smoke,
And say, 'twas thus the conqueror through the squadron
Mark him again emerging from the cloud,
Far from his troops: there, like a rock, he stood
His country's single barrier in a sea of blood.
Calmly he leaves the pleasures of a throne,
And his Maria weeping; whilst alone
He wards the fate of nations and provokes his own:
But heav'n secures its champion: o'er the field
Paint hov'ring angels; though they fly conceal'd,
Each intercepts a death, and wears it on his shield.
Now, noble pencil, lead him to our isle,
Mark how the skies with joyful lustre smile,
Then imitate the glory on the strand;
Spread half the nation, longing till he land.
Wash off the blood, and take a peaceful teint,
All red the warrior, white the ruler paint:
Abroad a hero, and at home a saint.
Throne him on high upon a shining seat,
Lust and profaneness dying at his feet,
While round his head the laurel and the olive meet,
The crowns of war and peace: and may they blow,
With flow'ry blessings ever on his brow.
At his right hand pile up the English laws
In sacred volumes: thence the monarch draws
His wise and just commands
Rise, ye old sages of the British isle,
On the fair tablet cast a reverend smile,
And bless the piece; these statutes are your own,
That sway the cottage, and direct the throne:
People and prince are one in William's name,
Their joys, their dangers, and their laws the same.
Let liberty and right, with plumes display'd,
Clap their glad wings around their guardian's head,
Religion o'er the rest her starry pinions spread.
Religion guards him; round th' imperial queen
Place waiting virtues, each of heav'nly mien :
Learn their bright air, and paint it from his eyes;
The just, the bold, the temperate, and the wise
Dwell in his looks; majestic, but serene;
Sweet, with no fondness; cheerful, but not vain:
Bright, without terror; great, without disdain.
His soul inspires us what his lips command,
And spreads his brave example through the land:
Bend down his ear to each afflicted cry,
Let beams of grace dart gently from his eye;
But the bright treasures of his sacred breast
Are too divine, too vast to be express'd:
Colours must fail where words and numbers faint,
And leave the hero's heart for thought alone to paint.
TO THE DISCONTENTED AND UNQUIET.
Imitated partly from Casimire, B. iv. Od. 15.
VARIA, there's nothing here that's free
From wearisome anxiety:
And the whole round of mortal joys
With short possession tires and cloys:
"Tis a dull circle that we tread,
Just from the window to the bed,
We rise to see, and to be seen,
Gaze on the world awhile, and then
We yawn, and stretch to sleep again.
But Fancy, that uneasy guest,
Stills holds a longing in our breast:
She finds or frames vexation still,
Herself the greatest plague we feel.
We take great pleasure in our pain,
And make a mountain of a grain,
Assume the load, and pant and sweat
Beneath th' imaginary weight.
With our dear selves we live at strife,
While the most constant scenes of life
From peevish humours are not free;
Still we affect variety:
Rather than pass an easy day,
We fret and chide the hours away,
Grow weary of this circling sun,
And vex that he should ever run
The same old track; and still, and still
Rise red behind yon eastern hill,
And chide the moon that darts her light
Through the same casement every night.
We shift our chambers, and our homes,
To dwell where trouble never comes:
Sylvia has left the city crowd,
Against the court exclaims aloud,
Flies to the woods; a hermit saint!
She loathes her patches, pins, and paint,
Dear diamonds from her neck are torn;
But humour, that eternal thorn,
Sticks in her heart: She's hurried still,
'Twixt her wild passions and her will:
Haunted and hagg'd where'er she roves,
By purling streams and silent groves,
Or with her furies, or her loves.
Then our native land we hate, Too cold, too windy, or too wet;
Change the thick climate, and repair
To France or Italy for air;
In vain we change, in vain we fly;
Go, Sylvia, mount the whirling sky,
Or ride upon the feather'd wind
In vain if this diseased mind
Clings fast, and still sits close behind.
Faithful disease, that never fails
Attendance at her lady's side,
Over the desert or the tide,
On rolling wheels, or flying sails.
Happy the soul that virtue shows
To fix the place of her repose,
Needless to move; for she can dwell
In her old grandsire's hall as well.
Virtue that never loves to roam,
But sweetly hides herself at home.
And easy on a naitve throne
Of humble turf sits gently down.
Yet should tumultuous storms arise,
And mingle earth, and seas, and skies,
Should the waves swell, and make her roll
Across the line, or near the pole,
Still she's at peace; for well she knows
To launch the stream that duty shows
And makes her home where'er she goes.
Bear her, ye seas, upon your breast,
Or waft her, winds, from east to west
On the soft air; she cannot find
A couch so easy as her mind,
Nor breathe a climate half so kind,
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