The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 34

Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne!

Nor let thy country think thee all her own.

Of thy delay how oft did we complain!

Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main.

With prayer we smooth the billows for thy fleet; With ardent wishes fill thy swelling sheet; And when thy foot took place on Albion's sh.o.r.e, We bending bless'd the G.o.ds, and ask'd no more.

What hand but thine should conquer and compose, Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes?

Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim, And by his rival's greatness give him fame?

Now in some foreign court he may sit down, And quit without a blush the British crown.

Secure his honour, though he lose his store, And take a lucky moment to be poor.

Nor think, great sir, now first, at this late hour, In Britain's favour, you exert your power; To us, far back in time, I joy to trace The numerous tokens of your princely grace.

Whether you chose to thunder on the Rhine, Inspire grave councils, or in courts to s.h.i.+ne; In the more scenes your genius was display'd, The greater debt was on Britannia laid: They all conspir'd this mighty man to raise, And your new subjects proudly share the praise.

All share; but may not we have leave to boast That we contemplate, and enjoy it most?

This ancient nurse of arts, indulged by fate On gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat; For many roiling ages justly fam'd, Has through the world her loyalty proclaim'd; And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!) Her blood and treasure to support the throne!

For England's church her latest accents strain'd; And freedom with his dying hand retain'd.

No wonder then her various ranks agree In all the fervencies of zeal for thee.

What though thy birth a distant kingdom boast, And seas divide thee from the British coast?

The crown's impatient to enclose thy head: Why stay thy feet? the cloth of gold is spread.

Our strict obedience through the world shall tell That king's a Briton, who can govern well!

THE INSTALMENT.

To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Walpole, Knight of the Most n.o.ble Order of the Garter.

Quaesitam meritis.

-HOR.

With invocations some their b.r.e.a.s.t.s inflame; I need no muse, a Walpole is my theme.

Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise!

Our morning stars! our boast in former days!

Which hovering o'er, your purple wings display, Lur'd by the pomp of this distinguish'd day, Stoop, and attend: by one, the knee be bound; One, throw the mantle's crimson folds around; By that, the sword on his proud thigh be plac'd; This, clasp the diamond girdle round his waist; His breast, with rays, let just G.o.dolphin spread; Wise Burleigh plant the plumage on his head; And Edward own, since first he fix'd the race, None press'd fair glory with a swifter pace.

When fate would call some mighty genius forth To wake a drooping age to G.o.dlike worth, Or aid some favourite king's ill.u.s.trious toil, It bids his blood with generous ardour boil; His blood, from virtue's celebrated source, Pour'd down the steep of time, a lengthen'd course; That men prepar'd may just attention pay, Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day, When all the scatter'd merits of his line Collected to a point, intensely s.h.i.+ne.

See, Britain, see thy Walpole s.h.i.+ne from far, His azure ribbon, and his radiant star; A star that, with auspicious beams, shall guide Thy vessel safe, through fortune's roughest tide.

If peace still smiles, by this shall commerce steer A finish'd course, in triumph round the sphere; And, gathering tribute from each distant sh.o.r.e, In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour.

If war's ordain'd, this star shall dart its beams Through that black cloud which, rising from the Thames, With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is sent To claim the seas, and awe the continent.

This shall direct it where the bolt to throw, A star for us, a comet to the foe.

At this the muse shall kindle, and aspire: My breast, O Walpole, glows with grateful fire.

The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee, Refresh the dry domains of poesy.

My fortune shows, when arts are Walpole's care, What slender worth forbids us to despair: Be this thy partial smile from censure free; 'Twas meant for merit, though it fell on me.

Since Brunswick's smile has authoris'd my muse, Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views.

False praises are the wh.o.r.edoms of the pen, Which prost.i.tute fair fame to worthless men: This profanation of celestial fire Makes fools despise, what wise men should admire.

Let those I praise to distant times be known, Not by their author's merit, but their own.

If others think the task is hard, to weed From verse rank flattery's vivacious seed, And rooted deep; one means must set them free, Patron! and patriot! let them sing of thee.

While vulgar trees ign.o.bler honours wear, Nor those retain, when winter chills the year; The generous orange, favourite of the sun, With vigorous charms can through the seasons run; Defies the storm with her tenacious green; And flowers and fruits in rival pomp are seen: Where blossoms fall, still fairer blossoms spring; And midst their sweets the feather'd poets sing.

On Walpole, thus, may pleas'd Britannia view At once her ornament and profit too; The fruit of service, and the bloom of fame, Matur'd and gilded by the royal beam.

He, when the nipping blasts of envy rise Its guilt can pity, and its rage despise; Lets fall no honours, but, securely great, Unfaded holds the colour of his fate: No winter knows, though ruffling factions press; By wisdom deeply rooted in success; One glory shed, a brighter is display'd;(61) And the charm'd muses shelter in his shade.

O how I long, enkindled by the theme, In deep eternity to launch thy name!

Thy name in view, no rights of verse I plead, But what chaste truth indites, old time shall read.

"Behold! a man of ancient faith and blood, Which, soon, beat high for arts, and public good; Whose glory great, but natural appears, The genuine growth of services and years; No sudden exhalation drawn on high, And fondly gilt by partial majesty: One bearing greatest toils with greatest ease, One born to serve us, and yet born to please: Whom, while our rights in equal scales he lays, The prince may trust, and yet the people praise; His genius ardent, yet his judgment clear, His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere, His counsel guides, his temper cheers our isle, And, smiling, gives three kingdoms cause to smile."

Joy then to Britain, blest with such a son, To Walpole joy, by whom the prize is won; Who n.o.bly conscious meets the smiles of fate; True greatness lies in daring to be great.

Let dastard souls, or affectation, run To shades, nor wear bright honours fairly won; Such men prefer, misled by false applause, The pride of modesty to virtue's cause.

Honours, which make the face of virtue fair, 'Tis great to merit, and 'tis wise to wear; 'Tis holding up the prize to public view, Confirms grown virtue, and inflames the new; Heightens the l.u.s.tre of our age and clime, And sheds rich seeds of worth for future time.

Proud chiefs alone, in fields of slaughter fam'd, Of old, this azure bloom of glory claim'd, As when stern Ajax pour'd a purple flood, The violet rose, fair daughter of his blood.

Now rival wisdom dares the wreath divide, And both Minervas rise in equal pride; Proclaiming loud, a monarch fills the throne, Who s.h.i.+nes ill.u.s.trious not in wars alone.

Let fame look lovely in Britannia's eyes; They coldly court desert, who fame despise.

For what's ambition, but fair virtue's sail?

And what applause, but her propitious gale?

When swell'd with that, she fleets before the wind To glorious aims, as to the port design'd; When chain'd, without it, to the labouring oar, She toils! she pants! nor gains the flying sh.o.r.e, From her sublime pursuits, or turn'd aside By blasts of envy, or by fortune's tide: For one that has succeeded ten are lost, Of equal talents, ere they make the coast.

Then let renown to worth divine incite, With all her beams, but throw those beams aright.

Then merit droops, and genius downward tends, When G.o.dlike glory, like our land, descends.

Custom the garter long confin'd to few, And gave to birth, exalted virtue's due: Walpole has thrown the proud enclosure down; And high desert embraces fair renown.

Though rival'd, let the peerage smiling see (Smiling, in justice to their own degree) This proud reward by majesty bestow'd On worth like that whence first the peerage flow'd.

From frowns of fate Britannia's bliss'd to guard, Let subjects merit, and let kings reward.

G.o.ds are most G.o.ds by giving to excel, And kings most like them, by rewarding well.

Though strong the tw.a.n.ging nerve, and drawn aright, Short is the winged arrow's upward flight; But if an eagle it transfix on high, Lodg'd in the wound, it soars into the sky.

Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays, And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise; Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame, Not lifted by my genius, but my theme.

No more: for in this dread suspense of fate, Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate Weigh peace and war, now Europe's eyes are bent On mighty Brunswick, for the great event, Brunswick of kings the terror or defence!

Who dares detain thee at a world's expense?

AND EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

1712.

Parna.s.sia laurus Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra.

-VIRG.

When Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone, And great Augustus rul'd the globe alone, While suppliant kings in all their pomp and state Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace gate; Horace did oft the mighty man detain, And sooth'd his breast with no ign.o.ble strain; Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string; And taught the Roman genius how to sing.

Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue, Who know no want of Caesar, finding you; The muse's friend is pleas'd the muse should press Through circling crowds, and labor for access, That partial to his darling he may prove, And s.h.i.+ning throngs for her reproach remove, To all the world industrious to proclaim His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame.

Long has the western world reclin'd her head, Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead; Fell discord through her borders fiercely rang'd, And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang'd; By land and sea, its utmost rage employ'd; Nor heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd.

In vain kind summers plentuous fields bestow'd, In vain the vintage liberally flow'd; Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chas'd, And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste; The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring, The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring; Time was distinguish'd by the sword and spear, Not by the various aspects of the year; The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky, And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh.

But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen, When such as you are near her glorious queen!) Now peace, though long repuls'd, arrives at last, And bids us smile on all our labours past; Bids every nation cease her wonted moan, And every monarch call his crown his own: To valour gentler virtues now succeed; No longer is the great man born to bleed; Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle shall tell, Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell: Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame, And without trembling we resound his name.

No more the rising harvest whets the sword, No longer waves uncertain of its lord; Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim, Nor chance of battle change the master's name.

Each stream unstain'd with blood more smoothly flows; The brighter sun a fuller day bestows; All nature seems to wear a cheerful face, And thank great Anna for returning peace.

The patient thus, when on his bed of pain, No longer he invokes the G.o.ds in vain, But rises to new life; in every field He finds Elysium, rivers nectar yield; Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please, And borrow beauties from his late disease.