Part 35 (1/2)
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 nought 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 receiv'd, so welcome, so at home, (Blest change of fate,) in Bourbon's stately dome; The monarch pleas'd, 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 s.h.i.+nes, which oft had touch'd him near, Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear; Now first with joy beheld, well plac'd 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 sh.o.r.e to distant Britain grows, For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows: From conflicts pa.s.s'd each other's worth we find, And thence in stricter friends.h.i.+p now are join'd; Each wound receiv'd, now pleads the cause of love, And former injuries endearments prove.
What Briton but must prize th' ill.u.s.trious 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 rais'd the foes, completes the friends.
A thousand happy consequences flow (The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow); Commerce shall lift her swelling sails, and roll Her wealthy fleets secure from pole to pole; The British merchant, who with care and pain For many moons sees only skies and main; When now in view of his loved native sh.o.r.e, The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er, Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find, Nor curse the mercy of the sea and wind; By hardest fate condemn'd to serve a foe, And give him strength to strike a deeper blow.
Sweet Philomela providently flies To distant woods and streams, for such supplies, To feed her young, and make them try the wing, And with their tender notes attempt to sing: Meanwhile, the fowler spreads his secret snare, And renders vain the tuneful mother's care.
Britannia's bold adventurer of late The foaming ocean plow'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 s.h.i.+ne 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 retir'd 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 s.h.i.+ne 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: Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell, Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell; Then deep into eternity retire, Of greater things than peace or war inquire; Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know What farther pa.s.ses in the world below.
The bravest of mankind shall now have leave To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave: On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet Sad melancholy numbers in each street (Owners of bones dispers'd on Flandria's plain, Or wasting in the bottom of the main); To turn us back from joy, in tender fear, Lest it an insult of their woes appear, And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their blood Perhaps preserv'd, who starve, or beg for food.
Devotion shall run pure, and disengage From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage.
On heaven without a sin we now may call, And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall; Be Christians while we pray, nor in one breath Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death.
But O! I view with transport arts restor'd, Which double use to Britain shall afford; Secure her glory purchas'd in the field, And yet for future peace sweet motives yield: While we contemplate on the painted wall, The pressing Briton, and the flying Gaul, In such bright images, such living grace, As leave great Raphael but the second place; Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise, And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes; Much we shall triumph in our battles past, And yet consent those battles prove our last; Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive, We lose the means to keep that fame alive.
In silent groves the birds delight to sing, Or near the margin of a secret spring: Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve, Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.
But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string, Or breathing canva.s.s, when the muses sing?
The muse, my lord, your care above the rest, With rising joy dilates my partial breast; The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar, Ere Greece her G.o.dlike poets taught to soar; Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead, And all her warlike neighbours round her bled; For Ja.n.u.s shut, her Io Paeans rung, Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung.
A thousand various forms the muse may wear, (A thousand various forms become the fair;) But s.h.i.+nes in none with more majestic mien, Than when in state she draws the purple scene; Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage, And mourning beauty melt the crowded stage; Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use The n.o.blest virtues time did e'er produce; Leaves fam'd historians' boasted art behind; They keep the soul alone, and that's confin'd, Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks The hero's presence deep impression makes; The scenes his soul and body reunite, Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight; Make our contemporary him that stood High in renown, perhaps before the flood; Make Nestor to this age advice afford, And Hector for our service draw his sword.
More glory to an author what can bring, Whence n.o.bler service to his country spring, Than from those labours, which, in man's despight, Possess him with a pa.s.sion for the right?
With honest magic make the knave inclin'd To pay devotion to the virtuous mind; Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove, And with her wants and anguish fall in love?
Who hears the G.o.dlike Montezuma groan, And does not wish the glorious pain his own?
Lend but your understanding, and their skill Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will: Nor is the short-liv'd conquest quickly past; Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast.
How often have I seen the generous bowl With pleasing force unlock a secret soul, And steal a truth, which every sober hour (The prose of life) had kept within her power!
The grape victorious often has prevail'd, When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, fail'd: Yet when the spirit's tumult was allay'd, She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd; But mourn'd too late, no longer could deny, And on her own confession charge the lie.
Thus they, whom neither the prevailing love Of goodness here, or mercy from above, Or fear of future pains, or human laws Could render advocates in virtue's cause, Caught by the scene, have unawares resign'd Their wonted disposition of the mind: By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale, As circling gla.s.ses on our senses steal; Till thoroughly by the muses' banquet warm'd, The pa.s.sions tossing, all the soul alarm'd, They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage, Rise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage, a.s.sistance to wrong'd innocence to bring, Or turn the poniard on some tyrant king.
How can they cool to villains? how subside To dregs of vice, from such a G.o.dlike pride?
To spoiling orphans how to day return, Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn?
In this gay school of virtue, whom so fit To govern, and control the world of wit, As Talbot, Lansdowne's friend, has Britain known?
Him polish'd Italy has call'd her own; He in the lap of elegance was bred, And trac'd the muses to their fountain head: But much we hope, he will enjoy at home What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome.
Nor fear I mention of the court of France, When I the British genius would advance; There too has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste; Yet still we dare invite him to our feast: For Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress Of Oroonoko, and presume him less: What though we wrong him? Isabella's woe Waters those bays that shall for ever grow.
Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse, The drama glories in the British muse.
The French are delicate, and nicely lead Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread; Our genius more affects the grand, than fine, Our strength can make the great plain action s.h.i.+ne: They raise a great curiosity indeed, From his dark maze to see the hero freed; We rouse th' affections, and that hero show Gasping beneath some formidable blow: They sigh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care We heighten into terror and despair; Strike home, the strongest pa.s.sions boldly touch, Nor fear our audience should be pleas'd too much.
What's great in nature we can greatly draw, Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law.
The fate of Caesar is a tale too plain The fickle Gallic taste to entertain; Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove The golden arras with gay flowers of love: We know heaven made him a far greater man Than any Caesar, in a human plan, And such we draw him, nor are too refin'd, To stand affected with what heaven design'd.
To claim attention, and the heart invade, Shakespeare but wrote the play th' Almighty made.
Our neighbour's stage-art too bare-fac'd betrays, 'Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise; On nature's surer aid Britannia calls, None think of Shakespeare till the curtain falls; Then with a sigh returns our audience home, From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome.
France yields not to the glory of our lines, But manly conduct of our strong designs; That oft they think more justly we must own, Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown: Greece thought but justly, they think justly too; We sometimes err by striving more to do.
So well are Racine's meanest persons taught, But change a sentiment, you make a fault; Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame: When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame.
And yet in Shakespeare something still I find, That makes me less esteem all human kind; He made one nature, and another found, Both in his page with master strokes abound: His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle.