Part 100 (2/2)

Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges, Dread from his hand impending changes; From him the Tartar and the Chinese, Short by the knees, entreat for peace.

The comfort of his throne and bed, A perfect G.o.ddess born and bred; Appointed sovereign judge to sit On learning, eloquence and wit.

Our eldest hope, divine Iulus, (Late, very late, oh, may he rule us!) What early manhood has he shown, Before his downy beard was grown!

Then think what wonders will be done, By going on as he begun, An heir for Britain to secure As long as sun and moon endure.

The remnant of the royal blood Comes pouring on me like a flood: Bright G.o.ddesses, in number five; Duke William, sweetest prince alive!

Now sings the minister of state, Who s.h.i.+nes alone without a mate.

Observe with what majestic port This Atlas stands to prop the court, Intent the public debts to pay, Like prudent Fabius, by delay.

Thou great vicegerent of the king, Thy praises every Muse shall sing!

In all affairs thou sole director, Of wit and learning chief protector; Though small the time thou hast to spare, The church is thy peculiar care.

Of pious prelates what a stock You choose, to rule the sable flock!

You raise the honour of your peerage, Proud to attend you at the steerage; You dignify the n.o.ble race, Content yourself with humbler place.

Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, To t.i.tles give the sole pretence.

St George beheld thee with delight Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, When on thy b.r.e.a.s.t.s and sides herculean He fixed the star and string cerulean.

Say, poet, in what other nation, Shone ever such a constellation!

Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, And tune your harps, and strew your bays: Your panegyrics here provide; You cannot err on flattery's side.

Above the stars exalt your style, You still are low ten thousand mile.

On Louis all his bards bestowed Of incense many a thousand load; But Europe mortified his pride, And swore the fawning rascals lied.

Yet what the world refused to Louis, Applied to George, exactly true is.

Exactly true! invidious poet!

'Tis fifty thousand times below it.

Translate me now some lines, if you can, From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan.

They could all power in heaven divide, And do no wrong on either side; They teach you how to split a hair, Give George and Jove an equal share.

Yet why should we be laced so strait?

I'll give my monarch b.u.t.ter weight; And reason good, for many a year Jove never intermeddled here: Nor, though his priests be duly paid, Did ever we desire his aid: We now can better do without him, Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him.

ON THE DEATH OF DR SWIFT.

Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucault, 'Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas;'--'In the adversity of our best friends, we always find something that doth not displease us.'

As Rochefoucault his maxims drew From nature, I believe them true:

They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast: 'In all distresses of our friends, We first consult our private ends; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circ.u.mstance to please us.'

If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes Our equals raised above our size.

Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low?

I love my friend as well as you: But why should he obstruct my view?

Then let me have the higher post; Suppose it but an inch at most.

If in a battle you should find One, whom you love of all mankind, Had some heroic action done, A champion killed, or trophy won; Rather than thus be over-topped, Would you not wish his laurels cropped?

Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Lies racked with pain, and you without: How patiently you hear him groan!

How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see His brother write as well as he?

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