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Of those whom bigots chase from foreign lands,
Not built on rapine, servitude, and woe,
And in their turn some petty tyrants prey;
But, bound by social freedom, firm they rise;
Such as, of late, an Oglethorpe has form'd,
And, crowding round, the charm'd Savannah sees.
"Horrid with want and misery, no more
Our streets the tender passenger afflict.
Nor shivering age, nor sickness without friend,
Or home, or bed to bear bis burning load,
Nor agonizing infant, that ne'er earn'd
Its guiltless pangs, I see! The stores, profuse,
Which British bounty has to these assign'd,
No more the sacrilegious riot swell
Of cannibal devourers! Right apply'd,
No starving wretch the land of freedom stains:
If poor, employment finds; if old, demands,
If, sick, if maim'd, his miserable due;
And will, if young, repay the fondest care.
Sweet sets the sun of stormy life, and sweet,
The morning shines, in mercy's dews array d.
Lo! how they rise! these families of Heaven!
That! chief, (but why-ye bigots!-why so late?)
Where blooms and warbles glad a rising age:
What smiles of praise! and, while their song ascends,
The listening seraph lays his lute aside.
"Hark! the gay Muses raise a nobler strain,
With active nature, warm impassion'd truth,
Engaging table, lucid order, notes
Of various string, and heart-felt image fill'd. 670
Behold! I see the dread delightful school
Of temper'd passions, and of polish'd life,
Restor'd: behold! the well-dissembled scene
Calls from embellish'd eyes the lovely tear,
Or lights up mirth in modest cheeks again.
Lo! vanish'd monster-land. Lo! driven away
Those that Apollo's sacred walls profane :
Their wild creation scatter'd, where a world
Unknown to Nature, chaos more confus'd,
O'er the brute scene its ouran-outangs pours; 680
Detested forms! that, on the mind imprest,
Corrupt, confound, and barbarize an age.
"Behold! all thine again the sister-arts, Thy graces they, knit in harmonious dance. Nurs'd by the treasure from a nation drain'd Their works to purchase, they to nobler rouse Their untam'd genius, their unfetter'd thought; Of pompous tyrants, and of dreaming monks, The gaudy tools, and prisoners, no more.
Lo! numerous domes a Burlington confess : For kings and senates fit, the palace see! The temple breathing a religious awe; Ev'n fram'd with elegance the plain retreat, The private dwelling. Certain in his aim, Taste, never idly working, saves expence.
See! Sylvan scenes, where Art, alone, pretends To dress her mistress, and disclose her charms: Such as a Pope in miniature has own; A Bathurst o'er the widening forest spreads; And such as form a Richmond, Chiswick, Stowe. "August, around, what public works I see! Lo! stately streets, lo! squares that court the breeze, 692
In spite of those to whom pertains the care,
Ingulfing more than founded Roman ways,
Lo! ray'd from cities o'er the brighten'd land,
Connecting sea to sea, the solid road.
Lo! the proud arch (no vile exactor's stand)
With easy sweep bestrides the chafing flood.
See! long canals, and deepen'd rivers join
Each part with each, and with the circling main
The whole enliven'd isle. Lo! ports expand, 71F
Free as the winds and waves, their sheltering arus.
Lo! streaming comfort o'er the troubled deep,
On every pointed coast the light-house towers;
And, by the broad imperious mole repell'd,
Hark! how the baffled storm indignant roars."
As thick to view these varied wonders rose,
Shook all my soul with transport, unassur'd,
The vision broke; and, on my waking eye,
Ru'd the still ruins of dejected Rome.
Ver. 69. Tin.
Ver. 285. Lord Molesworth, in his account of Denmark, says,-"It is observed, that in limited monarchies and commonwealths, a neighbourhood to the scat of the government is advantageous to the subjects; while the distant provinces are less thriving, and more liable to oppression."
Ver. 409. The famous retreat of the Ten Thousand was chiefly conducted by Xenophon.
Ver. 414. Epaminondas, after having beat the Lacedemonians and their allies, in the battle of Leuctra, made an incursion at the head of a powerful army, into Laconia. It was now six hundred years since the Dorians had possessed this country, and in all that time the face of an enemy had not been seen within their territories. Plutarch in
Could trace the secret hand of Providence,
Wide-working through this universal frame.
Have ye not listen'd while he bound the suns,
And planets, to their spheres! th' unequal task
Of human-kind till then. Oft had they roll'd
O'er erring man the year, and oft disgrac'd
The pride of schools, before their course was known
Full in its causes and effects to him,
All-piercing sage! Who sat not down and dream'd
Romantic schemes, defended by the din
Of specious words, and tyranny of names;
But, bidding his amazing mind attend,
And with heroic patience years on years
Deep-searching, saw at last the system dawn,
And shine, of all his race, on him alone.
What were his raptures then! how pure! how
And what the triumphs of old Greece and Rome,
By his diminish'd, but the pride of boys
In some small fray victorious! when instead
Of shatter'd parcels of this Earth usurp'd
By violence unmanly, and sore deeds
Of cruelty and blood, Nature herself
Stood all subdued by him, and open laid
Her every latent glory to his view.
All intellectual eye, our solar round
First gazing through, he by the blended power
Of gravitation and projection saw
The whole in silent harmony revolve.
From unassisted vision hid, the moons
To cheer remoter planets numerous form'd,
By him in all their mingled tracts were seen.
He also fix'd our wandering queen of Night,
Whether she wanes into a scanty orb,
Or, waxing broad, with her pale shadowy light,
In a soft deluge overflows the sky.
Her every motion clear-discerning, he
Adjusted to the mutual main, and taught
Why now the mighty mass of water swells
Resistless, heaving on the broken rocks,
And the full river turning: till again
The tide revertive, unattracted, leaves
A yellow waste of idle sands behind.
Then breaking hence, he took his ardent flight Through the blue infinite; and every star, Which the clear concave of a winter's night Pours on the eye, or astronomic tube, Far stretching, snatches from the dark abyss ; Or such as farther in successive skies To fancy shine alone, at his approach Blaz'd into suns, the living centre each Of an harmonious system: all combin'd, And rul'd unerring by that single power, Which draws the stone projected to the ground. O, unprofuse magnificence divine! O, wisdom truly perfect! thus to call From a few causes such a scheme of things, Effects so various, beautiful, and great, An universe complete! And, O belov'd Of Heaven! whose well purg'd penetrative eye, The mystic veil transpiercing, inly scann'd The rising, moving, wide-establish'd frame.
He, first of men, with awful wing pursued The comet through the long elliptic curve, As round innumerous worlds he wound his way; Till to the forehead of our evening sky Return'd, the blazing wonder glares anew, And o'er the trembling nations shakes dismay, The Heavens are all his own; from the wild rule Of whirling vortices, and circling spheres,
To their first great simplicity restor❜d.
The schools astonish'd stood; but found it vain
To combat still with demonstration strong,
And, unawaken'd dream beneath the blaze
Of truth. At once their pleasing visions fled,
With the gay shadows of the morning mix'd,
When Newton rose, our philosophic Sun.
Th' aerial flow of sound was known to him, From whence it first in wavy circles breaks, Till the touch'd organ takes the message in. Nor could the darting beam of speed immense, Escape his swift pursuit, and measuring eye. Ev'n light itself, which every thing displays, Shone undiscover'd, till his brighter mind Untwisted all the shining robe of day;
And, from the whitening undistinguish'd blaze,
Collecting every ray into his kind,
To the charm'd eye educ'd the gorgeous train
Of parent-colours. First the flaming red
Sprung vivid forth; the tawny orange next;
And next delicious yellow; by whose side
Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing green.
Then the pure blue, that swells autumnal skies,
Ethereal play'd; and then, of sadder hue,
Emerg'd the deepen'd indigo, as when
The heavy-skirted evening droops with frost.
While the last gleamings of refracted light
Dy'd in the fainting violet away.
These, when the clouds distil the rosy shower,
Shine out distinct adown the watery bow;
While o'er our heads the dewy vision bends
Delightful, melting on the fields beneath.
Myriads of mingling dyes from these result,
And myriads still remain; infinite source
Of beauty, ever-blushing, ever-new!
Did ever poet image aught so fair,
Dreaming in whispering groves, by the hoarse brook!
Or prophet, to whose rapture Heaven descends!
Ev'n now the setting Sun and shifting clouds,
Seen, Greenwich, from thy lovely heights, declare
How just, how beauteous, the refractive lart.
The noiseless tide of time, all beating down
To vast eternity's unbounded sea,
Where the green islands of the happy shine,
He stemm'd alone; and to the source (involv'd'
Deep in primeval gloom) ascending, rais'd
His lights at equal distances, to guide
Historian, wilder'd on his darksome way.
But who can number up his labours? who
His high discoveries sing? when but a few
Of the deep-studying race can stretch their minds
To what he knew: in fancy's lighter thought,
How shall the Muse then grasp the mighty theme?
What wonder thence that his devotion swell'd
Responsive to his knowledge! For could he,
Whose piercing mental eye diffusive saw
The finish'd university of things,
In all its order, magnitude, and parts,
Forbear incessant to adore that Fower
Who fills, sustains, and actuates the whole?
Say, ye who best can tell, ye happy few, Who saw him in the softest lights of life, All unwithheld, indulging to his friends The vast unborrow'd treasures of his mind,
Oh, speak the wondrous man! how mild, how calm
How greatly bumble, how divinely good;
How firm establish'd on eternal truth;
Fervent in doing well, with every nerve
Still pressing on, forgetful of the past,
An 1 panting for perfection: far above
Those little cares, and visionary joys,
That so perplex the fond impassion'd heart
Of ever-cheated, ever-trusting man.
And you, ye hopeless gloomy-minded tribe,
You who unconscious of those nobler flights
That reach impatient at immortal life,
Against the prime endearing privilege
Of being dare contend, say, can a soul
Of such extensive, deep, tremendous powers,
Enlarging still, be but a finer breath
Of spirits dancing through their tubes awhile,
And then for ever lost in vacant air?
But, hark! methinks I hear a warning voice, Solemn as when some awful change is come, Sound through the world-'Tis done-The measure's full;
And I resign my charge.-Ye mouldering stones,
That build the towering pyramid, the proud
Triumphal arch, the nonument effac'd
By ruthless ruin, and whate'er supports
The worship name of hoar antiquity,
Down to the dust! what grandeur can ye boast
While Newton lifts his column to the skies,
Beyond the waste of time. Let no weak drop
Be shed for him. The virgin in her bloom
Cut off, the joyous youth, and darling child,
These are the tombs that claim the tender tear,
And elegiac song. But Newton calls
For other notes of gratulation high,
That now he wanders through those endless worlds
He here so well descried, and wondering talks,
And hymns their Author with his glad compeers.
O, Britain's boast! whether with angels thou
Sittest in dread discourse, or fellow-blest,
Who joy to see the honour of their kind;
Or whether mounted on cherubic wing,
Thy swift career is with the whirling orbs,
Comparing things with things, in rapture lost,
And grateful adoration, for that light
So plenteous ray'd into thy mind below,
From Light Himself; oh, look with pity down
On human-kind, a frail erroneous race:
Exalt the spirit of a downward world!
O'er thy dejected country chief preside,
And be her Genius call'd her studies raise,
Correct her manners, and inspire her youth. [forth
For, though deprav'd and sunk, she brought thee
And glories in thy name; she points thee out
To all her sons, and bids them eye thy star:
While, in expectance of the second life,
When time shall be no more, thy sacred dust
Sleeps with her kings, and dignifies the scene.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LORD CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN.
ADDRESSED TO HIS SON.
WHILE, with the public, you, my lord, lament
A friend and father lost; permit the Muse,
The Muse assign'd of old a double theme,
To praise dead worth, and humble living pride,
Whose generous task begins where interest ends,
Permit her on a Talbot's tomb to lay
This cordial verse sincere, by truth inspir'd,
Which means not to bestow, but borrow fame.
Yes, she may sing his matchless virtues now—
Unhappy that she may.-But where begin?
How from the diamond single out each ray,
Where all, though trembling with ten thousand
Effuse one dazzling undivided light?
Let the low-minded of these narrow days No more presume to deem the lofty tale Of ancient times, in pity to their own, Romance. In Talbot we united saw The piercing eye, the quick enlighten'd soul, The graceful ease, the flowing tongue of Greece, Join'd to the virtues and the force of Rome.
Eternal Wisdom, that all-quickening sun, Whence every life, in just proportion, draws Directing light and actuating flame, Ne'er with a larger portion of its beams Awaken'd mortal clay. Hence steady, calm, Diffusive, deep, and clear, his reason saw, With instantaneous view, the truth of things; Chief what to human life and human bliss Pertains, that noblest science, fit for man: And hence, responsive to his knowledge, glow'd His ardent virtue. Ignorance and vice,
In consort foul agree; each heightening each; While virtue draws from knowledge brighter fire.
What grand, what comely, or what tender sense,
What talent, or what virtue, was not his;
What that can render man or great, or good,
Give useful worth, or amiable grace?
Nor could he brook in studious shade to lie,
In soft retirement, indolently pleas'd
With selfish peace. The syren of the wise,
(Who steals th' Aonian song, and, in the shape
Of virtue, wooes them from a worthless world)
Though deep he felt her charms, could never melt
His strenuous spirit, recollected, calm,
As silent night, yet active as the day.
The more the bold, the bustling, and the bad,
Press to usurp the reins of power, the more
Behoves it virtue, with indignant zeal,
To check their combination. Shall low views
Of sneaking interest or luxurious vice,
The villain's passions, quicken more to toil,
And dart a livelier vigour through the soul,
Than those that, mingled with our truest good,
With present honour and immortal fame,
Involve the good of all? An empty form
Is the weak virtue, that amid the shade
Lamenting lies, with future schemes amus'd,
While wickedness and folly, kindred powers,
Confound the world. A Talbot's, different far,
Sprung ardent into action: action, that disdain'd
To lose in deathlike sloth one pulse of life,
That might be sav'd; disdain'd for coward ease,
And her insipid pleasures, to resign
The prize of glory, the keen sweets of toil,
And those high joys that teach the truly great
To live for others, and for others die..
Early, behold! he breaks benign on life.
Not breathing more beneficence, the Spring
Leads in her swelling train the gentle airs,
While gay, behind her, smiles the kindling waste
Of ruffian storms and Winter's lawless rage,
In him Astrea, to this dim abode
Of ever-wandering men, return'd again:
To bless them his delight, to bring them back,
From thorny errour, from unjoyous wrong,
Into the paths of kind primeval faith,
Of happiness and justice.
All his parts,
His virtues all, collected, sought the good
Of human-kind. For that he, fervent, felt
The throb of patriots, when they model states:
Anxious for that, nor needful sleep could hold
His still-awaken'd soul; nor friends had charms
To steal, with pleasing guile, one useful hour;
Toil knew no languor, no attraction joy.
Thus with unwearied steps, by Virtue led,
He gain'd the summit of that sacred hill,
Where, rais'd above black envy's darkening clouds,
Her spotless temple lifts its radiant front.
Be nam'd, victorious ravagers, no more!
Vanish, ye human comets! shrink your blaze!
Ye that your glory to your terrours owe,
As, o'er the gazing desolated Earth,
You scatter'd famine, pestilence, and war;
Vanish! before this vernal Sun of fame;
Effulgent sweetness! beaming life and joy.
How the heart listen'd while he, pleading, spoke!
While on th' enlighten'd mid, with winning art,
His gentle reason so persuasive stole,
That the charm'd hearer thought it was his own.
Ah! when, ye studious of the laws, again
Shall such enchanting lessons bless your ear?
When shall again the darkest truths, perplext,
Be set in ample day? when shall the harsh
And arduous open into smiling ease?
The solid mix with elegant delight?
His was the talent with the purest light
At once to pour conviction on the soul,
And warm with lawful flame th' impassion'd heart,
That dangerous gift with him was safely lodg'd
By Heaven-He, sacred to his country's cause,
To trampled want and worth, to suffering right,
To the lone widow's and her orphan's woes,
Reserv'd the mighty charm. With equal brow,
Despising then the smiles or frowns of power,
He all that noblest eloquence effus'd,
With generous passion, taught by reason, breathes:
Then spoke the man; and, over barren art,
Prevail'd abundant Nature. Freedom then
His client was, humanity and truth.
Plac'd on the seat of Justice, there he reign'd, In a superior sphere of cloudless day, A pure intelligence. No tumult there, No dark emotion, no intemperate heat, No passion e'er disturb the clear serene That round him spread. A zeal for right alone, The love of justice, like the steady Sun, Its equal ardour lent; and sometimes rais'd Against the sons of violence, of pride, And bold deceit, his indignation gleam'd, Yet still by sober dignity restrain'd. As intuition quick, he snatch'd the truth, Yet with progressive patience, step by step, Self-diffident, or to the slower kind, He through the maze of falsehood trac'd it on, Till, at the last, evolv'd, it full appear'd, And ev❜n the loser own'd the just decree.
But when, in senates, he, to freedom firm, Enlighten'd freedom, plann'd salubrious laws, His various learning, his wide knowledge, then, His insight deep into Britannia's weal, Spontaneous seem'd from simple sense to flow, And the plain patriot smooth'd the brow of law. No specious swell, no frothy pomp of words, Fell on the cheated ear; no study'd maze
Of declamation, to perplex the right,
He darkening threw around: safe in itself,
In its own force, all-powerful reason spoke;
While on the great, the ruling point, at once,
He stream'd decisive day, and show'd it vain
To lengthen farther out the clear debate.
Conviction breathes conviction; to the heart,
Pour'd ardent forth in eloquence unbid,
The heart attends: for let the venal try
Their every hardening stupifying art,
Truth must prevail, zeal will enkindle zeal,
And Nature, skilful touch'd, is honest still.
Behold him in the councils of his prince. What faithful light he lends! How rare, in courts, Such wisdom! such abilities! and, join'd To virtue so determin'd, public zeal, And honour of such adamantine proof, As ev'n corruption, hopeless, and o'er aw'd, Durst not have tempted! Yet of manners mild, And winning every heart, he knew to please, Nobly to please; while equally he scorn'd Or adulation to receive, or give. Happy the state, where wakes a ruling eye Of such inspection keen, and general care! Beneath a guard so vigilant, so pure, Toil may resign his careless head to rest, And ever-jealous freedom sleep in peace. Ah! lost untimely lost in downward days! And many a patriot counsel with him lost! Counsels, that might have bumbled Britain's foe, Her native foe, from eldest time by Fate Appointed, as did once a Talbot's arms
Let learning, arts, let universal worth,
Lament a patron lost, a friend and judge.
Unlike the sons of vanity, that veil'd
Beneath the patron's prostituted name,
Dare sacrifice a worthy man to pride,
And flush confusion o'er an honest cheek.
When he conferr'd a grace, it seem'd a debt
Which he to merit, to the public, paid,
And to the great all bounteous source of good.
His sympathising heart itself receiv'd
The generous obligation he bestow'd.
This, this indeed, is patronizing worth:
Their kind protector him the Muses own,
But scorn with noble pride the boasted aid
Of tasteless vanity's insulting hand.
The gracious stream, that cheers the letter'd world,
Is not the noisy gift of summer's noon,
Whose sudden current, from the naked root,
Washes the little soil which yet remain'd,
And only more dejects the blushing flowers:
No, 'tis the soft-descending dews at eve,
The silent treasures of the vernal year,
Indulging deep their stores, the still night long ;
Till, with returning morn, the freshen'd world,
Is fragrance all, all beauty, joy, and song.
Still let me view him in the pleasing light
Of private life, where pomp forgets to glare,
And where the plain unguarded soul is seen.
There, with that truest greatness he appear'd,
Which thinks not of appearing; kindly veil'd
In the soft graces of the friendly scene,
Inspiring social confidence and ease.
As free the converse of the wise and good,
As joyous, disentangling every power,
And breathing mixt improvement with delight,
As when amid the various-blossom'd spring,
Or gentle-beaming autumn's pensive shade,
The philosophic mind with Nature talks.
Say ye, his sons, his dear remains, with whom
The father laid superfluous state aside,
Yet rais'd your filial duty thence the more,
With friendship rais'd it, with esteem, with love,
Beyond the ties of blood, oh! speak the joy,
The pure serene, the cheerful wisdom mild,
The virtuous spirit, which his vacant hours,
In semblance of anusement, through the breast
Infus'd. And thou, O Rundle'! lend thy strain,
Thou darling friend! thou brother of his soul!
In whom the bead and heart their stores unite;
Whatever fancy paints, invention pours,
Judgment digests, the well tun'd bosom feels,
Truth natural, moral, or divine, has taught,,
The Virtues dictate, or the Muses sing.
Lend me the plaint, which, to the lonely main,
With memory conversing, you will pour,
As on the pebbled shore you, pensive, stray,
Where Derry's mountains a bleak crescent form,
And mid their ample round receive the waves,
'That from the frozen pole, resounding, rush,
Impetuous. Though from native sunshine driven,
Driven from your friends, the sunshine of the soul,
By slanderous zeal, and politics infirm,
Jealous of worth; yet will you bless your lot,
Yet will you triumph in your glorious fate,
Whence Talbot's friendship glows to future times
Intrepid, warm, of kindred tempers born;
Nurs'd, by experience, into slow esteem,
Calm confidence unbounded, love not blind,
And the sweet light from mingled minds disclos'd,
From mingled chymic oils as bursts the fire.
I too remember well that cheerful bowl,
Which round his table flow'd. The serious there
Mix'd with the sportive, with the learn'd the plain;
Mirth soften'd wisdom, candour temper'd mirth;
And wit its honey lent, without the sting.
Not simple Nature's unaffected sons,
The blameless Indians, round the forest-cheer,
In sunny lawn or shady covert set,
Hold more unspotted converse: nor, of old,
Rome's awful consuls, her dictator-swains,
As on the product of their Sabine farms
They far'd, with stricter virtue fed the soul:
Nor yet in Athens, at an Attic meal,
Where Socrates presided, fairer truth,
More elegant humanity, more grace,
Wit more refin'd, or deeper science reign'd.
But far beyond the little vulgar bounds,
Of family, or friends, or native land,
By just degrees, and with proportion'd flame,
Extended his benevolence: a friend
Of mean submission, not the meed of worth.
True genuine honour its large patent holds
Of all mankind, through every land and age,
Of universal reason's various sons,
And ev'n of God himself, sole perfect judge!
Yet know, these noblest honours of the mind
On rigid terms descend: the high-plac'd heir,
Scann'd by the public eye, that, with keen gaze,
Malignant seeks our faults, cannot through life,
Amid the nameless insects of a court,
Unheeded steal: but, with his sire compar'd,
He must be glorious, or he must be scorn'd.
This truth to you, who merit well to bear
A name to Britons dear, th' officious Muse
May safely sing, and sing without reserve.
Vain were the plaint, and ignorant the tear,
That should a Talbot mourn. Ourselves, indeed,
Our country robb'd of her delight and strength,
We may lament. Yet let us, grateful, joy,
That we such virtues knew, such virtues felt,
And feel them still, teaching our views to rise
Through ever-brightening scenes of future worlds.
Be dumb, ye worst of zealots! ye that, prone
To thoughtless dust, renounce that generous hope,
Whence every joy below its spirit draws,
And every pain its balm: a Talbot's light,
A Talbot's virtues, claim another source,
Than the blind maze of undesigning blood;
Nor, when that vital fountain plays no more,
Can they be quench'd amid the gelid stream.
Methinks I see his mounting spirit, freed From tangling earth, regain the realms of day Its native country, whence, to bless mankind, Eternal goodness, on this darksome spot, Had ray'd it down a while. Behold! approv'd By the tremendous Judge of Heaven and Earth And to th' Almighty Father's presence join'd, He takes his rank, in glory, and in bliss, Amid the human worthies. Glad around Crowd his compatriot shades, and point him out, With joyful pride, Britannia's blameless boast. Ah! who is he, that with a fonder eye Meets thine enraptur'd ?—'Tis the best of sons! The best of friends!-Too soon is realiz'd That hope, which once forbad thy tears to flow! Meanwhile the kindred souls of every land, (Howe'er divided in the fretful days Of prejudice and errour) mingled now, In one selected never jarring state, Where God himself their only monarch reigns, Partake the joy; yet, such the sense that still Remains of earthly woes, for us below, And for our loss, they drop a pitying tear. But cease, presumptuous Muse, nor vainly strive To quit this cloudy sphere that binds thee down: Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes,