Some courteous angel, tell me where, Or distant seas detain? Swift as the wheel of nature rolls THE HAPPY MAN. SERENE as light is Myron's soul, And active as the sun, yet steady as the pole : In manly beauty shines his face; Every Muse, and every Grace, Behold his manhood scarce begun! Behold the goal of glory won! Nor fame denies the merit, nor withholds the prize; Her silver trumpets his renown proclaim: The lands where learning never flew, Which neither Rome nor Athens knew, In barbarous songs, pronounce the British hero's name. Airy bliss (the hero cried) May feed the tympany of pride; Lo, at his honourable feet Fame's bright attendant, Wealth, appears; She comes to pay obedience meet, Providing joys for future years; Blessings with lavish hand she pours, Gather'd from the Indian coast; He look'd and turn'd his eyes away, Now pomp and grandeur court his head, Guards, and chariots, at his gate, And slaves in endless order round his table wait: They learn the dictates of his eyes, And now they fall, and now they rise, Watch every motion of their Lord, Hang on his lips with most impatient zeal, With swift ambition seize the' unfinish'd word, And the command fulfil. Tir'd with the train that Grandeur brings, He dropt a tear, and pitied kings: Music descending on a silent cloud, Fruits, and rich wine, and scenes of lawless love, Each with utmost luxury strove To treat their favourite best; But sounding strings, and fruits, and wine, To make his virtue sleep, or lull his soul to rest. He saw the tedious round, and, with a sigh, In crowds of pleasure, still I find A vacancy within, which sense can ne'er supply. Hence, and begone, ye flattering snares, Ye vulgar charms of eyes and ears, Ye unperforming promises! Be all my baser passions dead, And base desires, by nature made Man has a relish more refin'd, Souls are for social bliss design'd, Give me a blessing fit to match my mind, A kindred-soul to double and to share my joys. Myrrha appear'd: serene her soul Every Muse, and every grace, Myrrha the wonder of his eyes; His heart recoil'd with sweet surprise, With joys unknown before: His soul, dissolv'd in pleasing pain, And could endure no more. 'Enough! (the' impatient hero cries) And seiz'd her to his breast, I seek no more below the skies, TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ. AN ANSWER TO AN INFAMOUS SATIRE, CALLED Written by a nameless Author, against King William III. of glori. ous Memory, 1698. SIR, WHEN you put this satire into my hand, you gave me the occasion of employing my pen to answer so detestable a writing: which might be done much more effectually by your known zeal for the interest of his Majesty, your counsels and your courage employed in the defence of your king and country. And since you provoked me to write, you will accept of these efforts of my loyalty to the best of kings, addressed to one of the most zealous of his subjects, by, SIR, Your most obedient servant, I. W. PART I. AND must the hero, that redeem'd our land, To guard his England from the Irish knife, [name, name? Why smoke the skies not? Why no thunders roll? I'd rouse Apelles from his iron sleep, } Fierce, how he climbs the mountains of the slain,( Scattering just vengeance through the red campaign. |