The fanciad. An heroic poem. In six cantos. To His Grace the Duke of Marlborough, on the turn of his genius to arms

THE FANCID.

AN HEROIC POEM. In SIX CANTOS.

To His GRACE the Duke of MARLBOROUGH, ON THE TURN of His GENIUS to ARMS.

Up, Sword: and know thou a more proper Time. HAMLET.

LONDON: Printed for J. OSBORN, at the Golden Bail in Paternoſter Row. M.DCC.XLIII.

THE PREFACE.

IT will be eaſily perceiv'd, why no Addreſs, by way of Dedication, cou'd be proper to this Poem: Yet, the Verſes ought perhaps to have been offer'd, before printed, to the View of One Great Family (leſt, among Ideas, of ſo complicated a Variety, there ſhou'd be ſome, wherewith it might not, as to Point of Delicacy, have been found eligible to aſſociate Names, of ſuch ſincere Diſtinction and Importance). But the Writer recollected, that the mere Omiſſion of an Act of Ceremony cou'd not, equitably, be complain'd of, in a Poem where he has not arrogated, to Himſelf, the Freedom to give PRAISE, or CENSURE: All, that points at either One or Other, being narrative Recital only; and That, too, from the Voices of ſuch Speakers, as the Public daily hears, expreſſing more, upon both Subjects, than they are repreſented in this Place, as uttering.

As to the general Diſpoſition of the Purpoſe, if Any too bold Strokes of Liberty ſhou'd chance to be ſuſpected in it, let it be remember'd in the Writer's Favour, that he is no better than an empty Viſionary! And This is not the firſt Time, that a Man, in a Dream, has been a very impertinent Fellow, who, in his waking Intervals, has kept within the Bounds of due Decorum.

Concerning LUXURY eſpecially, none ought to make the Muſe accountable for what ſhe prattles in her Sleep: Since 'tis about a Power ſhe never correſponds with, but in Slumber. And, if TRADE is touchy, and won't bear to have it credited, that Daughters come by means of Mothers,—who could ſhun the Hazard of offending ſuch a choleric Petulance?—The Writer had no Licence to reſtrain, or caſtrate, Sentiments he but reports, from Perſonages, to whome his Country owes a Reverence that forbids the Boldneſs of curtailing their Ideas.—Neither has he given the captious Coquette above-nam'd the leaſt Occaſion of Offence, without Hard-ſtraining and Partiality; for, Who can look upon it as an Undervaluing of Trade, that ſhe is repreſented as not overmuch diſpos'd to carry Arms Herſelf; nor over-fond, indeed, of Thoſe ſhe pays for carrying them?—Authorities enough might probably be found, to prove plain Truth no Slander. But he rather pleads the Merit of that propheſied Expedient, toward the End of the Vth Canto, for a perfect Reconciliation between the Drum, and Warehouſe.—If, notwithſtanding This, the waking Poet muſt be charg'd with the Vagaries of his dreaming Muſe, He can but borrow Comfort from this tit-for-tat Reflection:—That, ſince Trade is naturally diſpos'd to think, with Dulneſs and Contempt, of Poetry, the Poet in his Turn, may, by Right of Equivalent, aſſume the ſame dull Privilege; and prate, as fooliſhly, of Traffick.

To paſs, at once, from Poetry,—to Proſe, and Truth, and ſerious Hiſtory:—The great, and nobly-judging, Lady, to whome, in the VIth Canto, an Advice of no ſmall Conſequence is offer'd, by a bold, tho' naked, Friend, (of whome ſhe never yet was known to be aſham'd, however bare, and out of Faſhion, ſhe approach'd her) will reflect, with ſome Attention, on the Propoſition; after hearing what Foundation It was grounded on.

About the Year 1735, a private Perſon, not worth naming, but an ardent Lover of his Country's Reputation, became difpoſſeſs'd of a miſtaken Notion, (which had been at firſt imbib'd by Converſation with the Prejudic'd, but gradually confirm'd and heighten'd, by much Reading, Speculation, and Reflection, upon military Subjects) that the moſt celebrated Engliſh Conqueror, of this laſt Age, (It might, I think, be added, without Flattery, above Any, of the Former) was not pre-meditatively, and by Force of his ſuperior Skill, the Author of his own unprecedented Victories.—The Miſtaker grounded his Concluſion on that Great General's Letters, written from the Fields of Battle, with the firſt Accounts of his Succeſſes.—It is viſible beyond Diſpute, that, there, one meets with none of thoſe deſcriptive and explanatory Circumſtances, whereby the skilful Captains, of all Ages, took ſuch cautionary Care to guard againſt unjuſt Impreſſions of their Conduct; by unfolding it, in Plan, in Progreſs, and Accompliſhment: that, not their Fortune only, but their Foreſight, and Superiority of Genius, might be noted, in their Victories. It is hence, that in ſo many of the Antient's, and in ſome great Modern's, written Narratives, we ſee, and underſtand, minutely, the whole Ground-plots, Diſpoſitions, Oppoſitions, and clear Out-break, of the Actions: Not in their bald Succeſs alone; but with their previous Motives, their impending Agitations, and eventual Over-balance, and Concluſion: Whereas, from all the publiſh'd Letters of our more than equal Executer of his own unequall'd Purpoſes, we gather nothing further, than that the Army He commanded was triumphant; and that He ſeems to think each Leader, in it, more deſerving his Remark, than the Elucidation of his own Deſigns, in their reported Execution.

In a Viſit made, about the Time juſt mention'd, to another Engliſh General, a Noble Lord, ſince dead, at a ſmall Garden Seat of his, near London, Theſe Obſervations were inlarg'd upon, (as they had often been to others) in a Converſation on the military Character of our great Favourite of Fortune: whome, it has been thought, the Lord here meant had, formerly, regarded with ſome Rival Pangs of Emulation. It were therefore an ungenerous Coldneſs to his Memory, to conceal the noble Sentiments wherewith he clos'd the Converſation on this Subject!—"You have (ſaid he) miſunderſtood His Character, and done it the ſame Wrong, that many Thouſands do, and will continue to do, from but the natural Conſequence of his ſincere and modeſt Negligence of Oſtentation.—He thought it, equally, His Duty to ſubdue the Enemy, and His own Senſibility of Triumph for ſubduing him.—He made, I think, but one Miſtake in his Field Conduct: But That was a Miſtake of ſuch unlucky Conſequence, that It has been able to do more, againſt Himſelf, than Ten French Armies cou'd: for It obſcures (you ſee) the Luſtre of his Genius.—He truſted Hiſtory, for Explanations, which, He ſhou'd have known, It cou'd not make (but in a lame and ſuperficial manner) for want of Lights, which He alone had Power to furniſh, who was the only Perſon dis-inclinable to wiſh 'em furniſh'd."

The Impreſſion which this truly noble Anſwer made, and the Reflections which It gave Occaſion to, have often, ſince, preſented to Imagination as a National Miſfortune, the Poſſibility of ſome deſtructive Accident, to thoſe invaluable Original Papers, which contain ('tis ſaid) ſufficient Matter, in His Family's Poſſeſſion, to immortalize, as well That Great Man's Temper, Wiſdom, Suavity, Skill, MODES, and MEANS, of Conqueſt, as the Reputation merely, of the Victories themſelves.—The Laſt, it muſt be own'd, is Glory: But it is a Glory of a barren and unpropagative Species: 'Tis the Glory of a Nimrod, a Seſoſtris, Hercules, Arthur, and Pendragon: Names, of aweful Cloudineſsl but uneffectual Admiration!—becauſe heard of, more than ſhown:—Not Lights, of Living Hiſtory; by whoſe Help, the Caeſars and the Alexanders are not only, in Themſelves, immortal; but by their Force of Emulative Inſpiration, have been, are, and will continue to the End of Time, the military Fathers, of new Sons of Glory, in all Nations, and throughout all Ages.

Who, therefore, cou'd too much lament an Accident of ſuch ſevere Importance, ſhou'd it happen to the mention'd Papers, before That glorious Uſe has been drawn from them, which is hinted in the Cloſe of the laſt Canto? Where that the Writer may not ſeem impertinent, he has, here, aſſign'd his Reaſons, for conceiving it both a Domeſtic, and a Public Duty, on the Care of That illuſtrious Conqueror's Repreſentatives.—But where the Hand is to be found, in all Points, equal to an Undertaking of ſuch arduous Difficulty, is a Wiſh, that may be added to the Liſt of thoſe Deſiderata, rather hinted at, than hop'd for, by the boldeſt Enterprizers, in the Commonwealth of Learning!

CONTENTS of CANTO I. Exordium. Duties of a Poet's Character. Verſe too low, if it but looks like Flattery. Invocation. Apology for too light a Title. The Time's Fault, not the Writer's. Duke of Marlborough in his Library. The Library deſcrib'd. Apparition of the Spirit of a late Great Conqueror, from the Leaves of a Book. Speech of the illuſtrious Spirit. Reproach of Inſults too tamely ſubmitted to. Preſent Times compared with the Paſt. Excitement of the Noble Owner of the Library to vindicate the warlike Deſtiny of his triumphant Race. Confeſſed Senſation, that It cannot, yet, be practicable. Celeſtial Spirit, ſcenting the Approach of an Infernal One, gives Notice, and then vaniſhes. CONTENTS of CANTO II. DEſcription of a dark cold Horror, that precedes the Entrance of a frightful Monſter, The Fury deſcribed. Who ſhe is. Her ſelf-diſtracting War of Tongues. Perſons, and Meaſures, accuſed, and ſatirized, in Charges, and Recriminations. Corruption's Daemon pointed out, and curſed emphatically. The Curſes retorted, from an oppoſite Quarter. Qualities of the Mock-Patriot. Of the true Patriot. Fury driven away by a ſudden Irruption of Luſtre. Gives a dreadful Alarm to the City. Circulating Progreſſion of the Uproar. Its Advance throughout Three Intire Kingdoms. CONTENTS of CANTO III. CHariot of Fancy. How drawn. Who rides in it. Who taken into it. Whither carried; and with what Purpoſe. Why the Power in the Chariot affects ſo airy an Equipage. Approach to the Edge of the Atlantic. Terrible, but Majeſtic, Appearance of a Spectre. Who the Spectre is. Why hid, and aſleep, under the Ocean. Shakes Three Kingdoms at once, by a Graſp with her Left Hand. Shoots her Shadow to the American Continent. Huſhes the Roar of the Fury. Corrects and expoſes her Impertinence. Paid Partakers have no Right to be Murmurers. How Bribes might as eaſily be broken, as Bubbles. Thieves are impudent, when they ſpurn at their Fetters. Why our Fathers were dreadful, abroad. Why their Sons are contemptible. Arms inconſiſtent with Luxury. Who They are, whome Liberty cannot ſave. Poverty was Strength, among the Antients. Wealth, among the Moderns, is Weakneſs. Some paſt Exceptions but the Blazes of Comets. Prediction of one more ſuch, to come. CONTENTS of CANTO IV. HOW Commerce affects War. Impolitie Blindneſſes in Trade. Antient Armies not Mercenaries. Rough Sons of old England deſcrib'd. Modern Lightneſs and Affectations, in Military Poſtures, expos'd.—Compar'd with the Archer's more manly Appearance, at his Holiday Exerciſes. Tranſition, to a Deſcription of their March to, and Behaviour in, the Battle of Creſſi. The French a brave Nation. What the true Cauſe of our Victories over them. War not wag'd, in thoſe Days, by Hirelings. Armies, un-fear'd, un-paid, and un-ſtanding. Always ready. And skilful alike, in the Sword, and the Plow-ſhare. Who hinders the ſame Practice at preſent. Luxury a Sun-ſhewn Cobweb. What Effects It has produc'd, and where. Saints in Arms: and Thieves in Diſcipline. CONTENTS of CANTO V. A National Danger, that lately hung over theſe Kingdoms. Strength, natural and political, of France. Her Purpoſe diſcern'd, and prevented: and by whome, and by what Means. A wily Spirit put into Poſſeſſion of the Brain of Cardinal Fleury. Effect of this Spirit's Impreſſion on the Cardinal's Ideas: And of the Cardinal's wrong Turn of Head, on his Nation. Shortſightedneſs of modern Kings, and Politicians. Lazy Logs, that load Thrones, conceive no Storm, till they feel it. France, and another Country, equally balanc'd for the future, may, now, quarrel ſecurely. Ridiculous Maxim corrected. Money not the Sinews of War. What, more truly her Sinews. Where experienc'd, and from whome. Apoſtrophe, to Trade. Removeable Remora's and Impediments to War. A Prediction that they ſhall be remov'd. Martial Medium, at laſt, will be hit. Trade, War, Power, and Liberty, reconcil'd in one Centre. What that Centre is. Clouds, firſt to be paſs'd over. In the Interim, Deſign goes to ſleep. Care frighted away to the Hills of Armenia. All, huſh'd, compos'd, and contented! CONTENTS of CANTO VI. FANCY drops from her Chariot, and tumbles into the Sea. Narrow Eſcape of the Power ſhe was Guide to. Advice to the Duke of Marlborough, for ſuſpending his Military Warmth, till due Seaſon, and why. Juſt Encomium, however, on the Greatneſs and Generoſity of his Purpoſe. Miſtaken Injuſtice of its Cenſurers. Party's Cell. Who at Work, there: and on what. Fruits of factious Partialities. Falſe Scale for weighing the Great, and the Thinking. In Spite of what, and of whome, and when, and for what Time, they ſhall triumph. Tranſition, to a Misfortune to be lamented by the Nation: but, peculiarly, by the Marlborough Family. The Remedy: by a Care that calls loudly on the preſent Duke. If not, firſt, made unneceſſary to Him, by the noble Taſte of Glory, ſo conſpicuous in the DUCHESS DOWAGER. Braſs and Marble too periſhable, to immortalize the late Duke's, yet not half underſtood, Great Character. By what Means ſhe may, more ſurely, effect it. The Reſolution, recommended to Her fine Spirit. It will re-marry Her own Fame to Her Conſort's: and make Both, jointly, and deſervedly, Immortal.

THE FANCIAD.

CANTO I. POETS whome Truth inſpires, and Genius draws, Court not a Patron, but aſſert a Cauſe: Heedleſs of Cenſure, thoughtleſs of Reward, They ſhun Dependence, to demand Regard. Proud is the Muſe they ſerve; unbred to wait: And willing Stranger, to the Great Man's Gate. YET, while their Ivy ſcorns to taint its Green, Far from their Thoughts be Arrogance, or Spleen! Self-ſubject be the Mind: but let the Heart Flow for Mankind, and heave with ſocial Smart. What, but not Who, the Writer, deign to know.— Verſe, that but looks like Flatt'ry, ſtoops too low. ALL, pond'ring,—nor ſeduc'd, by Taſte, nor Pride, From Rights of Reaſon, to Belief's blind Side, Piercing thro' Names, to Things, and taught to dare What Conſcience bids, tho' Devils ſhould bid beware: Fir'd for my Country's Fame, hear, MARLBRO'! hear: The Muſe unvenal claims the Patriot's Ear. No hackn'ydPlunger, Mine—no Birth-Day Drone, That hums hir'd Nonſenſe, and benumbs a Throne. She ſings unpenſion'd, and a Bribe diſdains: No black, appropriate, Mark her Forehead ſtains, Unbadg'd to Power; and, but by Truth, confin'd; Her Anger hateleſs: nor her Pity blind. Deteſting Party, and unfool'd by Forms, She hails no Sun-ſhine; and ſhe flies no Storms: But weighs, unbiaſs'd, (Hope and Hate diſclaim'd) A W—flatter'd: or a B—defam'd. O, Thou!—Suſtainer of a deathleſs Name! Whom Glory waits for, and whom Vict'ries claim! Thou, length'ning Stream, that drawn through ſpringleſs Lands, Muſt flow ſelf-deep'ning, or be loſt in Sands! Sigh, and forgive, with a Reflecter's Pain, Too light a TITLE, to ſo grave a Strain. 'Tis the Time's Curſe, when Truth attracts no Eyes, Till Art conceals her, in the Fool's Diſguiſe. But, Thou, invok'd, expect no light Addreſs: Thy Race claims Rev'rence: nor thy Virtues leſs. Thine be the Verſe—nor, lov'd by Both, refuſe Joint-Off'ring, from the Poet, and the Muſe. LATE, when He, firſt, thy LEARN'D COLLECTION view'd, Each Shelf's long Lading his Retreat purſu'd: Clung to pleas'd Mem'ry, till Idea blaz'd; And, on Night's Waſte, this viſion'd Fabric rais'd. DEEP, in that letter'd Manſion of the Dead, Where Souls long linger, after Forms are fled; Where hoſtile Tongues concur, in Learning's Right; And Turk, Jew, Pope, and Pagan, All, unite; Where ſlow-diſtinguiſh'd Merit ſhines, too late; And Eſtimation caſts off Name, for Weight: Till many a gilt-back'd Wretch, in Death, grows gay, Whoſe Life, in Want's bare Weeds, was wept away: Pond'ring his deathleſs Store, with Joy ſurvey'd, Each Path to Science penſive Marlbro' weigh'd. Silence and ſolemn Night had huſh'd the Scene, And thin-plac'd Tapers grey'd the Gloom between: While, here and there, he ſtopp'd; as Doubts engage: Eas'd a try'd Shelf; and turn'd th' examin'd Page. Bent on a Theme that all his Ardour claim'd, His Grandſire's Glory, and his Country fam'd! While ſuppliant France he view'd, and victim Spain, Proſtrate Adorners of a female Reign, Back, from the flutt'ring Leaves, that flaſh'd with Light, He ſtarts—in more than earthly Luſtre, bright! Wide, round th'infoliate Fire, in ſparkly Glow, Legions of undulating Glories flow: No Form, diſtinguiſh'd, limb'd the living Blaze, But a ſoft Sound thus voic'd th'emitted Rays. WHY art thou here, when half my Trophies fade? The Field requires thee, in my Mem'ry's Aid. Too proud th' Heſperian, and the Gaul too vain! They ſhake the Continent! they bar the Main! Quit thy learn'd Eaſe, Teach the tame War to ſhine: Fate is thy Family's—and Conqueſt Thine. Troy, till ACHILLES came, cou'd fear no Fall: And Bourbon's Inſults for a MARLBRO' call. TOUCH'D to the Soul, th'ingodded Offspring glow'd: And paid in rev'rent Joy, the Vows he ow'd. While, from the Centre, through th' incircling Rays, Th'unbody'd Parent thus re-voic'd the Blaze. LEND Practice, to thy Pow'r: nor, longer drain Ideal Springs, of All that Arts contain. Givethy Books Reſt: thou hold'ſt th' exhauſted Store, Where Mem'ry's magic Muſter runs it o'er. Rous'd from theoric Search, un-load thy Freight: And roll War's Thunder, with THY added Weight. Go: 'tis thy Right, th' aſpiring Gaul to thwart: Go: ſhake remember'd Marlbro', o'er his Heart. Go—build new Blenheims, for ſucceeding Fame: And, to paſt Triumphs, prove thy RACE's Claim. Heard, thy known Purpoſe charms thy Friends Above: Thy Edwards, and thy Henrys, look—and love! Eliza glows! calm Anna's Hopes it warms! 'Twas Force Prophetic, fir'd thy Soul to Arms. Oh! were It TIME!—But, go. Thy Country aid. Some Cramp's cold Torpor does her Nerves invade! Never, till now, ſhe ſigh'd, at threaten'd Blood: Too raſh, too prompt, ſhe puſh'd th' advancing Flood. Sprung to the Plain, impatient of a Foe: And knew no Inſult: for ſhe ſpar'd no Blow. Now, cautious Vengeance, coldly, halts—to hear: While muzzling Fore-caſt fetters Rage, by Fear! I felt, in Realms of Joy, th' unlikely Shame! Impaſſive Spirit mourn'd, for ſuff'ring Name. I call'd—Thou heardſt: but War's wrong'd Soul, was fled! Fame was deſpis'd: and Love of Glory dead! Brave Minds, whom Faſhion's changeful Starts miſdrew, At length, fear'd Danger: as the Mode moſt new! Fear'd non-exiſting Shades; and Shapes of Air: A Gorgon's Treſſes!—a Chimaera's Glare! Fear'd Monſters, never form'd, by Time, nor Chance; From Spain, fear'd Raſhneſs!—Steadineſs, from France! Hung, heſitated, ſtopp'd.—Reſolve, re-dread; All the long Windings of Reluctance tread. Weigh'd, and prepar'd—prepar'd, and weigh'd, once more; Treated, re-treated, thumb'd Expedients o'er: Loſt, like a nodding Jove, in Sleep's ſoft Band; Looſe-graſping idle Thunders, in his Hand! Go: vindicate, in Arms, thy Birthright's Claim, Nor let all Senſe be loſt, of antient Fame. Leſt Arrogance, un-humbled, climb too high: And Bourbon call Fifth Henry's Acts a LYE. Be, All, I was. Be, if thou canſt be, more! Be, All, in one great Name, that blaz'd before! Be, what thy Country was, when Richard fought; Or each dire Edward War's red Leſſon taught: When neither Diſtance, Clime, nor Wants, cou'd tire; Nor Winds, nor Seas, nor Sickneſs, damp'd her Fire: 'Till Sun-burnt Syria, by untawny Hands, Saw circly Slaughter drench her ſmoaking Sands. Be, what thy Country was, when, haughty Spain, Bluſhful in Blood, bewail'd Eliza's Reign. Then, iron hearted Biſcay ſhook, with Dread! Then, warring Squadrons no tame Canvas, ſpread. But, now!—'Tis painful, All!— Spirits, exempt from Inſult, feel—and ſhrink: And ſhock'd Arch-Angel Guardians turn, and wink. (Fall'n their Supporter) ſhield-ſhown Lilies fade! —Shake thy Sword's Lightning o'er the cumbent Shade. Rouſe the Log Lion, into Senſe of Pain: Couch'd, in his Den; talon'd and tooth'd, in vain! Fright thoſe raſh Frogs, that leap, diſdainful o'er: Rampant, and rais'd, re-wake his dreadful Roar. Bid thy Name's Thunder ſhake th' Iberian Strand. Vict'ry ſhall hear: and own thy fated Hand! Gaul ſhall pant huſh'd; remindful of the Sound: Safe-ſhrunk, behind Pyrene's ſhieldy Mound. BUT, Time reſiſts!—Some Fury blaſts thy Aim! It muſt not, now, ſucceed.—Suſpend the Flame. Pauſe: but ſtand firm. Th'incumbent Cloud blows o'er. Call'd to recede, farewell!—I muſt no more. Baleful! and dire! th' effluviate Scent of Hell Breathes near!—I feel th'intruſive Peſt!—Farewell.

CANTO II. TH' immortal Spirit ſtopp'd.—'Twas Light no more: Black refluent Shadows gloom'd the Luſtres o'er. Sweet, in ſlow Falls, the ſoft'ning Notes decay: And, loſt in looſe Expanſion, die away. Charm'd hung the filial Virtue, fix'd profound: Liſt'ning, and length'ning out the laſt, lov'd Sound. 'Till ſilent Horror, touching cold, as Death, Struck, and drove inward, his ſuſpended Breath. Wond'ring, he turn'd—and, near th' admiſſive Door, Met a pale Gleam, that crawl'd along the Floor. Mid the ſtreak'd Greyneſs of the dusky Ray, Dwelt an imperfect Shape, that barr'd his Way. Angry and fierce it ſeem'd: yet, came not on. Formleſs, and indiſtinct, It dimly ſhone. Tongues, from a War of Heads, loud Jargon threw: Feet, without Number, ſtrode, with ſtruggling View. Hands battling Hands, Feet Feet, Tongue croſſing Tongue, One endleſs Length of aimleſs Larum rung: Idly, contentious! Limb to Limb unkind— Yet, the whole buſy Bug-bear weak, and blind! NEED it be told?—'Twas FACTION's imag'd Soul, Faction! that ſhakes the World, from Pole to Pole. Plaintive, forever, never un-diſtreſt: Deſtroy'd, by Motion, yet deſpiſing Reſt! Builds, and confounds, with never-ceaſing Din: Without, All Thunder! and All Smoke, within! WHAT wouldſt thou do, th'illuſive Scare-crow cry'd— What mad Preſumption moves thy martial Pride? Are Theſe fit Times? ſhall Want's weak Blows reſtrain Steel-handed France, and Silver-breaſted Spain? Bats might, as well, pounce Eagles!—Curs, as ſoon, Yelping their midnight Howls, bark down the Moon! Fame? 'tis Romantic!—Liberty's at Stake. Our Ground-work riſes: and our Pillars ſhake. Ere, ſtop-gap Stakes, in foreign Fields, we ſtand, Mark, what Home Breaches ask a Mender's Hand. When Freedom's Friends can ſep'rate Int'reſt ſlight, When Valour finds no Foes, but Thoſe in Fight; Then, Patriot Tints may touch that hueleſs Race, Whoſe Pray'r is Penſion, and whoſe God is Place. Then, conſcious Thought th' Elect's looſe Joke reclaim, Who buys th'Elector's Right to laugh at Shame. Then, Boys in Senates, veil'd in manlier Air, Abſolve th'unthinking Choice, that plac'd'em there. Stripp'd to the naked Soul, light Slaves of Dreſs, Who live for Paſtime in a State's Diſtreſs, Wond'ring at Pow'r to bluſh, may, then, firſt, find, That more than Tailor goes, to make a Mind. TRY, cry'd an interruptive Tide of Tongue, Old Wills to quicken, or unfire the Young. Reaſon the Brib'd, to Dread, of courted Shame: Bid the neglected Proud ſit pleas'd, and tame. Teach Shops, for Virtue, to relinquiſh Gain. Teach Indolence and Eaſe, to rev'rence Pain. From Love's looſe Garland, break the Soft away. Call off keen Sportſmen, to ſublimer Prey. Teach flatt'ring Prieſts to damn th' advowzon'd Friend: Bid flatt'ring Pens diſcarded Worth defend. THEN, Love of Fame may ſtrike a Soul-ſunk Race: And rouſe inſulted Fleghm, to feel Diſgrace! Till then—fond Ardour!—Whence ſhou'd Vict'ry come? Why wave yon Enſigns? and why beats that Drum? Why pours that Trumpet forth it's angry Strains? —Mark the capp'd Racers, of thoſe gentler Plains! Frighted, they fly diſpers'd, from Plates un-won: As Rooks riſe, kaw-full, round th' alarming Gun! WHENCE, ye pale Pow'rs! ſhould War derive Succeſs, If Swords are padlock'd, to prevent Redreſs? O, dire Dis-reliſh of derided Fame! Thou ſink'ſt Ambition, into Self's low Claim: In ſenſual Fetters bind'ſt the ſneaking Heart; And know'ſt no Bleſſing, if thou ſhar'ſt no Part. Thine, the Corruptor's Whiſper! Thine, the Sneer, That, to bought Baſeneſs, lends the witling Fleer! Thine, the chain'd Ay, that longs to dare diſſent: Yet, backward, winds th' unductile Argument. Thine, the poor Craft, where Queſtion courts Delay, Till Ranks, too thin, can mend their looſe Array, Ek'd, in long, wrangling Drawl, to tire Debate: Load the tugg'd Ear, and bid Deciſion wait. Thine, the mouth'd Cerberus, whoſe Bark frights Hell; Till (the Sop ſwallow'd) All is huſh'd, and well. OUT-BURSTING here, fierce Roars, with Roars combin'd, Mix'd their claſh'd Curſes, wild as fighting Wind. Some charging, ſome recriminating ſpoke; And, firſt and loudeſt, out This Torrent broke. Curs'd be the Wretch,—if ſuch a Wretch there be, Curs'd, till no Devil is half ſo damn'd, as He! Who, working upward, in fermenting Times, With Trick of Talking, and a Cloak for Crimes, Ris'n to a Pitch too dreadful for his Brain, Looks down with Horror; yet, crawls on, with Pain: And, inly trembling, for his own fear'd Fall, Buys one Man's Safety, with the Rights of All. Who, neither nerv'd for War, nor brain'd for Peace, Shepherds the hounded Flock, to filch the Fleece. Maz'd, amid clueleſs Folds of timid Care, Still hunts Evaſion: and ſtill ſtarts Deſpair. Winds, and un-winds; and, weaving Error's Nets, In all the puzzling Plunge of Myſt'ry, ſweats. With Mind audacious, but with Heart afraid, Invites Aſſaulters, by ſeducing Aid: Whoſe Means too narrow, and whoſe Ends too bold; Retreats too haſty, and Reſolves too cold. Whoſe Dread is Penetration,—Jeſt, Regret— Whoſe War is See-ſaw, and whoſe Peace is Debt. Who bears his Country's Wrongs, buys off his own: Or cries, Pelt on—and skulks behind a Throne. —Such if there live, ſo loſt, in Public Truſt, Thus, let Corruption hear her Daemon curs'd! THEN, hoſtile Sounds on Sounds, invaſive broke: And diff'rent Powers, with diff'rent Vows, invoke. Frenzy, from diſappointed Hope! they cry'd; Curſes, for Curſes, blaſt your ſpleenful Pride! Be doubly curs'd, ye dire, malignant, Minds; Whom Envy cankers,—not Confuſion blinds! Who, piqu'd at Perſon, diſregard Intent: And ſmoth'ring Conſcience, give Detraction vent! With bitter Foretaſte, pre-enjoy the Woe, Your Friend muſt weep at—FOR, 'twill hurt your Foe. Untaught the godlike Power, the gen'rous Art, To ſhame the Judgment, yet attract the Heart: Untaught the patriot Pang, to hold back Senſe Of private Wrongs,—in Public Preference: To aid, and guide, Perverſeneſs, you deſpiſe; To pour Diſcernment on unthankful Eyes: To ſerve your Country, tho' your Schemes are croſs'd: To task your Pity, at your Anger's Coſt: And, nobly lending an Oppoſer Weight, Wreathe the loſt Laurel, for a Head you hate. SWIFT, from above, down ruſh'd a Flood of Light, And, rolling radiant, ſwept the Fiend of Night. Up flew the Fury.—Raving loud ſhe roſe, And o'er the Roof, out-burſting, louder grows: Auguſta hears: and, thro' her marbly Throats, Winding, re-multiplies the claſhing Notes. Broad Execration, thence, extending faſt, From circling Millions, ſwells th' expanded Blaſt. Round her, above, below, enrag'd Deſpair Rings thro' the Winds, and climbs the vocal Air. Concurring Slander meets th' aſſiſted Sound, And, in reverb'rate Tempeſt, drives it round: Rock-ribb'd Cornavia joins old Cantium's Roar. Thence, the voic'd Earthquake ſhakes th' Eaſt-Anglian Shore. Northward, increas'd, and wid'ning as it goes, O'er the sky'd Grampian, deaf'ning Clamour flows. Conſenting Mona hugs th' excurſive Blaſt: And moiſt Iérne hears, and howls, the Laſt!

CANTO III. STUNN'D at the Noiſe, the penſive Peer revolves Thy Sweets, fair Candour! and thy calm Reſolves: Shock'd at th' intemp'rate Fury's formleſs Brawl, And doubtful ev'n of Truths, ſo mix'd with Gall. But ſtarts from Thought,—involv'd in Seas of Light! And hears ſoft Angels, whiſp'ring, on his Right. " Juſt, and too wiſe, a Mind-like Thine, brave Youth! " Torev'rence Faction!—Thou wert born, for Truth. " And, lo! the Preſent Pow'r aſſerts her Claim: " White, and unſully'd, as thy Grandſire's Fame. WARM'D into Rapture, at th' inſpiring Sound, Quick as his Eye-beam's Glance, he turns him round: There, charm'd and wond'ring, thinks, he ſees, below, Deſcended Deities, that, near him, glow! Horſes, whoſe Coats outſtreak'd the Morning's Hue; Pranc'd, amid Flames, that from their Boundings, flew: Tipt were their pearly Manes, with roſeate Bloom, And ev'ry ſtreamy Noſtril neigh'd Perfume. Rein'd in a gemmy Chariot's radiant Blaze, That ſhone with dazzling, yet with lambent, Rays, FANCY, gay Driver! full of Eyes, they drew; Bright, in a flaky Robe, of changeful Blue: Wing'd, were her ſtarry Eyes: and playful Spires Wav'd their ſoft ſilv'ry Tips, in feath'ry Fires. Sparks, at each ſpangly Movement, ſcatt'ring fly: And bow-bent Cupids dance, from ev'ry Eye. CALM, on the tow'ry Seat, ſuperior plac'd, Sat TRUTH, majeſtic! obvious to the Waiſt. Candid, in naked Lovelineſs of Air; Thin-veil'd by length'ning Falls of looſen'd Hair. Broad, on her Breaſt, a Sun's down-darted Rays Pour'd, round her Charms, impenetrable Blaze. Come: to my Guidance truſt thy Worth, ſhe cry'd: Will'd for my Care! and form'd, to grace my Side! Come, trace this baneful Fury's plaintive Yells; To wat'ry Waſtes, where Albion's Guardian dwells: There ſhall the Pow'r appeal'd, reſponſive, riſe, Check this raſh Turbulence, and warn the Wiſe. Great, tho' thy Purpoſe, and thy Soul ſublime, Halt, in thy March—and wait th' Advance of TIME. Come,—the beſt Judge ſhall War's wide Wants reveal: Her, whome thy Soul reveres, thy Heart will feel. BENDING, ſhe ſmil'd; and ſtretch'd her Hand below: Up ſprung th' invited Charge, and kiſs'd it's Snow: Sharing the ſpotleſs Seat, irradiate ſhone, And felt th' aſpiring Courſers bounding on. —SAVE me, enthuſiaſt Muſe!—Aloſt, they ſpring, Swift and all-ſcatt'ring, as the Light'ning's Wing! Bright, thro' th' involving Atmoſphere they ride: And o'er paſs'd Seas, and sky-topp'd Mountains, glide! THUS while (outſtripping Winds) ſoft Air they preſs'd, Th' unerring Guide beſpoke her wond'ring Gueſt. —Had my plain Pow'r ſuffic'd, o'er Faction's Rage, To lift my Vot'ries, in this partial Age, Pleas'd without Pomp, ſelf-conſcious, and alone, Nor rais'd, thus light, on FANCY's airy Throne, Thou had'ſt beheld me, grave, ſevere, ſerene; Bold, like thy Virtue: modeſt, as thy Mien! —But Paſſion's Phalanx, no calm Influence breaks; Truth, till ſtrong-mounted, ev'ry Danger ſhakes. Now, tho' contending Worlds ſhou'd bar our Way, Safe ſhall we paſs—nor can falſe Friends betray. —Mark, hence,—th' alarming Thunder's circly Sound Has heav'd th' Atlantic, thro' yon dark Profound! Look down—Behold Hibernia's Weſtern Shore: Here, Europe's Sea-waſh'd Skirts emerge no more. Mark! from the Surge, That Form, up-heaving, ſlow, Grows, into Heav'n!—yet walks in Seas below! Rous'd at the Din, ſhe wakes; bleſs'd Pow'r!—'tis SHE! Albion's loſt GENIUS!—hid, beneath her Sea! Here, in faint Hope, ſhe waits ſome happier Day: Sleeps, to ſhun Sorrow: and wears Shame away. Here, her ſad Head reclines, on Connaught's Sand: While her ſtretch'd Feet annect Nov-Albion's Strand! 'Tis for Her ſought Deciſion, Theſe big Roars, Loudly appealing, rock th' awak'ning Shotes. Hark! the bold Ruſh of Grievance pains her Ear. Weigh'd is her Anſwer: with due Rev'rence hear. Thy Country's Genius beſt it's Wants detects: Beſt knows its Pow'r—and feels it's dark Defects. STERN, in rough Majeſty, ſlow-marking round, Broad and immenſe, th' up-riſing Spectre frown'd. Brown o'er the Surface gloom'd the wat'ry Glade! —On, ſhot, from World to World, th'out-length'ning Shade. She moves!—Three Tridents, her Right Hand diſplays: O'er her broad Forehead, Three crown'd Turrets blaze. Honour'd, immortal, long-loſt Queen!—ſhe ſtood: Struck the sky'd Surge, and aw'dth' uncurling Flood. " Silence, ye Lands, ſhe cry'd, whoſe Hills I ſhake:" —'Twixt her Left Graſp, Three conſcious Kingdoms quake! Cold, thro'their inmoſt Vales, in Fear's flat Creep, Steal, their huſh'd Souls—and ſoft'ning Thunders ſleep. Hark! ſhe begins.—Her Heav'n-turn'd Voice deſcends! Air ſpreads it, Earth receives, and Truth attends. WHY am I wak'd, by Faction's Rage, in vain? Ill-judg'd Complaint deſerves Increaſe of Pain. BACK'NING, rebuk'd, th' in-murm'ring Monſter groan'd: Hung her huſh'd Heads—and, dumbly ſullen, moan'd. WHOME, but yourſelves, ye Caitiffs! wou'd you blame? Ye Slaves of Luxury! ye Shreds of Shame! Wou'd ye ſhun Woe, ſhun Guilt: and dare be PURE. Curſes avail not: 'tis Contempt, muſt cure. Scorn'd is your Anger, at Events you aid: What Right have paid Partakers, to upbraid? Have the Few wrong'd ye? Let the Many bluſh! Where Union ſhelters, Weight wants Pow'r to cruſh! But venal Shrinkers arm th' Oppreſſor's Hand: All juſtify th' Abuſe, which none withſtand. Sell not your Freedom, or your Frowns reſtrain: 'Tis Impudence, in Thieves, to ſpurn their Chain! GOLD's effluent Lentor lulls a languid State, Not from who gives, but who receives the Bait. Check'd, with the Boldneſs of an honeſt Scorn, Bribes are, like Bubbles, burſt, as ſoon as born. Periſh this blind Propenſity to rail! Let the Wiſe rectify—The Weak, bewail. AT home low-rated, and deſpis'd abroad, Vainly you rage, that Inſult acts, un-aw'd. What ſhou'd it fear?-your warlike Sires, 'tis true, More Realms once trembled at, than ſmile at you. Sons, to their Names; not to their Fame, ye roſe: Dare yebetaught, whence Allthis Diff'rence grows? Know your Pain's ROOT.—Never did partial Fate At once, to Arms and Lux'ry, form a State. Wealth is the Bane of War.-Where Av'rice flames, Honour and Enterprize are empty Names. Dropſy'd by Plenty, lazy Virtue lags: Help halts, at Murmur: Zeal expires, in Brags. Falſe Want, by Auction, ſells all Taſte of Fame, All Search of Wiſdom, and all Senſe of Shame. Dream not, deceiv'd, that Liberty can ſave, Whome Vice enfeebles, and low Thoughts enſlave. Baſe Love of Gain, to Hate of Danger, ty'd, In War, breeds Diffidence: in Safety, Pride. No Frame of Freedom e'er was built, to laſt, Where Independence held not Virtue faſt. Commerce, and Wealth, may paint an Empire's Face: But aid her Beauty to her Strength's Diſgrace. Lean Poverty mov'd light,—and, limb'd for Toil, Was pleas'd with Marches, and content with Spoil: Poſſeſſing little, had no Loſs to dread: But, brisk and hopeful, was to Vict'ry led. Wealth is Incumbrance, and to Fears ally'd; Held back, by Fore-caſt; dis-inclin'd by Pride: Un-nerv'd, by Privilege; by Faction, fir'd; In Peace, contentious; and, in Action, tir'd. WHAT! tho' One Son of mine, thro' Darkneſs bright, Beam'd Indiſtinction: and emblazon'd Night? CAESARS, ſometimes, and ſometimes MARLBRO's riſe: Comets! that ſweep new Tracks, and fright the Skies! Not to be meaſur'd, Theſe, by War's known Laws: Form'd, for excentric Fame, and learn'd Applauſe! No Gen'ral Syſtem circumſcribes their Ways. They move, un-rival'd: and were born, to blaze! Theſe make, like DEITIES, the Men they lead: Duſt, in their Hands, grows Life! and Languor, Speed! Theſe, I except—as burſting Nature's Chains: No Rule includes them: and no Chance reſtrains! ONE MARLBRO' bleſs'd me, thus!—nor One the Laſt: Heav'n ſees the future, kindling at the paſt! Son, of his Soul, ANOTHER SUCH ſhall ſhine: Ah!—were his Speed unclogg'd—He, NOW, were mine! Such, ere Ten Winters wane, thro' Fate I ſee— Brings on new Wonders: and ſhall ſhine for ME. TRUTH, ſmiling on her Gueſt, that Fate apply'd: Conſcious, He bow'd, and bluſh'd—and look'd aſide.

CANTO IV. LEARN, cry'd the Genius, and reſum'd her Clue; Learn, with what groundleſs Hope the Sword ye drew. Find, in your Trade's Extent, your Triumph's Bar: You courting Commerce, Commerce cumb'ring War! Who, but a God, can guard a State from Harms, Too rich for Virtue, and too proud for Arms! Where Stall-fed Plumpneſs rails out lazy Life; And murm'ring Millions lend but Tongues to Strife! Where Fools of Fortune graſp their Purſe, with Care; Yet, hurl the guardian Sword, to raſh Deſpair! Scorn the poor Soldier, whoſe Defence they buy: Yet dread thoſe Dregs of Want, they hire to die! Truſt, where they fear—yet, injure, where they truſt: With Heads unheedful, and with Hearts unjuſt. Starve, and provoke, Diſtreſs, which ARM'D, they ſee! And dream THOSE Slaves, by whome Themſelves are free! Where, ſhunning Muſters, Pride bids Pen'ry dare: And Fame's a Toy, beneath a Tradeſman's Care! BUT, 'twas not, always, ſo!—Not always bled Low, mercenary Breaſts, by Hunger led. Once, there was nobler War.—Elſe, France! thy Fields Had loſt no Lilies, to my EDWARD's Shields. There was a Time, when Kings, of martial Soul, In Death's black Bands, cou'd Yeomens Hearts enrol: When Thames, and Trent, and Tracts where Severn runs, " Pour'd at their Prince's Feet their dreadful Sons:" Youths, whome no raw Reſentment's idiot Start Snatch'd, from a Sweet-heart's Frown, or Parent's Heart: But, vers'd in Arms, from Boy-hood's op'ning Bloom; Aſpects, of ſurly Force, and threat'ning Gloom! No puny Poſtures ſpaniel'd native Glow: No mincing Motions jirk'd, th' undancing Bow. Scornful of Tricks, and Twiſts, and apiſh Fling; The thigh-ſtruck Hand-clap, and the heel-twirl'd Spring; The toe-toſs'd Strut, the down-thump'd Firelock's Bang; The Stare of Promptneſs, and the time-kept Clang. Needleſs Parade, to Limbs, from infant Dawn, Nerv'd into Menace, and fatigu'd, to Brawn! Churls, whome each Feſtival to Practice led, Brac'd for the ſhafted Butt, with ſin'wy Tread: Prais'd, by the Nymphs they lov'd, by Friends careſs'd; And, by pleas'd Groups of joy-touch'd Parents, bleſs'd! Firm, as a Pyramid's broad Baſe, they ſtood: And ſternly meas'ring, ey'd the whiten'd Wood: Each ſtrong-ſtrain'd Muſcle, hard retracting, bent, Back'd the tugg'd Arrow, to it's Length's Extent: Then, the String ſtruggling, out the Miſchief flew— Shook, in the Mark: and ſhook th' Obſervers too! THESE were the Limbs, by Nature form'd, to kill! Big-bon'd Athletics! bred, to Brawls, and Skill! Theirs, were the Hands for Blows! the Eyes for Fight! The Voice for Startling! and the Scorn for Flight! EV'N now, rough Sons! pleas'd Mem'ry paints 'em gay! Muſcly, they march,—to CRESSI's dreadful Day! Swarms of light GAULS, in vain, broad Plains, o'erfill: Shine, from each Steep, and quicken ev'ry Hill. Conſcious, in vain, pale Genii lend their Aid; Cowr o'er each Standard: ſcream from ev'ry Shade! In vain, Streams, Woods, Rocks, Walls, and Turrets, lin'd, With vocal Thunder arm th' impregnate Wind. Onward we preſs'd—ſlow meas'ring hoſtile Ground; Unreck'ning Number, and un-anſw'ring Sound. With Look fix'd forward, dreadfully ſerene! My ſour-ſoul'd Archers mov'd, with ſurly Mien. Dumbly ſevere, the hers'd Arrangement clos'd: And one long Weft, of War-knit Strength, compos'd. No Smoak's involving Night their Frowns conceal'd: No roar'd Exploſion ſtunn'd the deaf'ning Field. Huſh'd, as the Shades of Death, whoſe Shafts they bore, Majeſtic Stillneſs breath'd ſtern Rev'rence, o'er! Aweful Attention watch'd, th' unſounding Sign: Till the rais'd Finger warn'd th'awak'ning Line. Then, back'ning aimful, Rank from Rank reclin'd, Their String-ſtrain'd Arrows looſen'd to the Wind— Prone, and point-blanc, the Front's barb'd Tempeſt drove; While, in curv'd Cloud, the Rear's ſlop'd Lightnings rove. Storms, foll'wing Storms, a ſteely Deluge rain: And Drifts of feath'ry Death deface the Plain! WHY were theſe Glories Ours?—'Twere poor, to boaſt! Brave is the Gaul! and forms no feeble Hoſt! All that was Man's was Theirs.—Who wrongs his Foe, Shames his own Triumph, and diſclaims his Blow. —What, then, prevail'd—o'er Courage, Numbers, Laws? 'Twas—that no venal Hireling ſtain'd my Cauſe. Then, War was Freehold Tenure: farm'd no Aid: Limp'd on no golden Legs—expos'd no Trade: No lukewarm Shout, in Death's dire Field was known; For, each touch'd Pleader felt the Cauſe his own. Then, firy Barons bled, for England's Fame: And kindling Tenants catch'd their Landlord's Flame. One, vaſt, un-liſted, Hoſt, whole Albion fram'd: March'd, conquer'd, and diſpers'd—to Cotts reclaim'd: Active, alike, the Death-dy'd Sword to wield, Or wind the Plow-ſhare's Point, to tame the Field. To Bribes, unbow'd: yet ductile in Command: Their Heart, their Country's—and their King's, their Hand, STILL-but how chang'd! -thus, thus, were Armies taught; Un-paid, thus tractile; and thus rais'd, un-bought: Forever ſtanding, and yet never fear'd; By Rights, held Freemen, and, to Homes, endear'd: Nor Time, nor Envy, ſhou'd your Safety ſhake: Nor Nimrod's Hunters your Incloſures break. BUT, Trade's exempted Pride no Arms will bear: She ſells her Scarlet; and bids Mis'ry wear! Her ſilken Sons, and Drum's big Sound chagrines: Her End is Safety—but ſhe ſcorns the MEANS! OH, Lux'ry! Sun-ſhown Cobweb! weakly fine! Thy ſoft Seduction, none cou'd e'er reſign: Till wrapt in Ruin, (which Thy Love made Fate) Thou falling—with thee fell th'unjointed State! Name not her glitt'ring Face: proud Shade.—'twas She, Gave Carthage up—to Rome, poor, brave, and free. Again, 'twas She, to naked Vandals, gave Rome, rich, proud, baſe, a Coward, and a Slave. 'Twas Wealth's fat Indolence, ſuperbly weak! To Lydian Wand'rers, ſold th' Imperial Greek. Hard, as their native Hills, deſcending Swarms Of Thieves, in Penury, and Saints, in Arms, Plund'ring Byzantium's GOLD, it's Influence felt: And, now, wait, rip'ning—for the Woes they dealt. So mourn'd the tutelary Pow'r; and paus'd: Penſively touch'd, for Ills by Affluence caus'd! While a thin Pediment, of colour'd Clouds, Truth, and her Chariot's flamy Driver, ſhrouds: O'er the curl'd Windings of whoſe wavy Flow, That, wid'ning vaſt, o'ercop'd the Depth below; FANCY, in firy Rings, on Air's ſoft Field, Round, and ſtill round, th' impatient Courſers wheel'd.

CANTO V. LONG, ſigh'd the Genius, thoughtfully begloom'd; At length, broke Silence; and her Theme reſum'd. DREAD, what you heard, my Sons! and ſhun this Doom Of Greece, rich Carthage, and all-conqu'ring ROME. Let your near Danger, now 'tis paſt, be known! Th' impending Suff'ring was deſign'd your own! Yes, Boaſter France! had'ſt thou but known thy Day; Known, where thy Strength, cluded Samſon, lay: Known, what reſiſtleſs Odds, in War, befriend The Sons of Steel, where Slaves of Gold contend; Abſtemious Patience Pride's great Work had done; Commerce had ſtill been loſt—but Empire won! (HEAV'N!) to my frighted Fancy, let me paint What, late, France was—then, boaſt her tim'd Reſtraint! Twenty prompt Millions preſs'd her peopled Plains; Who fed no Factions; and who felt no Chains: Deſpotic Pow'r grew there, in plaintleſs Soil; Peaſants, who ſung, in Want; and danc'd, in Toil! Dependent Nobles, fir'd for martial Fame: A Church, All linking to one Sov'reign Claim. Her Sons too poor for Pride, too fierce for Trade: Her King, too ſtor'd, to need a Merchant's Aid! VAST, and ſelf-mov'd, on came this Giant Soul! Each Part connected, to propel the Whole: For Conqueſt apt, and panting to begin: And burſting ev'ry Rein, that held her in. I ſaw th' all-daring Pow'r! Too near, ſhe ſtood: Hung o'er her Cliffs, and darken'd Half my Flood! —Is there, I cry'd, in vaſt Ambition's Walk, No dim proud Corner, where Miſtake might ſtalk? With fancy'd Forms, to ſcare misjudging Sight, Till Shade ſeem Subſtance, and Deception Light? There IS!—Blind Envy ſhall contend, to ſhare Diſputed COMMERCE—and enervate WAR: Bloat humble Want, to wealthy Diſcontent: Feed Strength, to Weakneſs: and give Faction Vent: Till fading Lilies, by rank Weeds, o'ergrown, The Prieſt's falſe Step ſhall ſhake the Prince's Throne. IN Heav'n's kind Ear, I lodg'd th' accepted Pray'r: (Still reigns my MARLBRO's living Influence there!) Walking, with Seraph Pow'rs, th' eternal Round, Th' immortal Captain caught th' imploring Sound: Where, on War's Theme, with MICHAEL, he conferr'd, And Caeſar's ſilent Soul, attentive, HEARD. Strait, from unbounded Voids of azure Light, Where Spirits, freed from Fleſh, and bleach'd from Night, Gliding, from Sun to Sun, new Worlds ſurvey, That roll, by Millions, and adorn their Way: Th' all-rev'renc'd Leader call'd a wily Mind, That left all Tinge of bodied Flegm behind; One, that had Popes and Jeſuits Ardour fir'd; And ſlow-ſoul'd Mufties ſolemn Spleens inſpir'd: Now, ſtript and naked, skimm'd th' eternal Space, Anxious for Office, and in Wait, for Place. Go, cry'd the Voice Seraphic, faithful! try'd!— In Fleury's brainy Cells, thy Entrance hide: Heedful attend, where Thought's dim Embryos lie: Fan the ſpeck'd Fire—but bend its Flame awry. Lure him th' Effects of pow'rful WEALTH to dread: And to try'd Traffick turn the Frenchman's Head. THERE! conqu'ring Guardian, of thy Country's Fame Bleſs'd be thy Spirit! deathleſs be thy Name! There ſprung the MINE, ſhall coſt th' unwary Foe A hundred Blenheims, in one, peaceful, Blow! Now, Seas and Lands, Gaul's graſping Talon ſtrains: And rich Obſtruction cloggs her tumid Veins. Bound down to Av'rice, and improv'd, for Prey, Terror ſhall heſitate Reſolves away: Reclaim of Rights revolt each ſtubborn Town, And ſlic'd Exemptions lop the curtail'd Crown: Heavy, on ſlow, chock'd, Wheels, th' encumber'd State Shall drag ſtretch'd Faction's all-retarding Weight. O, Policy! ſhort-ſighted Shade of Skill! How ſmall thy Graſp is! how immenſe, thy Will! WHO weigh'd the Weakneſs, of this dreaded Man? WHO mark'd, his Purpoſe blaſted, by his Plan? How have raſh Kings concurr'd, to ſwell thy Fame, Calm Fleury!—how be-gemm'd thy faded Name! Blind to thy Scheme's Event, they fail'd to ſee Republics rais'd on ruin'd Monarchy: Fail'd to foremark th' exalted Peaſant's Tread, High in Trade's Sandals, o'er the Noble's Head: And this fear'd Prieſt—prais'd Idol, of an Hour! With nurs'd Rebellion, blaſt his PRINCE's Pow'r! So fall the lazy Logs, that load a Throne; Lump Lords, of All Mens Paſſions, but their own! Whoſe truant 'Scape from Care conceives no Storm, Till the Waves reach them, and the Winds deform; Then ſtart they, half awake! ſtare, ſtamp, and rail; Void and tempeſtuous, as th' o'ertaking Gale! Fierce, in hot Fright, unhelm one erring Tool: And, to new Maſters, put their Faith to School. HAIL, my ſav'd Sons!—now, ſmile at threat'ning France, Declin'd for ever, by misjudg'd Advance! One glitt'ring Weakneſs light'ning both your Scales, Quarrel ſecure, while neither's Weight prevails: By one falſe Maxim, two fierce Nations cool'd— That War's tough Sinews owe their Strength to GOLD! Trite Blindneſs!—Thouſand falling States ſhall feel, No Pow'r can e'er want GOLD, whoſe Nerves are STEEL. This, Rome's old Gen'rals, born for Conqueſt, knew: For whome, unſown, Earth's hoſtile Harveſts grew. This, knew lean Hunns, devouring Rome's Increaſe! This, Greeks in Perſia knew: and Turks, in Greece. This, Goth Guſtavus, meas'ring German Soil: And ALL, th' un-number'd Waſters, paid by Spoil. O, Trade! fair Dalilah!—thy wanton Charms Bind lap-laid Slumb'rers, while thy Fear diſarms! How ſweet thy Smile! how dazzling is thy Glare! Witchcraft thy Accents! Paradiſe thy Air! Yet, weak'ning Wantonneſs thy Slaves deſtroys: Nerveleſs thy Vot'ries! indolent thy Joys! Sunk, and abſorb'd, within thy ſoft Embrace, Pants the lull'd Virtue, and forgets Diſgrace.— With Senſe, too abject, and with Claim, too proud, Thou ſhrink'ſt the Noble: and thou ſwell'ſt the Crowd. Too taſteful Thoſe, to leave luxurious Seats, For Sun-burnt Marches, or for Sea-ſhook Fleets! And Theſe too want-leſs, to be train'd to Awe; Where Mobs make Magiſtrates, and Brib'ry Law! UNMARK'D, theſe Remoras, cloſe cleaving, deep, Hang on War's Motions, and retard her Sweep: But Time's ſlow Scythe th' encumber'd Keel ſhall free, Point the ſtrait Courſe, and ſmooth th' obſtructed Sea. Thou, Faction! HEAD by HEAD, ſop-ſilenc'd, faſt, Shalt reſt thy Heels; and fold thy Arms at laſt! Then, un-impeded Councils, lab'ring long, Shall hit that Martial Medium, ſafely ſtrong: Where Trade, War, Pow'r, and Freedom, cen'tring, meet! —ASKILL'D MILITIA! and a GUARDIAN FLEET! TILL then—(long, intervening Shades I ſee!) Darkneſs and Diffidence require not ME. Farewel—your Howl ſhall break my Reſt no more. Bawl—till Sleep's deſtin'd Gag ſuſpends your Roar. HERE ſtopp'd the Genius.—Three wip'd Tears ſhe ſhed: And Clouds deſcending veil'd her tow'ry Head. Three times, ſhe ſigh'd: then, loſt, in ſlow Deſcent, Sunk, thro' th' embracing Surge's preſs'd Extent: Strait, dull, ſurrounding Flatneſs ſmooth'd the Deep; Huſh'd Winds, half whiſp'ring, lull Deſign to ſleep; Fat ſtagnant Reeks unbrace repoſing Air. Wide, o'er Armenian Hills, flew frighted Care. Happy Content ſaw Fame's cloſe Curtain drawn: And Three ſtretch'd Nations ſhar'd one pangleſs Yawn.

CANTO VI. QUENCH'D, and down-ruſhing, like a falling Star, Off dropp'd chill'd FANCY, from her flamy Car: In ſhrunk her Fires: her wing'd Ideas die; And dim Suffuſion darken'd ev'ry Eye. Whirl'd, like ejected Phaeton, ſhe fell: And o'er her, murm'ring, clos'd, th' unfathom'd Swell. Active, no more, th' ethereal Courſers neigh: No more flaſh'd Lightnings mark their burning Way. Tame, hung their drooping Necks: Each loos'ning Trace Drags falſe—and all th' exulting Nerves unbrace. Half the plung'd Harneſs, now, the Sea conceals: Now, hiſſing Waves half quench the ſmoaking Wheels! When, ſtooping mild, calm Truth her Danger ſpy'd: Snatch'd the ſav'd Reins—Herſelf her ſureſt Guide! Up, from th' engulphing Deep's defeated Flow, Roſe the drawn Chariot—ſteady! ſolemn! ſlow! Beamleſs, and bald of Fires: but heav'nly White! Rich, without Pomp, and, without Dazzling bright. Soft gliding homeward, thro' unruffled Air, Thus ſpoke th' Immortal, to her penſive Care. OH, Pain-touch'd Marlbro'! mitigate thy Grief: Check thy warm Wiſh, till Heav'n prepares Relief. Wait thy due Glories: born, an Age too late; When Fear grew Wiſdom, and Contempt was FATE! Snatch'd to thy letter'd Pile, indulge Retreat: Suſpend thy Purpoſe; and diſarm thy Heat. Bear back thy unpermitted Pow'r to ſhine: While gath'ring Darkneſs ſpreads, by Doom Divine! While Genius quits an un-aſpiring Race; Where War is pinion'd: and Corruption Grace! Where, Solids ſinking, only Bubbles ſwim: Where Fame is Quixotiſm! and Virtue Whim! YET, be thy Brav'ry bleſs'd! that dar'd intend! Bleſs'd thy skill'd Means, that match'd thy Patriot End! Bleſs'd thy Soul's gen'rous Start from Home, to flame Expanſive, for Redreſs of Alien Shame! And was there? cou'd there be? whoſe angry Zeal Diſclaim'd this Fervor! or declin'd to feel! Which, wid'ning with a God's impartial Call, Left ſome diſſatisfy'd, to care for ALL! Oh! huſh'd, forever, be the raſh Complaint, That ſaw ſuch Greatneſs, with an Eye ſo faint! —Is there a Breaſt, o'erwhelm'd with willing Woe? That can, for Public, private Joys forego? Sigh, for his Pains, O World!—ſince one, who bears For All—gives ALL Diſtreſs, by ſep'rate Shares. SHAME on that lock'd Receſs, in Party's Cell, Where grov'ling Pique, and brow-bent Cenſure, dwell! Where in-look'd Arrogance ſits, crippling Senſe: Help'd, by pain'd Pride, and angry Eminence! Lab'ring, each Heave, of Pity's Heart, to quell; And ſqueeze whole Nature into Self's hard Shell! O, Spleen!—Thy Gall has Reaſon's Mark effac'd: Till Human Weakneſs meaſures Truth, by Taſte! Our Deeds catch Colour from Opinion's Hue: And Right and Wrong take Name, from Place, and View! Theſe are thy Triumphs, thou detractive Cheat, Cloak'd Faction! perch'd in Freedom's ſully'd Seat. Narrow'd Contraction ſuits thy ſhorten'd Sight: As Owls owe Eye-beams to the Dusk of Night. Loſt, to Perception of the Soul's Extent, Thou feel'ſt no Greatneſs, ſtretch'd beyond thy Bent. Merit, thou try'ſt by Service: Guilt, by Hate. Call'ſt Malice Vigilance: and Knav'ry, Weight. Worth, in a Foe, thy Eyes want Strength to ſee: And no Tear touches, till it flows for THEE. SUCH are the Scales, in which the Great are weigh'd! And by ſuch Optics is the Muſe ſurvey'd! Yet, ſpite of Envy, Slander, Wrongs, and Time, The Great ſhall triumph, and the Muſe ſhall climb. When the pale Meteors of a State's dark Day Fall, from their Heights, and ſteam their Stench away: When All the Chance-mix'd Mobs of Pow'r ſhall die, And, loſt in titled Duſt, forgotten lie: When Miniſtry, and Pomp, and Wealth, and Trade, And Place, and Pride, and Hopes, and Fears, ſhall fade: When, ſilent as their Grave's forſaken Gloom! Kings, juſtly bury'd, ſhall no Life reſume; Then, ſhall immortal Triumph ſwell the Name, That fought, for Glory: or that thought, for Fame. Then ev'n th' obſcurer Sons, of future Praiſe, Whoſe Heads wore Diadems, or Genius, Bays, Ris'n, from Oppreſſion's Wound, or Want's Reſtraint, From Foes too furious, or from Friends too faint; In ſecond Life, paſt Fortune's Guilt atone; And, one Age loſt, claim All the Reſt, their own. Bright, in diſtinguiſh'd Orbs, of Wit, and War, Mark Hiſt'ry's meaſur'd Heav'n, from Star, to Star. HERE, pauſe;—and ſigh one Pain, ſupremely Thine: Thou, great Tranſmitter, of a MARLBRO's Line! —While, nobly negligent of CAESAR's Care, No ſelf-ſhown Comments conſcious Skill, declare; Greatly content, to ſave and ſerve, Mankind, Yet, loſe Himſelf, and leave no Lights, behind! Where are the PENS, that, aidful of his Fame, Fight his paſt Battles, and ungloom his Claim? TRUE, the dry Drones of Care can Facts enrol, Call Annals HIST'RY: and forget, but, SOUL. True, ev'n thro' Clouds like Theirs, His Acts can blaze! —But, maſs-mix'd Piles profane His hallow'd Praiſe. Tis not with wide-ſpread Smoak, from Side Events, To veil ſchem'd Views, and darken loſt Intents: 'Tis, thro' the thought-perplexing Deeps of War, Skilful, to hold in View the GUIDING STAR! From one, chief Part, educe the pendent Whole: Till acting Body proves, but acted Soul. THINK!—in the Sun-ſet of a conqu'ring State, Shou'd Gaul's vain Sons diſpute their Conqu'ror's Weight? Or partial German (ſocializing Fame) Bid Indiſtinction drown connected Name? Where is the Proof ſo plain, the Light ſo ſtrong, Cou'd ſhame th' Encroachment, and repel the Wrong? The Saver of Half Europe, who cou'd ſave?— No grateful Pen re-pays the Fame, He gave! Where cou'd we boaſt His full-drawn Length, deſign'd, In Strokes, that vivify the pictur'd Mind? Where is that Hand, that, copying from the Heart, Can trace it's Compaſs, and its Depth impart? And, skill'd, to juſtify deduc'd Applauſe, Hunt the due Glory, thro' the darken'd Cauſe? Shew Actions done, compar'd with Meaſures meant? Give, the Soul's Conqueſt, in the Plan's Extent? From laurell'd Councils, wind the Triumph down; And truſt no Pow'r to Chance, to ſtain Renown? Drawn, for Eternal Taſte, and ev'ry Clime, Lend Marlbro's lengthen'd Life, to dateleſs Time? O! tis a dreadful Task! and claims Thy Care: Thou, his Name's Guardian! and his Glory's Heir! —If, (firſt) not HERS, th' accompliſh'd Purpoſe ſhine, Whoſe Right ſtands foremoſt—and precludes ev'n Thine. Hers, to whoſe Choice his Love-drawn Heart inclin'd: The ſoft, ſole, CONQU'ROR, He was born to find! SHE—nobly touch'd, for Heroes Taſte of Fame! Bids Braſs and Marble breathe th' atteſted Flame. But, Braſs and Marble muſt, Themſelves, decay: No Life poſſeſſing, Theſe no Life convey. Theſe, Time ſhall eat; and Love's loſt Sigh be vain: Nor (ev'n in Heav'n!) Her Soul eſcape One Pain! But,—wou'd her pious Hand engrave his Name, Deeper than Braſs can bear, or Stone proclaim: Let her ſome Life's devoted Length engage, Skilful, to lead him, down th' illumin'd Page: Mark'd like Himſelf: all ſhown, all felt, all read— And living freſh, when Blenheim's Tow'rs are dead. BUT, Who?—What Strength ſuch Atlas Weight, can bear? The Pen's vaſt Spirit, like the Chief's, muſt dare! Wing'd withHISFire, like Lightning, ſweep the Plain: Yet, tow'r, all temp'rate, to the Conqu'ror's Brain! SUCH, may your Houſe's happy Judgment find! Ere Fate, or Fortune, gives it to the Wind. Worn or conſum'd, ere PAPERS quit their Truſt: And the wrong'd Shade lament the mould'ring Duſt!

FINIS