Did not his arm the ranks of war deform,
And point the hovering tumult where to ftorm?
Did not his sword through legions cleave his way,
Break their dark squadrons, and let in the day?
Did not he lead the terrible attack,

Push conqueft on, and bring her bleeding back?
Throw wide the scenes of horror and despair,
The tide of conflict, and the ftream of war?
Bid yellow Tagus, who in triumph roll'd,
Till then his turbid tides of foaming gold,
Boaft his rich channels to the world no more,
Since all his glittering ftreams, and liquid ore,
Lie undistinguish'd in a flood of gore.
Bid his charg'd waves, and loaded billows sweep,
Thy flaughter'd thousands to the frighted deep.
Confefs, fair Albion, how the liftening throng
Dwelt on the moving accents of his tongue.
In the fage council feat him, and confefs
Thy arm in war, thy oracle in peace :
How here triumphant too, his nervous fenfe
Bore off the palm of manly eloquence:

The healing balm to Albion's wounds apply'd,
And charm'd united factions to his fide:

Fix'd on his fovereign's head the nodding crown,
And prop'd the tottering bafis of the throne,
Supported bravely all the nation's weight,
And food the public Atlas of the flate.
Sound the loud trumpet, let the folemn knell
Bid with due horror his great foul farewel

Tune every martial instrument with care,

At once wake all the harmony of war.

Let each fad hero in proceffion go,

And fwell the vaft folemnity of woe.
Neglect the yew, the mournful cyprefs leave,
And with fresh laurels ftrew the warrior's grave.
There they shall rife, in honour of his name,
Grow green with victory, and bloom with fame.

Lo! from his azure throne, old father Thames

Sighs through his floods, and groans from all his ftreams:
O'er his full urn he droops his reverend head,
And finks down deeper in his oozy bed,

As the fad pomp proceeds along his fides,
O'ercharg'd with forrow, pant his heaving tides..
Low in his humid palace laid to mourn,
With ftreams of tears, the God fupplies his urn.
Within his channels he forgets to flow,

And pours o'er all his bounds the deluge of his woe.
But fee, my Mufe, if yet thy ravish'd fight

Can bear that blaze, that rushing stream of light;
Where the great hero's difencumber'd foul,

Springs from the earth, to reach her native pole.
Boldly fhe quits th' abandon'd caík of clay,

Freed from her chains, and towers th' æthereal way:

Soars o'er th' eternal funds of hail and fnow,
And leaves heaven's ftormy magazines below.
Thence through the vaft profound of heaven she flies,
And measures all the concave of the skies:
Sces where the planetary worlds advance,

Orb above orb, and lead the starry dance..

Non

Nor refts the there, but, with a bolder flight,
Explores the undifcover'd realms of light.
Where the fix'd orbs, to deck the spangled pole,
In ftate around their gaudy axles roll.
Thence his afpiring courfe in triumph fteers,
Beyond the golden circles of the fpheres,
Into the heaven of heavens, the feat divine,
Where nature never drew her mighty line.
A region that excludes all time and place,
And shuts creation from th' unbounded space:
Where the full tides of light in oceans flow,
And fee the fun ten thousand worlds below.
So far from our inferior orbs disjoin'd,
The tir'd imagination pants behind.

Then ceafe thy painful fight, nor venture more,
Where never Mufe has stretch'd her wing before.
Thy pinions tempt immortal heights in vain,
That throw thee fluttering back to earth again.
On earth a while, bleft fhade, thy thoughts employ,
And fteal one moment from eternal joy.

While there, in heaven, immortal fongs inspire
Thy golden ftrings, and tremble on the lyre,
Which raise to nobler ftrains th' angelic choir.
Look down with pity on a mortal's lays,

Who strives, in vain, to reach thy boundless praise:
Who with low verfe profanes thy facred name,
Loft in the spreading circle of thy fame.

Thy fame, which, like thyfelf, is mounted high,
Wide as thy heaven, and lofty as thy fky.

}

And

And thou, his pious confort, here below,
Lavish of grief, and prodigal of woe:

Oh! choak thy griefs, thy rising sighs fuppress,
Nor let thy forrows violate his peace.
This rage of anguish, that disdains relief,
Dims his bright joys, with some allay of grief.
Look on his dearest pledge, he left behind,
And fee how Nature, bountiful and kind,
Stamps the paternal image on his mind.
Oh! may th' hereditary virtues run
In fair fucceffion, to adorn the fon;

The last best hopes of Albion's realms to grace,
And form the hero worthy of his race :
Some means at last by Britain may be found,
To dry her tears, and close her bleeding wound.
And if the Muse through future times can fee,
Fair youth, thy father shall revive in thee:
Thou shalt the wondering nation's hopes engage
To rife the Stanhope of the future age.

BE

EPITAPH ON DR. KEIL,

The late famous Aftrologer.

ENEATH this stone the world's just wonder lies, Who, while on earth, had rang'd the fpacious skies; Around the ftars his active foul had flown,

And feen their courfes finish'd ere his own:
Now he enjoys thofe realms he could explore,
And finds that heaven he knew fo well before.
He through more worlds his victory pursued
Than the brave Greek could wish to have fubdued;
In triumph ran one vaft creation o'er,

Then ftop'd,

-for Nature could afford no more. With Cæfar's fpeed, young Ammon's noble pride, He came, faw, vanquish'd, wept, return'd, and died.