Is to preferve their Country; who oppose,
In honour leagu'd, none but their Country's foes;
Who only feek their own, and found their cause
In due regard for violated laws)

When ftern Rebellion, who no longer feels
Nor fears rebuk, a Nation at her heels,

A Nation up in arms, tho' strong not proud,
Knocks at the palace-gate, and, calling loud
For due redrefs, prefents, from Truth's fair pen,
A lift of wrongs, not to be borne by men;
How must that King be humbled, how disgrace
All that is royal in his name and place,
Who, thus call'd forth to anfwer, can advance
No other plea but that of Ignorance!
A vile defence, which was his All at stake,
The meaneft fubject well might blush to make;
A filthy fource, from whence fhame ever springs;
A ftain to all, but most a stain to Kings.
The foul, with great and manly feelings warm'd,
Panting for knowledge, refts not till inform'd :
And fhall not I, fir'd with the glorious zeal,
Feel those brave paffions which my subjects feel?
Or can a juft excufe from ignorance flow
To me, whofe firit, great duty is-To Know ?
Hence Ignorance-thy fettled, dull, blank eye
Wou'd hurt me, tho' I knew no reason why-
Hence Ignorance-thy flavifh fhackles bind
The free-born foul, and lethargy the mind-
Of thee, begot by Pride, who look'd with scorn
On ev'ry meaner match, of thee was born
That grave inflexibility of foul,

Which Reason can't convince, nor Fear controul?
Which neither arguments nor pray'rs can reach,
And nothing less than utter ruin teach-
Hence Ignorance-hence to that depth of night
Where thou waft born, where not one gleam of light
May wound thine eye-hence to fome dreary cell,
Where Monks with Superftition love to dwell;
Or in fome College foothe thy lazy pride,
And with the Heads of Colleges refide;
Fit mate for Royalty thou can'ft not be ;
And if no mate for Kings, no mate for me.

Come Study, like a torrent fwell'd with rains,
Which, rufhing down the mountains, o'er the plains
Spreads horror wide, and yet, in horror kind,
Leaves feeds of future fruitfulness behind;
Come Study-painful tho' thy courfe and flow,
Thy real worth by thy effects we know-
Parent of Knowledge, come! Not thee I call,'
Who, grave and dull, in College or in Hall
Doft fit, all folemn fad, and moping weigh
"Things, which when found, thy labours can't repay-
Nor, in one hand, fit emblem of thy trade,
A rod; in t' other gaudily array'd
A hornbook, gilt and letter'd; call I Thee,
Who doft in form prefide o'er A B C— :
Nor (firen tho' thou art, and thy strange charms,
As 'twere by magic lure men to thy arms)
Do I call Thee, who thro' a winding maze,
A labyrinth of puzzling, pleafing ways,
Doft lead us at the laft to thofe rich plains,
Where, in full glory, real Science reigns:
Fair tho' thou art, and lovely to mine eye,
Tho' full rewards in thy poffeffion lie

To crown man's wifh, and do thy fav'rites grace,
'Tho' (was I ftation'd in an humbler place)
I could be ever happy in thy fight,

Toil with thee all the day, and through the night

Toil on from watch to watch, bidding my eye, Fait rivetted on Science, fleep defy;

Yet (fuch the hardships which from empire flow) Muft I thy fweet fociety forego,

And to fome happy rival's arms refign

Thofe charms, which can, alas! no more be mine.
No more, from hour to hour, from day to day,
Shall I pursue thy fteps, and urge my way
Where eager love of Science calls; no more
Attempt thofe paths which man ne'er trod before.
No more the mountain fcal'd, the defart croft,
Lofing myfelf, nor knowing I was loft,
Travel thro' woods, thro' wilds, from morn to night,
From night to morn, yet travel with delight,
And having found thee, lay me down content,
Own all my toil well paid, my time well spent.

Farewell ye Mufes too-for fuch mean things
Muft not prefume to dwell with mighty Kings-
Farewell ye Mufes-tho' it cuts my heart
E'en to the quick, we muft for ever part.

When the fresh morn bade lufty Nature wake; When the birds, fweetly twitt'ring thro' the brake, Tun'd their foft pipes; when from the neighb'ring bloom,

Sipping the dew, each Zephyr ftole perfume;
When all things with new vigour were infpir'd,
And feem'd to fay they never could be tir'd;
How often have we ftray'd, whilft sportive rime
Deceiv'd the way, and clipp'd the wings of Time,
O'er hill, o'er dale! how often laugh'd to fee,
Yourselves made vifible to none but me,
The clown, his work fufpended, gape and stare,
And feem'd to think that I convers'd with air!

When the Sun, beating on the parched foil,
Seem'd to proclaim an interval of toil;
When a faint languor crept thro' ev'ry breaft.
And things moft us'd to labour, wish'd for reft;
How often, underneath a rev'rend oak,
Where fafe, and fearlefs of the impious stroke,
Some facred Dryad liv'd, or in fome grove,
Where with capricious fingers Fancy wove
Her fairy bow'r, whilft Nature all the while
Look'd on,
and view'd her mock'ries with a fmile,
Have we held converse sweet! how often laid,
Faft by the Thames, in Ham's infpiring fhade,
Amongst thofe Poets which make up your train,
And, after death, pour forth the facred strain,
Have I, at your command, in verse grown grey,
But not impair'd, heard Dryden tune that lay,
Which might have drawn an angel from his fphere,
And kept him from his office lift'ning here.

When dreary. Night, with Morpheus in her
train,

Led on by Silence to refume her reign,
With darkness covering, as with a robe,
This fcene of levity, blank'd half the globe;
How oft, enchanted with your heav'nly ftrains,
Which stole me from myfelf, which in foft chains
Of Mufic bound my foul, how oft' have I,
Sounds more than human floating thro' the sky,
Attentive fat, whilst Night, against her will,
Tranfported with the harmony, ftood still!
How oft' in raptures, which man fcarce could bear,
Have I, when gone, ftill thought the Mufes there;
Still heard their mufic, and, as mute as death,
Sat all attention, drew in ev'ry breath,
Left, breathing all too rudely, I should wound,
And mar that magic excellence of found;

Then, Senfe returning with return of day,
Have chid the Night, which fled fo falt away.

Such my pursuits, and fuch my joys of yore,
Such were my mates, but now my mates no more.
Plac'd out of Envy's walk, (for Envy fure
Would never haunt the cottage of the poor,
Would never ftoop to wound my homefpun lays)
With fome few friends, and fome fmall fhare of
praife,

Beneath oppreffion, undisturb'd by strife,
In peace i trod the humble vale of life.
Farewell thefe fcenes of eafe, this tranquil ftate;
Welcome the troubles which on empire wait.
Light toys from this day forth I difavow,
They pleas'd me once, but cannot fuit me now;
To common men all common things are free,
What honours them might fix difgrace on me.
Call'd to a throne, and o'er a mighty land
Ordain'd to rule, my head, my heart, my hand
Are all engrofs'd, each private view withstood,
And tafk'd to labour for the public good;
Be this my ftudy, to this one great end
May ev'ry thought, may ev'ry action tend.

Let me the page of History turn o'er,
Th' inftructive page, and heedfully explore
What faithful pens of former times have wrote
Of former Kings; what they did worthy note,
What worthy blame; and from the facred tomb
Where righteous Monarchs fleep, where laurels

bloom

Unhurt by Time, let me a garland twine,
Which, robbing not their fame, may add to mine.
Nor let me with a vain and idle eye
Glance o'er these scenes, and in a hurry fly
Quick as a Poft which travels day and night;
Nor let me dwell there, lur'd by falfe delight,
And, into barren theory betray'd,
Forget that Monarchs are for action made.
When am'rous Spring, repairing all his charms,
Calls Nature forth from hoary Winter's arms,
Where, like a virgin to fome letcher fold,
Three wretched months the lay benumb'd, and cold;
When the weak flow'r, which, fhrinking from the
breath

Of the rude North, and timorous of death,
To its kind mother Earth for thelter fled,
And on her bofom hid its tender head,
Peeps forth afresh, and, chear'd by milder skies,
Bids in full fplendor all her beauties tife;
The hive is up in arms-expert to teach,
Nor, proudly, to be taught unwilling, each
Seems from her fellow a new zeal to catch:
Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch,
The Bee goes forth;
from herb to herb fhe flies,
From flow'r to flow'r, and loads her lab'ring thighs
With treafur'd fweets; robbing thofe flow'rs, which
left,

Find not themselves made poorer by the theft,
Their fcents as lively, and their looks as fair,
As if the pillager had not been there.
Ne'er doth the flit on Pleafure's filken wing,
Ne'er doth fhe, loit'ring, let the bloom of Spring
Unrifled pafs, and on the downy breaft
Of fome fair flow'r indulge untimely reft.
Ne'er doth fhe, drinking deep of those rich dews
Which Chymift Night prepar'd, that faith abuse
Due to the hive, and felfish in her toils,
To her own private ufe convert the spoils.

Love of the stock first call'd her forth to roam,
And to the stock she brings her booty home.
Be this my pattern-As becomes a King,
Let me fly all abroad on Reafon's wing;
Let mine eye, like the lightning, thro' the earth
Run to and fro', nor let one deed of worth,
in any place and time, nor let one man
Whole actions may enrich dominion's plan,
Efcape my note: be all, from the first day
Of Nature to this hour, be all my prey.
From thofe, whom Time at the defire of Fame
Jath fpar'd, let Virtue catch an equal flame;
Trom thofe, who not in mercy, but in rage,
Time hath repriev'd to damn from age to age,
Let me cake warning, leffon'd to distill,
Ard, imitating Heav'n, draw good from ill.
Nor let thefe great refearches in my breast
A monument of ufelefs labour reft;

No-let them fpread-th' effects let Gotham fhare,
And reap the harveft of their Monarch's care:
Be other times and other countries known,
Only to give fresh bleffings to my own.

Let me, (and may that God to whom I fly,
On whom for needful fuccour I rely
In this great hour, that glorious God of truth!
Thro' whom I reign, in mercy to my youth
Affift my weakness, and direct me right;
From ev'ry fpeck which hangs upon the fight
Purge my mind's eye, nor let one cloud remain
To spread the fhades of error o'er my brain)
Let me, impartial, with unwearied thought
Try men and things; let me, as Monarchs ought,
Examine well on what my pow'r depends ;
What are the gen'ral principles and ends
Of Government; how empire first began ;
And wherefore man was rais'd to reign o'er man.
Let me confider, as from one great source
We fee a thousand rivers take their course,
Difpers'd, and into diff'rent channels led,
Yet by their parent ftill fupply'd and fed,
That Government (tho' branch'd out far and wide,
In various modes to various lands apply'd),
Howe'er it differs in its outward frame,
In the main groundwork's ev'ry where the same ;
The fame her view, tho' different her plan,
Her grand and gen'ral view the good of man.

Let me find out, by Reafon's facred beams,
What fyftem in itself most perfect seems,
Moft worthy man, moft likely to conduce
To all the purposes of gen'ral use:

Let me find, too, where, by fair Reason try'd,
It fails when to particulars apply'd;
Why in that mode all nations do not join,
And, chiefly, why it cannot fuit with mine.

Let me the gradual rife of empires trace,
Till they feem founded on Perfection's base;
Then (for when human things have made their way
To excellence they haften to decay)

Let me, whilft Obfervation lends her clue,
Step by step to their quick decline pursue,
Enabled by a chain of facts to tell,

Not only how they rofe, but how they fell.

Let me not only the distempers know
Which in all States from common caufes grow,
But likewise those which, by the will of Fate,
On each peculiar mode of empire wait;
Which in its very conftitution lurk,
Too fure at laft to do its deftin'd work;

Shall own thee clear, or pafs an act of grace,
Since thou haft left a Powell in thy place.

Enough of Authors-Why, when fcribblers fail,
Muft other fcribblers spread the hateful tale ?
Why muft they pity, why contempt exprefs,
And why infult a brother in diftrefs?

Let those who boast th' uncommon gift of brains,
The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains;
Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom,
And, ages paft, till flourish round their tomb.
Let thofe, who without genius write, and write,
Verfemen or Profemen, all in Nature's spite,
The pen laid down, their courfe of Folly run
In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone,
Why thould I tell, to crofs the will of fate,
That Francis * once endeavour'd to tranflate?
Why, fweet oblivion winding round his head,
Should I recal poor Murphy from the dead?
Why may not Langhorne, fimple in his lay,
Effufion on Effufion pour away † ;
With Friendship and with Fancy trifle here,
Or fleep in Paftoral at Belvedere ?

Sleep let them all, with Dullness on her throne,
Secure from any malice but their own.

Enough of Critics-let them if they please,
Fond of new pomp, each month pafs new decrees;
Wide and extenfive be their infant state,
Their fubjects many, and thofe fubjects great,
Whilft all their mandates as found law fucceed,
With fools who write, and greater fools who read.
What tho' they lay the realms of Genius waite,
Fetter the fancy, and debauch the taste;
Tho' they, like doctors, to approve their skill,
Confult not how to cure, but how to kill;
Tho' by whim, envy, or refentment led,
They damn thofe authors whom they never read;
Tho', other rules unknown, one rule they hold,
To deal out fo much praise for so much gold;
Tho' Scot with Scot, in damned close intrigues,
Against the Commonwealth of Letters leagues;
Unsenfur'd let them pilot at the helm,
And rule in letters, as they rul'd the realm.
Ours be the curfe, the mean tame coward's curfe,
(Nor could ingenious Malice make a worse,
To do our Senfe and Honour deep despite)
To credit what they fay, read what they write.
Enough of Scotland-let her reft in peace,
The cause remov'd, effects of courfe fhould cease.
Why should I tell, how Tweed, too mighty grown,
And proudly fwell'd with waters not his own,
Burft o'er his banks, and by destruction led,
O'er our faint England defolation fpread,
Whilst riding on his waves, Ambition plum'd
In tenfold pride, the port of Bute affum'd,
Now that the River God, convinc'd, tho' late,
And yielding, tho' reluctantly, to fate,
Holds his fair course, and with more humble tides,
In tribute to the fea, as ufual, glides.

Enough of States, and fuch like trifling things; Enough of Kinglings, and enough of Kings;

* Dr. Philip Francis, the tranflator of Horace and Demofthenes.

See the Effufions of Friendship and Fancy, by Dr. Langhorne, 2 vols. 12mo. 1763.

See the Enlargement of the Mind, Langhorne's Poems,

Henceforth, fecure, let ambush'd statesmen lie,
Spread the Court web, and catch the patriot Ay
Henceforth, unwhipt of Justice, uncontroul'd
By fear or thame, let Vice, fecure and bold,
Lord it with all her fons, whilft Virtue's groan
Meets with compaffion only from the throne.
Enough of Patriots-all I afk of man,
Is only to be honest as he can.

Some have deceiv'd, and fome may ftill deceive;
"Tis the fool's curfe at random to believe.

Would thofe, who, by opinion plac'd on high,
Stand fair and perfect in their Country's eye,
Maintain that honour, let me in their ear
Hint this effential doctrine-Persevere.
Should they (which Heav'n forbid) to win the grace
Of fome proud courtier, or to gain a place,
Their King and Country fell, with endless shame
Th' avenging Mufe fhall mark each traitorous name;
But if, to Honour true, they fcorn to bend,
And, proudly honeft, hold out to the end,
Their grateful Country fhall their fame record,
And I myself defcend to praise a Lord.

Enough of Wilkes-with good and honeft men
His actions fpeak much stronger than my pen,
And future ages fhall his name adore,
When he can act, and I can write no more.
England may prove ungrateful, and unjust,
But foft'ring France fhall ne'er betray her truft;
'Tis a brave debt which gods on men impofe,
To pay with praife the merit e'en of foes.
When the great warrior of Amilcar's race
Made Rome's wide empire tremble to her bafe,
Το prove her virtue, tho' it gall'd her pride,
Rome gave that fame which Carthage had deny'd.
Enough of Self-that darling luscious theme,
O'er which philofophers in raptures dream;
Of which with feeming difregard they write,
Then prizing moft, when moft they feem to flight;
Vain proof of folly tinctur'd strong with pride!
What man can from himself divide?
For me, (nor dare I lie) my leading aim
(Confcience first fatisfied) is love of fame,
Some little fame deriv'd from fome brave few,
Who prizing Honour, prize her vot'ries too.
Let all (nor fhall refentment flush my cheek)
Who know me well, what they know, freely fpeak,
So thofe (the greatest curfe I meet below)
Who know me not, may not pretend to know.
Let none of those, whom blefs'd with parts above
My feeble genius, ftill I dare to love,
Doing more mischief than a thousand foes,
Pofthumous nonfenfe to the world expofe,
And call it mine, for mine tho' never known,
Or which, if mine, I living, blush'd to own.
Know all the world, no greedy heir fhall find,
Die when I will, one couplet left behind.
Let none of thofe, whom I defpife tho' great,
Pretending friendship to give malice weight,
Publish my life; let no falfe fneaking Peer,
(Some fuch there are) to win the public ear,
Hand me to fhame with fome vile anecdote,
Nor faul-gall'd Bishop damn me with a note.
Let one poor fprig of bay around my head
Bloom whilft I live, and point me out when dead;
Let it (may Heav'n indulgent grant that pray'r)
Be planted on my grave, nor wither there;
And when, on travel bound, fome riming guest
Roams thro' the church-yard whilft his dinner's drefs'd,