Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays, And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise; Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame, Not lifted by my genius, but my theme. No more: for in this dread suspense of fate, Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate Weigh peace and war, now Europe’s eyes are bent On mighty Brunswick, for the great event, Brunswick of kings the terror or defence! Who dares detain thee at a world’s expense?
AND EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.
Parnassia laurus Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra.
When Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone, And great Augustus rul’d the globe alone, While suppliant kings in all their pomp and state Swarm’d in his courts, and throng’d his palace gate; Horace did oft the mighty man detain, And sooth’d his breast with no ignoble strain; Now soar’d aloft, now struck an humbler string; And taught the Roman genius how to sing. Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue, Who know no want of Cæsar, finding you; The muse’s friend is pleas’d the muse should press Through circling crowds, and labor for access, That partial to his darling he may prove, And shining throngs for her reproach remove, To all the world industrious to proclaim His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame. Long has the western world reclin’d her head, Pour’d forth her sorrow, and bewail’d her dead; Fell discord through her borders fiercely rang’d, And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang’d; By land and sea, its utmost rage employ’d; Nor heaven repair’d so fast as men destroy’d. In vain kind summers plentuous fields bestow’d, In vain the vintage liberally flow’d; Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chas’d, And robb’d the rich Burgundian grape of taste; The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring, The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring; Time was distinguish’d by the sword and spear, Not by the various aspects of the year; The trumpet’s sound proclaim’d a milder sky, And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh. But now (so soon is Britain’s blessing seen, When such as you are near her glorious queen!) Now peace, though long repuls’d, arrives at last, And bids us smile on all our labours past; Bids every nation cease her wonted moan, And every monarch call his crown his own: To valour gentler virtues now succeed; No longer is the great man born to bleed; Renown’d in councils, brave Argyle shall tell, Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell: Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame, And without trembling we resound his name. No more the rising harvest whets the sword, No longer waves uncertain of its lord; Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim, Nor chance of battle change the master’s name. Each stream unstain’d with blood more smoothly flows; The brighter sun a fuller day bestows; All nature seems to wear a cheerful face, And thank great Anna for returning peace. The patient thus, when on his bed of pain, No longer he invokes the gods in vain, But rises to new life; in every field He finds Elysium, rivers nectar yield; Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please, And borrow beauties from his late disease. Nor is it peace alone, but such a peace, As more than bids the rage of battle cease. Death may determine war, and rest succeed, ’Cause nought survives on which our rage may feed: In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes, And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose. See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance, Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France; So well receiv’d, so welcome, so at home, (Blest change of fate,) in Bourbon’s stately dome; The monarch pleas’d, descending from his throne, Will not that Anna call him all her own; He claims a part, and looking round to find Something might speak the fulness of his mind, A diamond shines, which oft had touch’d him near, Renew’d his grief, and robb’d him of a tear; Now first with joy beheld, well plac’d on one, Who makes him less regret his darling son; So dear is Anna’s minister, so great, Your glorious friend in his own private state. To make our nations longer two, in vain Does nature interpose the raging main: The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows, For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows: From conflicts pass’d each other’s worth we find, And thence in stricter friendship now are join’d; Each wound receiv’d, now pleads the cause of love, And former injuries endearments prove. What Briton but must prize th’ illustrious sword, That cause of fear to Churchill could afford? Who sworn to Bourbon’s sceptre, but must frame Vast thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard tame? Thus generous hatred in affection ends, And war, which rais’d the foes, completes the friends.