VII.
As when the Theban hymns divine
Make proud Olympian victors shine
In an eternal blaze,
The varying measures, ever new,
Unbeaten tracks of fame pursue,
While through the glorious maze
The poet leads his heroes to renown,
And weaves in verse a never-fading crown.
To Miss MARGARET PULTENEY, Daughter of
Daniel PULTENEY, Esq; in the Nursery,
APRIL 27, 1727
D'M
IMPLY damsel, sweetly smiling,
All caressing, none beguiling,
Bud of beauty, fairly blowing,
Every charm to Nature owing,
This and that new thing admiring,
Much of this and that enquiring,
Knowledge by degrees attaining,
Day by day fome virtue gaining,
8
Ten years hence, when I leave chiming,
Beardless poets, fondly rhyming,
(Fescued now, perhaps, in spelling,)
On thy riper beauties dwelling,
Shall accuse each killing feature
Of the cruel, charming, creature,
Whom I knew complying, willing,
Tender, and averse from killing,
To Miss CHARLOTTE PULTENEY,
in her Mother's Arms.
T
TIMELY blossom, infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn, and every night,
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please,
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue,
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the
very
heart,
Yet abandon’d to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush,
Like the lionet in the buih.
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her fiender throat,
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May,
Flitting to each bloomy fpray,
Wearicd then, and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest.
ROBERT WALPOLE, ESQUIRE.
JUNE 15, 1724.
V.
OTARY to publick zeal,
,
Minister of England's weal,
Have
you
leisure for a song,
Tripping lightly o’er the tongue,
Swift and sweet in every measure,
Tell me, Walpole, have you
leisure ?
Nothing lofty will I sing,
Nothing of the favourite king,
Something, rather, fung with ease,
Simply elegant to please.
Fairy Virgin, British Muse,
Some unbear’d-of story chuse:
Chuse the glory of the swain,
Gifted with a magic ftrain,
Swaging grief of every kind,
Healing, with a verse, the mind :
To him caine a man of
power,
To him, in a clieerless bour;
When
When the fwain, by Druids taught,
Soon divin'd his irksome thought,
Soon the maple harp he ftrung,
Soon, with silver-accent, sung.
“ Steerer of a mighty realm,
66 Pilot, waking o'er the helm,
“ Blessing of thy native foil,
“ Weary of a thankless toil,
“ Cast repining thought behind,
“ Give thy trouble to the wind.
" Mortal, destin'd to excel,
“ Bear the blame of doing well,
« Like the worthies great of old,
" In the list of fame enroll'd.
" What, though titles thou decline ?
“ Still the more thy virtues shine.
“ Envy, with her serpent eye,
6 Marks each praise that foars on high.
“ To thy lot resign thy will:
“ Every good is mix'd with ill.
" See, the white unblemish'd rose
« On a thorny bramble blows :
" See, the torrent pouring rain
“ Does the limpid fountain stain :
“ See, the giver of the day
“ Urgeth on, through clouds, his way:
“ Nothing is, entirely, bless'd;
« Envy does thy worth attest.
“ Pleasing visions, at command, “ Answer to my voice and hand ;
.*. Quick, the blissful scene prepare,
66 Sooth the patriot's heavy care :
" Visions, cheering to the fight,
66 Give him earnest of delight.
" Wife disposer of affairs,
« View the end of all thy cares!
* Forward cast thy ravish'd eyes,
« See the gladdening harvest rise.:
“ Lo, the people reap thy pain!
- Thine the labor, theirs the gain.
.66 Yonder turn, awile, they view,
“ Turn thee to yon spreading yew,
« Once the gloomy tree of fate,
“ Once the plighted virgin's hate :
6. Now, no longer, does it grow,
" Parent of the warring bow:
" See, beneath the guiltless shade,
“ Peasants shape the plow and spade,
« Rescued, eyer, from the fear
« Of the whistling shaft and spear.
“ Lo, where plenty comes, with peace!
“ Hear the breath of murmur cease :
“ See, at last, unclouded days;
6. Hear, at last, unenvied praise.
“ Nothing shall thy soul moleft;
.66 Labour is the price of rest.
« Mortal, destin'd to excel,
46 Bless the toil of doing well !"
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