Or wert thou but a traveller below,
That hither didit awhile repair,
Curious our customs and our laws to know?
And, fickening in our groffer air,
And tir'd of vain repeated fights,
Our foolish cares, our falfe delights,
Back to thy native feats would'st go?
Oh! fince to us thou wilt no more return,
Permit thy friends, the faithful few
Who beft thy numerous virtues knew,
Themfelves, not thee to mourn.
Now, penfive Mufe, enlarge thy flight!
(By turns the penfive Mufes love
The hilly heights and fhady grove)
Behold where, fwelling to the fight,
Balls, a fair structure, graceful stands!
And from yon verdant rising brow
Sees Hertford's ancient town, and lands
Where Nature's hand in flow meanders leads
'The Lee's clear ftream its courfe to flow
Through flowery vales, and moiften'd meads,
And far around in beauteous profpects spreads
Her map of plenty all below.
"Twas here-and facred be the fpot of earth!
Eliza's foul, born first above,
Defcended to an humbler birth,
And with a mortal's frailties ftrove.
So, on fome towering peak that meets the sky,
When miffive feraphs downward fly,
They ftop, and for awhile alight,
Put off their rays celeftial-bright,
Then take fome milder form familiar to our eye.
Swiftly her infant virtues grew:
Water'd by Heaven's peculiar care,
Her morning bloom was doubly fair,
Like fummer's day-break, when we fee
The fresh-dropp'd stores of rofy dew
(Transparent beauties of the dawn)
Spread o'er the grafs their cobweb-lawn,
Or hang moist pearls on every tree.
Pleas'd with the lovely fight awhile
Her friends behold, and joyful smile,
Nor think the fun's exhaling ray
Will change the scene ere noon of day,
Dry up the gliftering drops, and draw thofe dews away.
Yet first, to fill her orb of life,
Behold, in each relation dear,
The pious faint, the duteous child appear,
The tender fifter, and the faithful wife.
Alas! but must one circlet of the year
Unite in bliss, in grief divide
The deftin'd bridegroom and the bride?
Stop, generous youth, the gathering tear,
That as you read thefe lines or hear
Perhaps may ftart, and feem to fay, That short-liv'd year was but a day! Forbear—nor fruitlefs forrowings now employ, Think she was lent awhile, not given, (Such was th' appointed will of Heaven) Then grateful call that year an age of virtuous joy.
PRINTED AT THE BREAKING OUT OF THE
REBELLION IN THE YEAR 1715.
THE man that loves his king and nation,
And fhuns each vile affociation,
That trufts his honeft deeds i' th' light,
Nor meets in dark cabals, by night,
With fools, who, after much debate,
Get themselves hang'd, and save the state,
Needs not his hall with weapons ftore;
Nor dreads each rapping at his door;
Nor fculks, in fear of being known,
Or hides his guilt in parfon's gown;
Nor wants, to guard his generous heart,
The poniard or the poifon'd dart;
And, but for ornament and pride,
A fword of lath might cross his fide.
If o'er St. James's park he stray,
He ftops not, paufing in his way;
Nor pulls his hat down o'er his face,
Nor ftarts, looks back, and mends his
Or if he ramble to the Tower,
He knows no crime, and dreads no power,
But thence returning, free as wind,
Smiles at the bars he left behind.
Thus, as I loiter'd t' other day,
Humming-O every month was May-
And, thoughtless how my time I fquander'd,
From Whitehall, through the Cockpit wander'd,
A meffenger with furly eye
View'd me quite round, and yet pass'd by.
No sharper look or rougher mien
In Scottish highlands e'er was feen;
Nor ale and brandy ever bred
More pimpled cheeks, or nofe more red;
And yet, with both hands in my breast,
Careless I walk'd, nor fhunn'd the beast.
Place me among a hundred fpies,
Let all the room be ears and eyes;
Or fearch my pocket-books and papers,
No word or line shall give me vapours.
Send me to Whigs as true and hearty,
As ever pity'd poor Maccarty;
Let Townshend, Sunderland, be there,
Or Robin Walpole in the chair:
Or fend me to a club of Tories,
That damn and curfe at Marlborough's glories,
And drink-but fure none fuch there are !—
The Devil, the Pope, and rebel Mar;
Yet ftill my loyalty I'll boaft,
King George fhall ever be
Unbrib'd his glorious cause I'll own,
And fearless fcorn each traitor's frown.
Say, ye faints, who fhine in realms above, And tune your harps to fing eternal love, When shall my voice attain your high degree; When fhall my foul, from clouds of forrow free, Hear your celeftial fong, and aid the harmony?
|