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Shake, shake them off, with quick disdain:
Where infects fettle, they will stain.
Thus, Zephir oft the Nymph affail'd.
As oft his little arts had fail'd:
The folds of filk, the ribs of whale,
Refifted ftill his feeble gale.
With these repulfes vex'd at heart,
Poor Zephir has recourse to art:
And his own weakness to supply,
Calls in a Brother of the sky,
The rude South-Weft; whofe mildest play
Is war, mere war, the Ruffian way:
A tempeft-maker by his trade,
Who knows to ravish, not persuade.
The terms of their aërial league,
How first to harrass and fatigue,
Then, found on fome remoter plain,
To ply her clofe with wind and rain;
Thefe terms, writ fair and feal'd and fign'd,
Should Webb or Stukeley wish to find,
Wife antiquaries, who explore
All that has ever pass'd—and more;
Though here too tedious to be told,
Are yonder in fome cloud enroll'd,
Thofe floating registers in air:
So let them mount, and lead them there.
The grand alliance thus agreed,
To inftant action they proceed;
For 'tis in war a maxim known,
As Pruffia's monarch well has shown,
To break, at once, upon your foe,
And strike the first preventive blow.
With Toro's lungs, in Toro's form,
Whofe very how d' ye is a ftorm,
The dread South-Weft his part begun.
Thick clouds, extinguishing the fun,
At his command, from pole to pole
Dark-fpreading, o'er the fair-one roll;
Who, preffing now her favourite steed,
Adorn'd the pomp fhe deigns to lead.
O Mira! to the future blind,
Th' infidious foe is clofe behind:
Guard, guard your treasure, while you can;
Unless this God fhould be the Man.
For lo! the clouds, at his known call,
Are clofing round-they burft! they fall!
While at the Charmer, all-aghaft,
He pours whole winter in a blast :
Nor cares, in his impetuous mood,
If natives founder on the flood;
If Britain's coaft be left as bare *
As he refolves to leave the Fair.
Here, Gods refemble human breed;
The world be damn'd-fo they fucceed.
Pale, trembling, from her fteed fhe fled,
With filk, lawn, linen, round her head;
And, to the fawns who fed above,
Unveil'd the laft recefs of love.
*The very day on which the fleet under Admiral
Hawke was blown into Torbay.
Each wondering fawn was seen to bound*,
Each branchy deer o'erleap'd his mound,
A fight of that fequefter'd glade,
In all its light, in all its shade,
Which rifes there for wifeft ends,
To deck the temple it defends.
Lo! gentle tenants of the grove,
For what a thousand Heroes ftrove,
When Europe, Afia, both in arms,
Difputed one fair Lady's charms.
The war pretended Helen's eyes † ;
But this, believe it, was the prize.
This rouz'd Achilles' mortal ire,
This ftrung his Homer's epic lyre;
Gave to the world La Mancha's Knight,
And still makes bulls and heroes fight.
Yet, though the diftant conscious Muse
This airy rape delighted views;
Yet she, for honour guides her lays,
Enjoying it, disdains to praise.
If Frenchmen always fight with odds,
Are they a pattern for the Gods?
Can Ruffia, can th' Hungarian vampire ‡,
With whom caft in the Swedes and Empire,
Can four fuch powers, who one assail,
Deferve our praise, should they prevail?
* "Immemor herbarum quos eft mirata Juvenca." VIRG +"Et fuit ante Helenam," &c.
A certain mischievous demon that delights much in human blood; of whom there are many itories told in Hungary. MALLET.
O mighty triumph! high renown!
Two gods have brought one mortal down;
Have club'd their forces in a storm,
To ftrip one helpless female form!
Strip her stark naked; yet confess,
Such charms are Beauty's fairest dress!
But, all-infenfible to blame,
The sky-born ravishers on flame
Enchanted at the prospect ftood,
And kiss'd with rapture what they view'd.
Sleek S**r too had done no lefs;
Would parfons here the truth confefs:
Nay, one brifk peer, yet all-alive,
Would do the fame, at eighty-five
But how, in colours foftly-bright,
Where strength and harmony unite,
To paint the limbs, that fairer fhow
Than Maffalina's borrow'd fnow;
To paint the rofe, that, through its fhade,
With theirs, one human eye furvey'd ;
Would gracious Phoebus tell me how,
Would he the genuine draught avow,
The Mufe, a fecond Titian then,
To Fame might confecrate her pen !
That Titian, Nature gave of old
The Queen of Beauty to behold,
* We believe there is a mistake in this reading; for the perfon beft informed and moft concerned affures, that it should be only seventy-five. MALLET.
Like Mira unadorn'd by drefs,
But all compleat in nakedness:
Then bade his emulating art
Thofe wonders to the world impart.
Around the ready Graces ftand,
Each heightening ftroke, each happy line,
Awakes to life the form divine;
Till, rais'd and rounded every charm,
And all with youth immortal warm,
He fees, fcarce crediting his eyes,
He fees a brighter Venus rife!
But, to the gentle Reader's coft,
His pencil, with his life, was loft:
And Mira must contented be,
To live by Ramsay and by me.