So tries the artlefs lark her early flight,
And foars, to hail the god of verfe, and light.
Unrival'd as unmatch'd be ftill thy fame,
And thy own laurels fhade thy envy'd name:
Thy name, the boast of all the tuneful quire,
Shall tremble on the ftrings of every lyre;
Who reads thy work, fhall own the fweet furprize,
And view thy Rofamond with Henry's eyes.
100 long has love engrofs'd Britannia's stage, And funk to foftness all our tragic
By that alone did empires fall or rife,
And fate depended on a fair one's eyes:
The sweet infection, mixt with dangerous art,
Debas'd our manhood, while it footh'd the heart.
Thou fcorn'ft to raise a grief thyself must blame,
Nor from our weakness steal a vulgar fame :
A patriot's fall may juftly melt the mind,
And tears flow nobly, fhed for all mankind.
How do our fouls with generous pleasure glow!
Our hearts exulting, while our eyes o'erflow,
When thy firm hero ftands beneath the weight
Of all his fufferings venerably great?
Rome's poor remains still sheltering by his fide,
With confcious virtue, and becoming pride.
The aged oak thus rears his head in air,
His fap exhaufted, and his branches bare,
'Midft storms and earthquakes, he maintains his ftate, Fixt deep in earth, and fasten'd by his weight:
His naked boughs ftill lend the fhepherds aid,
And his old trunk projects an awful shade.
Amidft the joys triumphant peace beftows,
Our patiots fadden at his glorious woes,
A while they let the world's great business wait,
Anxious for Rome, and figh for Cato's fate.
Here taught how antient heroes rofe to fame,
Our Britons crowd, and catch the Roman flame,
Where states and fenates well might lend an ear,
And kings and priests without a blush appear.
France boafts no more, but, fearful to engage,
Now firft pays homage to her rival's stage,
Haftes to learn thee, and learning shall submit
Alike to British arms, and British wit:
No more she'll wonder, forc'd to do us right,
Who think like Romans, could like Romans fight.
Thy Oxford fmiles this glorious work to fee,
And fondly triumphs in a fon like thee.
The fenates, confuls, and the gods of Rome,
Like old acquaintance at their native home,
In thee we find each deed, each word expreft,
And every thought that swell'd a Roman breast,
We trace each hint that could thy foul inspire
With Virgil's judgment, and with Lucan's fire;
We know thy worth, and give us leave to boast,
We most admire, because we know thee moft.
Hen Brunswick firft appear'd, each honest
heart,
Intent on verfe, difdain'd the rules of art;
For him the fongfters, in unmeafur'd odes,
Debas'd Alcides, and dethron'd the gods,
In golden chains the kings of India led,
Or rent the turban from the fultan's head.
One, in old fables, and the pagan strain,
With nymphs and tritons, wafts him o'er the main;
Another draws fierce Lucifer in arms,
And fills th' infernal region with alarms;
A third awakes fome druid, to foretell
Each future triumph, from his dreary cell.
Exploded fancies! that in vain deceive,
While the mind naufeates what fhe can't believe.
My mufe th' expected hero shall pursue
From clime to clime, and keep him ftill in view:
His fhining march describe in faithful lays,
Content to paint him, nor presume to praise;
Their charms, if charms they have, the truth fup-
And from the theme unlabour'd beauties rife. [plies,
By longing nations for the throne defign'd,
And call'd to guard the rights of human-kind ;
With fecret grief his godlike foul repines,
And Britain's crown with joyless luftre fhines,
While prayers and tears his destin'd progress stay,
And crowds of mourners choak their sovereign's way.
Not fo he march'd, when hoftile fquadrons ftood
In scenes of death, and fir'd his generous blood;
When his hot courfer paw'd th' Hungarian plain,
And adverse legions stood the shock in vain.
His frontiers paft, the Belgian bounds he views,
And cross the level fields his march pursues.
Here pleas'd the land of freedom to survey,
He greatly scorns the thirst of boundless fway.
O'er the thin foil, with filent joy, he fpies
Tranfplanted woods, and borrow'd verdure rife;
Where every meadow won with toil and blood,
From haughty tyrants and the raging flood,
With fruits and flowers the careful hind fupplies,
And cloaths the marshes in a rich disguise.
Such wealth for frugal hands doth heaven decree,
And fuch thy gifts, celeftial liberty!
Thro' stately towns, and many a fertile plain,
The pomp advances to the neighbouring main.
Whole nations croud around with joyful cries,
And view the hero with infatiate eyes.
In Haga's towers he waits, till eastern gales
Propitious rife to fwell the British fails.
Hither the fame of England's monarch brings
The vows and friendships of the neighb'ring kings;
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