No time, no change, no future flame, shall move
The well-plac'd basis of my lasting love.
O powerful virtue! O victorious fair!
At least excuse a trial too severe;
Receive the triumph, and forget the war.
No banish'd man, condemn'd in woods to rove,
Entreats thy pardon, and implores thy love :
No perjur'd knight desires to quit thy arms,
Fairest collection of thy sex's charms,
Crown of my love, and honour of my youth;
Henry, thy Henry, with eternal truth,
As thou may'st wish, shall all his life employ,
And found his glory in his Emma's joy.
In me behold the potent Edgar's heir,
Illustrious earl; him terrible in war
Let Loyre confess, for she has felt his sword,
And trembling fled before the British lord.
Him great in peace and wealth fair Deva knows,
For she amidst his spacious meadows flows,
Inclines her urn upon his fatten❜d lands,
And sees his numerous herds imprint her sands.
And thou, my fair, my dove, shalt raise thy thought
To greatness next to empire: shall be brought
With solemn pomp to my paternal seat,
Where peace and plenty on thy word shall wait:
Music and song shall wake the marriage-day,
And while the priests accuse the bride's delay,
Myrtles and roses shall obstruct her way.
Friendship shall still thy evening feasts adorn,
And blooming Peace shall ever bless thy morn:
Succeeding years thy happy race shall run,
And Age unheeded by delight come on,
While yet superior love shall mock his power;
And when old Time shall turn the fated hour,
Which only can our well-tied knot unfold, What rests of both, one sepulchre shall hold. Hence, then, for ever, from my Emma's breast (That heaven of softness, and that seat of rest) Ye doubts and fears, and all that know to move Tormenting grief, and all that trouble love; Scatter'd by winds recede, and wild in forests rove. EMMA. O day! the fairest sure that ever rose! Period and end of anxious Emma's woes! Sire of her joy, and source of her delight, O wing'd with pleasure take thy happy flight, And give each future morn a tincture of thy white. Yet tell thy votary, potent queen of love, -Henry, my Henry, will he never rove? Will he be ever kind, and just, and good? And is there yet no mistress in the wood?
None, none there is: the thought was rash and vain,
A false idea, and a fancied pain.
Doubts shall for ever quit my strengthen'd heart,
And anxious jealousy's corroding smart;
Nor other inmate shall inhabit there,
But soft belief, young joy, and pleasing care.
Hence let the tides of plenty ebb and flow,
And Fortune's various gale unheeded blow.
If at my feet the suppliant goddess stands,
And sheds her treasure with unwearied hands,
Her present favour cautious I'll embrace,
And not unthankful use the proffer'd grace;
If she reclaims the temporary boon,
And tries her pinions, fluttering to be gone;
Secure of mind, I'll obviate her intent,
And, unconcern'd, return the goods she lent;
Nor happiness can I, nor misery, feel,
From any turn of her fantastic wheel:
Friendship's great laws, and love's superior powers,
Must mark the colour of my future hours.
From the events which thy commands create
I must my blessings or my sorrows date,
And Henry's will must dictate Emma's fate.
Yet while with close delight and inward pride
(Which from the world my careful soul shall hide)
I see thee, lord and end of my desire,
Exalted high as virtue can require,
With power invested, and with pleasure cheer'd,
Sought by the good, by the oppressor fear'd,
Loaded and bless'd with all the affluent store
Which human vows at smoking shrines implore;
Grateful and humble grant me to employ
My life, subservient only to thy joy;
And at my death, to bless thy kindness, shown
To her who, of mankind, could love but thee alone.
WHILE thus the constant pair alternate said, Joyful above them and around them play'd Angels and sportive Loves, a numerous crowd: Smiling they clapp'd their wings, and low they They tumbled all their little quivers o'er, [bow'd. To choose propitious shafts a precious store, That when their god should take his future darts, To strike (however rarely) constant hearts, His happy skill might proper arms employ, All tipp'd with pleasure, and all wing'd with joy : And those, they vow'd, whose lives should imitate These lovers' constancy, should share their fate.
The queen of beauty stopp'd her bridled doves, Approv'd the little labour of the Loves; Was proud and pleas'd the mutual vow to hear, And to the triumph call'd the god of war: Soon as she calls, the god is always near.
'Now Mars,' she said, 'Let Fame exalt her voice, Nor let thy conquests only be her choice; But when she sings great Edward from the field Return'd, the hostile spear and captive shield In Concord's temple hung, and Gallia taught to yield.
And when, as prudent Saturn shall complete
The years design'd to perfect Britain's state,
The swift-wing'd power shall take her trump again,
To sing her favourite Anna's wondrous reign;
To recollect unwearied Marlborough's toils,
Old Rufus' hall unequal to his spoils ;
The British soldier from his high command
Glorious, and Gaul thrice vanquish'd by his hand :
Let her at least perform what I desire ;
With second breath the vocal brass inspire;
And tell the Nations in no vulgar strain,
What wars I manage, and what wreaths I gain.
And when thy tumults and thy fights are pass'd;
And when thy laurels at my feet are cast;
Faithful may'st thou, like British Henry prove;
And Emma-like let me return thy love.
'Renown'd for truth, let all thy sons appear; And constant Beauty shall reward their care.' Mars smil'd, and bow'd: the Cyprian deity Turn'd to the glorious ruler of the sky; And thou,' she smiling said, 'great God of days And verse, behold my deed, and sing my praise, As on the British earth, my favourite isle, Thy gentle rays and kindest influence smile, Through all her laughing fields and verdant groves, Proclaim with joy these memorable loves. From every annual course let one great day, To celebrated sports and floral play
Be set aside; and in the softest lays
Of thy poetic sons, be solemn praise
And everlasting marks of honour paid,
To the true lover, and the Nut-brown Maid.'
AN EPISTLE TO MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON.
THIS motley piece to you I send,
Who always were a faithful friend ;
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do, what I sing, so often feel.
The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapour'd Muse;
Nor to a narrow path confin'd,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind.
The child is genuine, you may trace
Throughout the sire's transmitted face.
Nothing is stol'n: my Muse, though mean,
Draws from the spring she finds within ;
Nor vainly buys what Gildon* sells,
Poetic buckets for dry wells.
School-helps I want, to climb on high,
Where all the ancient treasures lie,
And there unseen commit a theft
On wealth, in Greek exchequers left.
Then where? from whom? what can I steal,
Who only with the moderns deal?
* Gildon published a Complete Art of Poetry.
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