"Ask not, my frighted sons, from whence I came, But mark me well; Religion is my name; An angel once, but now a fury grown, Too often talk'd of, but too little known: Is it for me, my sons, that ye engage, And spend the fury of your idle rage? 'Tis false; unmanly spleen your bosom warms, And a pretended zeal your fancy charms. Where have I taught you in the sacred page, To construe moderation into rage;
To affront the power from whence your safety springs, And poorly blast the memory of kings?
Branded with infamy, ye shun the light,
But court, like birds obscene, the covert of the night.
Is then unlawful riot fit to be
The great supporter of my Church and me?
Think ye, weak men, she's of her foes afraid,
Or wants the assistance of your feeble aid?
When round her throne seraphic warriors stand,
And form upon her side a heavenly band:
When, fixt as fate, her deep foundation lies,
And spreads where-e'er my ANNA's glory flies.
Think on th' intended ruins of the day,
When to proud Rome ye were design'd a prey:
With wonder read those fatal times again,
And call to mind the melancholy scene;
When down its rapid stream the torrent bore
Your country's laws, and safety was no more;
Torn from your altars, ye were forced to roam
In needy exile from your native home.
'Twas then, my sons, your mighty William rose,
And bravely fell like light'ning on your foes:
With royal pity he deplor'd your fate,
And stood the Atlas of your sinking state.
When sacrifice on idle altars slain
Polluted all the isle, and dy'd the plain;
Rome's mob of saints did all your temples fill,
And consecrated groves crown'd every hill:
'Twas then, Josiah-like, that he defaced
Their Pagan rites, and laid their altars waste;
Drove out their idols from their lov'd abodes,
And pounded into dust their molten gods:
Israel's true Lord was to his rule restor'd,
Again his name was heard, and was again ador'd.
"Wond'ring, ye saw your great deliverer come,
But, while he warr'd abroad, ye rail'd at home;
Dreadfully gay in arms, but scorn'd in peace,
The useless buckler of inglorious ease:
O poor and short-liv'd glory and renown!
O false unenvied pleasures of a crown!
So soon are all thy shining honours fled,
Traduc'd while living, and defam'd when dead.
Strange fate of heroes, who like comets blaze,
And with a sudden light the world amaze :
But when with fading beams they quit the skies,
No more to shine the wonder of our eyes;
Their glories spent, and all their fiery store,
We scorn the omens which we fear'd before!
"My Royal Anne, whom every virtue crowns,
Feels your ill-govern'd rage, nor 'scapes your frowns
Your want of duty ye supply with spight,
Traduce her councils, and her heroes slight;
Lampoon the mildness of her easy sway,
And sicken at the light of her superior day;
Poison her sweets of life with groundless fears,
And fill her royal breast with anxious cares.
What! such a Queen, where Art and Nature join
To hit the copy of a form divine:
Unerring Wisdom purg'd the dross away,
And form'd your Anna of a nobler clay;
Breathing a soul, in which in glory shone
Goodness innate, and virtue like its own:
She knows how far engaging sweetness charms,
And conquers more by mildness than by arms;
Like Sampson's riddle in the sacred song,
A springing sweet still flowing from the strong;
Like hasty sparks her slow resentment dies,
Her rigour lagging, but her mercy flies.
Hail, pious Princess! mightiest of thy name,
Though last begotten, yet the first in fame:
Those glorious heroines we in story see,
Were but the fainter types of greater thee.
Let others take a lustre from the throne;
You shine with brighter glories of your own,
Add worth to worth, and dignify a Crown.
Oft have I mark'd, with what a studious care
My words you ponder, and my laws revere:
To thee, great Queen, what eulogies are due,
Who both protect the flock, and feed the shepherds too! *
For which I still preside o'er thy alarms,
And add a shining lustre to thy arms:
I form'd the battle, and I gave the word,
And rode with conquest on thy Ormond's sword;
When Anjou's fleet yielded its Indian store,
And at thy sacred feet depos'd the silver ore;
I sent the goddess, when Victoria came,
And rais'd thy Churchill to immortal fame,
And Hochstet's bloody field advanc'd the hero's name.
Nor shall thy glories or thy triumphs cease,
But thy rough wars shall soften into peace.
Charles+ shall from thee his diadem receive,
And shining pomp which you alone can give;
The Gallic Lion, list'ning at his shore,
Shall fear to tempt the British dangers more,
But sculk in desarts where he used to roar:
Admiring worlds before thy throne shall stand,
And willing nations bend to thy command.
"For you, ye inveterate enemies to peace,
Whom Kings can ne'er oblige, nor Heaven can please;
Who blindly zealous into faction run,
And make those dangers you'd be thought to shun ;
For shame, the transports of your rage give o'er,
And let your civil feuds be heard no more:
To the wise conduct of my Anna trust;
Know your own good, and to yourselves be just:
And, when with grief you see your brother stray,
Or in a night of error lose his way,
Direct his wandering, and restore the day.
Alluding to her grants to the Clergy.—N. t The Archduke Charles.-N.
To guide his steps, afford your kindest aid,
And gently pity whom ye can't persuade;
Leave to avenging Heaven his stubborn will,
For, O, remember, he's your brother still.
The Story of Orpheus, burlesqued.
[These two specimens of Ovidiana are given by Dr Barrett to the Dean. I doubt if the internal evidence is sufficient, and there is no other. They are greatly inferior to Baucis and Philemon, but that production underwent the strict revision of Addison, who perhaps taught Swift to attend to the accuracy of rhymes, and neatness of expression, which afterwards distinguished his compositions.]
ORPHEUS, a one-eyed blearing Thracian,
The Crowder of that barb'rous nation,
Was ballad-singer by vocation;
Who up and down the country strolling,
And with his strains the mob cajoling,
Charm'd 'em as much as each man knows
Our modern farces do our beaux :
To hear whose voice they left their houses,
Their food, their handicrafts, and spouses;
Whilst, by the mercury of his song,
He threw the staring, gaping throng
(A thing deserving admiration,)
Into a copious salivation.
From hence came all those monstrous stories,
That to his lays wild beasts danc'd borees;
That after him, where'er he rambled,
The lion ramp'd, and the bear gambol'd,
And rocks and caves (their houses) ambled:
For sure, the monster Mob includes
All beasts, stones, stocks, in solitudes.
He had a spouse, yclep'd Eurydice,
As tight a lass as e'er your eye did see;
Who being caress'd one day by Morpheus,
In absence of her husband, Orpheus,
As in the god's embrace she lay,
Died, not by metaphor they say,
But the ungrateful literal way:
For a modern's pleas'd to say by't,
From sleep to death there's but a way-bit.
Orpheus at first, to appearance grieving,
For one he had oft wish'd damn'd while living,
That he may play her her farewell,
Resolv'd to take a turn to hell:
(For spouse, he guess'd, was gone to the devil)
There was a husband damnably civil.
Playing a merry strain that day,
Upon th' infernal king's highway,
He caper'd on, as who should say,
Since spouse has pass'd the Stygian ferry,
Since spouse is damn'd, I will be merry;
And wights who travel that way daily,
Jog on by his example gaily.
Thus scraping, he to hell advanc'd;
When he came there the devil danc'd;
All hell was with the frolic taken,
And with a huge huzza was shaken.
All hell broke loose, and they who were
One moment past plung'd in despair,
Sung, Hang sorrow, cast away care.
But Pluto, with a spiteful prank,
Ungrateful devil, did Orpheus thank.
Orpheus, said he, I like thy strain
So well, that here's thy wife again:
But on those terms receive the blessing,
"Till thour't on earth, forbear possessing.
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