Nor here let censure draw her awful blade, If from her theme the wayward Muse has stray'd!

Sometimes the impetuous torrent, o'er its mounds Redundant bursting, swamps the adjacent grounds; But rapid, and impatient of delay, 270 Through the deep channel still pursues its way.

Our pilot now retired, no pleasure knows, But every man and measure to oppose; Like aesop's cur, still snarling and perverse, Bloated with envy, to mankind a curse, No more at council his advice will lend, But with all others who advise contend: He bids distraction o'er his country blaze, Then, swelter'd with revenge, retreats to Hayes: Swallows the pension; but, aware of blame, 280 Transfers the proffer'd peerage to his dame.

The felon thus of old, his name to save, His pilfer'd mutton to a brother gave.

But should some frantic wretch whom all men know To nature and humanity a foe, Deaf to the widow's moan and orphan's cry, And dead to shame and friendship's social tie; Should such a miscreant, at the hour of death, To thee his fortunes and domains bequeath; With cruel rancour wresting from his heirs 290 What nature taught them to expect as theirs; Wouldst thou with this detested robber join, Their legal wealth to plunder and purloin?

Forbid it, Heaven! thou canst not be so base, To blast thy name with infamous disgrace!

The Muse who wakes, yet triumphs o'er thy hate, Dares not so black a thought antic.i.p.ate: By Heaven, the Muse her ignorance betrays; For while a thousand eyes with wonder gaze, Though gorged and glutted with his country's store, 300 The vulture pounces on the shining ore; In his strong talons gripes the golden prey, And from the weeping orphan bears away.

The great, the alarming deed is yet to come, That, big with fate, strikes expectation dumb.

Oh, patient, injured England, yet unveil Thy eyes, and listen to the Muse's tale, That true as honour, unadorn'd with art, Thy wrongs in fair succession shall impart!

Ere yet the desolating G.o.d of war 310 Had crush'd pale Europe with his iron car, Had shook her sh.o.r.es with terrible alarms, And thunder'd o'er the trembling deep, "To arms!"

In climes remote, beyond the setting sun, Beyond the Atlantic wave, his rage begun.

Alas! poor country, how with pangs unknown To Britain did thy filial bosom groan!

What savage armies did thy realms invade, Unarm'd, and distant from maternal aid!

Thy cottages with cruel flames consumed, 320 And the sad owner to destruction doom'd; Mangled with wounds, with pungent anguish torn, Or left to perish naked and forlorn!

What carnage reek'd upon thy ruin'd plain!

What infants bled! what virgins shriek'd in vain!

In every look distraction seem'd to glare, Each heart was rack'd with horror and despair.

To Albion then, with groans and piercing cries, America lift up her dying eyes; To generous Albion pour'd forth all her pain, 330 To whom the wretched never wept in vain.

She heard, and instant to relieve her flew, Her arm the gleaming sword of vengeance drew; Far o'er the ocean wave her voice was known, That shook the deep abyss from zone to zone: She bade the thunder of the battle glow, And pour'd the storm of lightning on the foe; Nor ceased till, crown'd with victory complete, Pale Spain and France lay trembling at her feet.

Her fears dispell'd, and all her foes removed, 340 Her fertile grounds industriously improved, Her towns with trade, with fleets her harbours crown'd, And plenty smiling on her plains around: Thus blest with all that commerce could supply, America regards with jealous eye, And canker'd heart, the parent, who so late Had s.n.a.t.c.h'd her gasping from the jaws of fate; Who now, with wars for her begun, relax'd, With grievous aggravated burthens tax'd, Her treasures wasted by a hungry brood 350 Of cormorants, that suck her vital blood; Who now of her demands that tribute due, For whom alone the avenging sword she drew.

Scarce had America the just request Received, when, kindling in her faithless breast, Resentment glows, enraged sedition burns, And, lo! the mandate of our laws she spurns!

Her secret hate, incapable of shame Or grat.i.tude, incenses to a flame, Derides our power, bids insurrection rise, 360 Insults our honour, and our laws defies; O'er all her coasts is heard the audacious roar, "England shall rule America no more!"

Soon as on Britain's sh.o.r.e the alarm was heard, Stern indignation in her look appear'd; Yet, both to punish, she her scourge withheld From her perfidious sons who thus rebell'd; Now stung with anguish, now with rage a.s.sail'd, Till pity in her soul at last prevail'd, Determined not to draw her penal steel 370 Till fair persuasion made her last appeal.

And now the great decisive hour drew nigh, She on her darling patriot cast her eye; His voice like thunder will support her cause, Enforce her dictates, and sustain her laws; Rich with her spoils, his sanction will dismay, And bid the insurgents tremble and obey.

He comes!--but where, the amazing theme to hit, Discover language or ideas fit?

Splay-footed words, that hector, bounce, and swagger, 380 The sense to puzzle, and the brain to stagger?

Our patriot comes! with frenzy fired, the Muse With allegoric eye his figure views!

Like the grim portress of h.e.l.l-gate he stands, Bellona's scourge hangs trembling in his hands!

Around him, fiercer than the ravenous shark, "A cry of h.e.l.l-hounds' never-ceasing bark;"

And lo! the enormous giant to bedeck, A golden millstone hangs upon his neck!

On him ambition's vulture darts her claws, 390 And with voracious rage his liver gnaws.

Our patriot comes!--the buckles of whose shoes Not Cromwell's self was worthy to unloose.

Repeat his name in thunder to the skies!

Ye hills fall prostrate, and ye vales arise!

Through faction's wilderness prepare the way!

Prepare, ye listening senates, to obey!

The idol of the mob, behold him stand, The Alpha and Omega of the land!

Methinks I hear the bellowing demagogue 400 Dumb-sounding declamations disembogue, Expressions of immeasurable length, Where pompous jargon fills the place of strength; Where fulminating, rumbling eloquence, With loud theatric rage, bombards the sense; And words, deep rank'd in horrible array, Exasperated metaphors convey!

With these auxiliaries, drawn up at large, He bids enraged sedition beat the charge: From England's sanguine hope his aid withdraws, 410 And lists to guide in insurrection's cause.

And lo! where, in her sacrilegious hand, The parricide lifts high her burning brand!

Go, while she yet suspends her impious aim, With those infernal lungs arouse the flame!

Though England merits not her least regard, Thy friendly voice gold boxes shall reward!

Arise, embark! prepare thy martial car, To lead her armies and provoke the war!

Rebellion wakes, impatient of delay, 420 The signal her black ensigns to display.

To thee, whose soul, all steadfast and serene, Beholds the tumults that distract our scene; And, in the calmer seats of wisdom placed, Enjoys the sweets of sentiment and taste: To thee, O Marius! whom no factions sway, The impartial Muse devotes her honest lay!

In her fond breast no prost.i.tuted aim, Nor venal hope, a.s.sumes fair friendship's name: Sooner shall Churchill's feeble meteor-ray, 430 That led our foundering demagogue astray, Darkling to grope and flounce in Error's night, Eclipse great Mansfield's strong meridian light, Than shall the change of fortune, time, or place, Thy generous friendship in my heart efface!

Oh! whether wandering from thy country far, And plunged amid the murdering scenes of war; Or in the blest retreat of virtue laid, Where contemplation spreads her awful shade; If ever to forget thee I have power, 440 May Heaven desert me at my latest hour!

Still satire bids my bosom beat to arms, And throb with irresistible alarms.

Like some full river charged with falling showers, Still o'er my breast her swelling deluge pours.

But rest and silence now, who wait beside, With their strong flood-gates bar the impetuous tide.

[Footnote 1: This poem was intended by the author to be a political satire on Lord Chatham, Wilkes, and Churchill, and to refute the opinions expressed in the poems of Churchill.]

[Footnote 2: 'Chaplains,' 'Privileges,' 'Scourges:' certain poems intended to be very satirical.]

A POEM,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.

From the big horror of War's hoa.r.s.e alarms, And the tremendous clang of clashing arms, Descend, my Muse! a deeper scene to draw (A scene will hold the listening world in awe) Is my intent: Melpomene inspire, While, with sad notes, I strike the trembling lyre!

And may my lines with easy motion flow, Melt as they move, and fill each heart with woe: Big with the sorrow it describes, my song, In solemn pomp, majestic, move along. 10 O bear me to some awful silent glade, Where cedars form an unremitting shade; Where never track of human feet was known; Where never cheerful light of Phoebus shone; Where chirping linnets warble tales of love, And hoa.r.s.er winds howl murmuring through the grove; Where some unhappy wretch aye mourns his doom, Deep melancholy wandering through the gloom; Where solitude and meditation roam, And where no dawning glimpse of hope can come! 20 Place me in such an unfrequented shade, To speak to none but with the mighty dead; To a.s.sist the pouring rains with brimful eyes, And aid hoa.r.s.e howling Boreas with my sighs.

When Winter's horrors left Britannia's isle, And Spring in blooming vendure 'gan to smile; When rills, unbound, began to purl along, And warbling larks renew'd the vernal song; When sprouting roses, deck'd in crimson dye, Began to bloom, ... 30 Hard fate! then, n.o.ble Frederic, didst thou die: Doom'd by inexorable fate's decree, The approaching summer ne'er on earth to see: In thy parch'd vitals burning fevers rage, Whose flame the virtue of no herbs a.s.suage; No cooling medicine can its heat allay, Relentless destiny cries, "No delay!"

Ye powers! and must a prince so n.o.ble die?

(Whose equal breathes not under the ambient sky:) Ah! must he die, then, in youth's full-blown prime, 40 Cut by the scythe of all-devouring Time?

Yes, fate has doom'd! his soul now leaves its weight, And all are under the decree of fate; The irrevocable doom of destiny p.r.o.nounced, "All mortals must submissive die."

The princes wait around with weeping eyes, And the dome echoes all with piercing cries: With doleful noise the matrons scream around, With female shrieks the vaulted roofs rebound: A dismal noise! Now one promiscuous roar 50 Cries, "Ah! the n.o.ble Frederic is no more!"

The chief reluctant yields his latest breath; His eye-lids settle in the shades of death; Dark sable shades present before each eye, And the deep vast abyss, Eternity!

Through perpetuity's expanse he springs; And o'er the vast profound he shoots on wings; The soul to distant regions steers her flight, And sails inc.u.mbent on inferior night: With vast celerity she shoots away, 60 And meets the regions of eternal day, To shine for ever in the heavenly birth, And leave the body here to rot on earth.

The melancholy patriots round it wait, And mourn the royal hero's timeless fate.

Disconsolate they move, a mournful band!

In solemn pomp they march along the strand: The n.o.ble chief, interr'd in youthful bloom, Lies in the dreary regions of the tomb.

Adown Augusta's pallid visage flow 70 The living pearls with unaffected woe: Disconsolate, hapless, see pale Britain mourn, Abandon'd isle! forsaken and forlorn With desperate hands her bleeding breast she beats; While o'er her, frowning, grim destruction threats.

She mourns with heart-felt grief, she rends her hair, And fills with piercing cries the echoing air.

Well mayst thou mourn thy patriot's timeless end, Thy Muse's patron, and thy merchant's friend!

What heart shall pity thy full-flowing grief? 80 What hand now deign to give thy poor relief?

To encourage arts, whose bounty now shall flow, And learned science to promote, bestow?

Who now protect thee from the hostile frown, And to the injured just return his own?

From usury and oppression who shall guard The helpless, and the threatening ruin ward?

Alas! the truly n.o.ble Briton's gone, And left us here in ceaseless woe to moan!

Impending desolation hangs around, 90 And ruin hovers o'er the trembling ground: The blooming spring droops her enamell'd head, Her glories wither, and her flowers all fade: The sprouting leaves already drop away; Languish the living herbs with pale decay: The bowing trees, see! o'er the blasted heath, Depending, bend beneath the weight of death: Wrapp'd in the expansive gloom, the lightnings play, Hoa.r.s.e thunder mutters through the aerial way: All Nature feels the pangs, the storms renew, 100 And sprouts, with fatal haste, the baleful yew.

Some power avert the threatening horrid weight, And, G.o.dlike, prop Britannia's sinking state!

Minerva, hover o'er young George's soul; May sacred wisdom all his deeds control!

Exalted grandeur in each action shine, His conduct all declare the youth divine!

Methinks I see him shine a glorious star, Gentle in peace, but terrible in war!

Methinks each region does his praise resound, 110 And nations tremble at his name around!

His fame, through every distant kingdom rung, Proclaims him of the race from whence he sprung: So sable smoke in volumes curls on high; Heaps roll on heaps, and blacken all the sky: Already so, his fame, methinks, is hurl'd Around the admiring, venerating world.

So the benighted wanderer, on his way, Laments the absence of all-cheering day; Far distant from his friends and native home, 120 And not one glimpse does glimmer through the gloom: In thought he breathes, each sigh his latest breath, Present, each meditation, pits of death: Irregular, wild chimeras fill his soul, And death, and dying, every step control.

Till from the east there breaks a purple gleam, His fears then vanish as a fleeting dream: Hid in a cloud the sun first shoots his ray, Then breaks effulgent on the illumined day; We see no spot then in the flaming rays, 130 Confused and lost within the excessive blaze.