Pan danc'd their measure with the sylvan throng: But that thy song

Was proud to unfold

What thy base rulers trembled to behold;
Amid corrupted Thebes was proud to tell
The deeds of Athens and the Persian shame:
Hence on thy head their impious vengeance fell.
But thou, O faithful to thy fame,
The Muse's law didst rightly know;
That who would animate his lays,
And other minds to virtue raise,
Must feel his own with all her spirit glow.
III.

Are there, approv'd of later times,
Whose verse adorn'd a tyrant's' crimes?
Who saw majestic Rome betray'd,
And lent the imperial ruffian aid?
Alas! not one polluted bard,

No, not the strains that Mincius heard,
Or Tibur's hills reply'd,

Dare to the Muse's ear aspire ;

Save that, instructed by the Grecian lyre,

With Freedom's ancient notes their shameful task

But here, where Freedom's equal throne
To all her valiant sons is known;
Where all are conscious of her cares,

And each the power, that rules him, shares;
Here let the Bard, whose dastard tongue
Leaves public arguments unsung,

Bid public praise farewell:

Let him to fitter climes remove,

Far from the hero's and the patriot's love, And lull mysterious monks to slumber in their cell.

O Hastings, not to all

Can ruling Heaven the same endowments lend: Yet still doth Nature to her offspring call, That to one general weal their different powers they bend,

Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divine
Inform the bosom of the Muse's son;

Though with new honours the patrician's line
Advance from age to age; yet thus alone

They win the suffrage of impartial Fame.

The poet's name

He best shall prove,

Whose lays the soul with noblest passions move.

But thee, O progeny of heroes old,

Thee to severer toils thy fate requires:

The fate which form'd thee in a chosen mould,
The grateful country of thy sires,
Thee to sublimer paths demand;
Sublimer than thy sires could trace,
Or thy own Edward teach his race,

Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand.

V.

From rich domains and subject farms,
They led the rustic youth to arms;
And kings their stern achievements fear'd;
While private Strife their banners rear'd.
But loftier scepes to thee are shown,
Where Empire's wide-establish'd throne
No private master fills:

Where, long foretold, the people reigns: Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains; And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills.

Here be it thine to calm and guide The swelling democratic tide; To watch the state's uncertain frame, And baffle Faction's partial aim: But chiefly, with determin'd zeal, To quell that servile band, who kneel To Freedom's banish'd foes; That monster, which is daily found Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound; Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows.

'Tis highest Heaven's command, That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue; That what ensnares the heart should maim the

Bear witness. There, oft let the farmer hail The sacred orchard which imbowers his gate, And show to strangers passing down the vale, Where Ca'ndish, Booth, and Osborne sate; When, bursting from their country's chain, Even in the midst of deadly arms, Of papal snares and lawless arms,

VI.

This reign, these laws, this public care,
Which Nassau gave us all to share,
Had ne'er adorn'd the English name,
Could Fear have silenc'd Freedom's claim.
But Fear in vain attempts to biud
Those lofty efforts of the mind

Which social Good inspires;

Where men, for this, assault a throne, Each adds the common welfare to his own; And each unconquer'd heart the strength of all acquires.

Say, was it thus, when late we view'd Our fields in civil blood imbrued? When Fortune crown'd the barbarous host, And half the astonish'd isle was lost? Did one of all that vaunting train, Who dare affront a peaceful reign, Durst one in arms appear? Durst one in counsels pledge his life? Stake his luxurious fortunes in the strife? Or lend his boasted name his vagrant friends to cheer?

Yet, Hastings, these are they

Who challenge to themselves thy country's love; The true; the constant: who alone can weigh, What Glory should demand, or Liberty approve! But let their works declare them. Thy free powers, The generous powers of thy prevailing mind, Not for the tasks of their confederate hours, Lewd brawls and lurking slander, where design'd. Be thou thy own approver. Honest praise Oft nobly sways Ingenuous youth:

But, sought from cowards and the lying mouth, Praise is reproach. Eternal God alone For mortals fixeth that sublime award. He, from the faithful records of his throne, Bids the historian and the bard Dispose of honour and of scorn; Discern the patriot from the slave; And write the good, the wise, the brave, For lessons to the multitude unborn.

BOOK THE SECOND.

ODE I.

THE REMONSTRANCE OF SHAKSPEARE:

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, WHILE THE FRENCH COMEDIANS WERE ACTING BY SUBSCRIPTION.

M.DCC.XLIX.

Ir, yet regardful of your native land,

Old Shakspeare's tongue you deign to understand, Lo! from the blissful bowers where Heaven rewards Instructive sages and unblemish'd bards,

What, though the footsteps of my devious Muse The measur'd walks of Grecian art refuse? Or though the frankness of my hardy style Mock the nice touches of the critic's file? Yet, what my age and climate held to view, Impartial I survey'd and fearless drew. And say, ye skilful in the human heart, Who know to prize a poet's noblest part, What age, what clime, could e'er an ampler field For lofty thought, for daring fancy, yield? I saw this England break the shameful bands Forg'd for the souls of men by sacred hands: I saw each groaning realm her aid implore; Her sons the heroes of each warlike shore: Her naval standard (the dire Spaniard's bane) Obey'd through all the circuit of the main. Then too great Commerce, for a late-found world, Around your coast her eager sails unfurl'd: New hopes, new passions, thence the bosom fir'd; New plans, new arts, the genius thence inspir'd; Thence every scene, which private fortune knows, In stronger life, with bolder spirit, rose.

Disgrac'd I this full prospect which I drew ?
My colours languid, or my strokes untrue?
Have not your sages, warriors, swains, and kings,
Confess'd the living draught of men and things?
What other bard in any clime appears
Alike the master of your smiles and tears?
Yet have I deign'd your audience to entice
With wretched bribes to Luxury and Vice?
Or have my various scenes a purpose known
Which Freedom, Virtue, Glory, might not own?

Such from the first was my dramatic plan;
It should be yours to crown what I began:
And now that England spurns her Gothic chain,
And equal laws and social science reign,

I thought, Now surely shall my zealous eyes
View nobler bards and juster critics rise,
Intent with learned labour to refine
The copious ore of Albion's native mine,
Our stately Muse more graceful airs to teach,
And form her tongue to more attractive speech,
Till rival nations listen at her feet,
And own her polish'd, as they own'd her great.
But do you thus my favourite hopes fulfil?
Is France at last the standard of your skill?
Alas for you! that so betray a mind
Of art unconscious, and to beauty blind.
Say; does her language your ambition raise,
Her barren, trivial, unharmonious phrase,
Which fetters eloquence to scantiest bounds,
And maims the cadence of poetic sounds?
Say; does your humble admiration choose
The gentle prattle of her comic Muse,
While wits, plain-dealers, fops, and fools appear,
Charg'd to say nought but what the king may hear?
Or rather melt your sympathizing hearts,
Won by her tragic scene's romantic arts,
Where old and young declaim on soft desire,
And heroes never, but for love, expire?

No. Though the charms of novelty, a while,
Perhaps too fondly win your thoughtless smile,

Yet not for you design'd indulgent Fate
The modes or manners of the Bourbon state.
And ill your minds my partial judgment reads,
And many an augury my hope misleads,
If the fair maids of yonder blooming train
To their light courtship would an audience deign,
Or those chaste matrons a Parisian wife
Choose for the model of domestic life;
Or if one youth of all that generous band,
The strength and splendour of their native land,
Would yield his portion of his country's fame,
And quit old Freedom's patrimonial claim,
With lying smiles Oppression's pomp to see,
And judge of glory by a king's decree.

O blest at home with justly-envied laws,
O long the chiefs of Europe's general cause,
Whom Heaven hath chosen at each dangerous hour
To check the inroads of barbaric power,
The rights of trampled nations to reclaim,

And guard the social world from bonds and shame;
Oh! let not Luxury's fantastic charms
Thus give the lie to your heroic arms:
Nor for the ornaments of life embrace
Dishonest lessons from that vaunting race,
Whom Fate's dread laws (for, in eternal Fate,
Despotic Rule was heir to Freedom's hate)
Whom, in each warlike, each commercial part,
In civil counsel, and in pleasing art,
The judge of Earth predestin'd for your foes,
And made it fame and virtue to oppose.

Nor yet those awful forms present, For chiefs and heroes only meant: The figur'd brass, the choral song, The rescued people's glad applause, The listening senate, and the laws Fix'd by the counsels of Timoleon's 'tongue, Are scenes too grand for Fortune's private ways; And though they shine in youth's ingenuous view, The sober gainful arts of modern days To such romantic thoughts have bid a long adieu.

I ask not, god of dreams, thy care To banish Love's presentments fair: Nor rosy cheek, nor radiant eye Can arm him with such strong command That the young sorcerer's fatal hand Shall round my soul his pleasing fetters tie. Nor yet the courtier's hope, the giving smile (A lighter phantom, and a baser chain) Did e'er in slumber my proud lyre beguile To lend the pomp of thrones her ill-according strain.

But, Morpheus, on thy balmy wing Such honourable visions bring, As sooth'd great Milton's injur'd age, When in prophetic dreams he saw The race unborn with pious awe Imbibe each virtue from his heavenly page: Or such as Mead's benignant fancy knows When Health's deep treasures, by his art explor'd, Have sav'd the infant from an orphan's woes, Or to the trembling sire his age's hope restor'd.

Nor to the embattled field
Shall the achievements of the peaceful gown
The green immortal crown

Of valour, or the songs of conquest yield.
Not Fairfax wildly bold,

While bare of crest he hew'd his fatal way,
Through Naseby's firm array,

To heavier dangers did his breast oppose
Than Pym's free virtue chose,
When the proud force of Strafford he control'd.

But what is man at enmity with truth?

What were the fruits of Wentworth's copious mind,

When (blighted all the promise of his youth)
The patriot in a tyrant's league had join'd?
Let Ireland's loud-lamenting plains,
Let Tyne's and Humber's trampled swains,
Let menac'd London tell

How impious Guile made Wisdom base; How generous Zeal to cruel Rage gave place; And how unbless'd he liv'd, and how dishonour'd fell.

V.

Thence never hath the Muse

Around his tomb Pierian roses flung:

Nor shall one poet's tongue

His name for Music's pleasing labour choose.
And sure, when Nature kind

Hath deck'd some favour'd breast above the throng,

That man with grievous wrong

Affronts and wounds his genius, if he bends
To Guilt's ignoble ends

The functions of his ill-submitting mind.

For worthy of the wise

Nothing can seem but Virtue; nor Earth yield
Their fame an equal field,

Save where impartial Freedom gives the prize.
There Somers fix'd his name,

Enroll'd the next to William. There shall Time
To every wondering clime

Point out that Somers, who from Faction's crowd, The slanderous and the loud,

Could fair assent and modest reverence claim.

Nor aught did laws or social arts acquire,
Nor this majestic weal of Albion's land
Did aught accomplish, or to aught aspire,
Without his guidance, his superior hand.
And rightly shall the Muse's care
Wreaths like her own for him prepare,
Whose mind's enamour'd aim
Could forms of civil beauty draw
Sublime as ever sage or poet saw,`

Yet still to life's rude scene the proud ideas tame.

VI.

Let none profane be near!

The Muse was never foreign to his breast:

On Power's grave seat confess'd,

Still to her voice he bent a lover's ear.

And if the blessed know

He knew, the patriot knew, That letters and the Muses' powerful art Exalt the ingenuous heart,

And brighten every form of just and true.
They lend a nobler sway

To civil Wisdom, than Corruption's lure
Could ever yet procure:

They too from Envy's pale malignant light
Conduct her forth to sight,

Cloth'd in the fairest colours of the day.

O Townshend, thus may Time, the judge severe,
Instruct my happy tongue of thee to tell:
And when I speak of one to Freedom dear
For planning wisely and for acting well,
Of one whom Glory loves to own,
Who still by liberal means alone
Hath liberal ends pursued;
Then, for the guerdon of my lay,

"This man with faithful friendship," will I say, "From youth to honour'd age my arts and me hath view'd."

ODE V.

ON LOVE OF PRAISE.

Or all the springs within the mind,

Which prompt her steps in Fortune's maze

From none more pleasing aid we find
Than from the genuine love of praise.

Nor any partial, private end

Such reverence to the public bears; Nor any passion, Virtue's friend, So like to Virtue's self appears.

For who in glory can delight

Without delight in glorious deeds? What man a charming voice can slight, Who courts the echo that succeeds?

But not the echo on the voice

More, than on virtue praise depends 5 To which, of course, its real price The judgment of the praiser lends.

If praise then with religious awe
From the sole perfect judge be sought,
A nobler aim, a purer law,

Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught.

With which in character the same
Though in an humbler sphere it lies,

I count that soul of human fame,
The suffrage of the good and wise.

ODE VI.

TO WILLIAM HALL, ESQUIRE ;
WITH THE WORKS OF CHAULIEU.

ATTEND to Chaulieu's wanton lyre;
While, fluent as the sky-lark sings
When first the morn allures its wings,

Where haply Milton roves

With Spenser, hear the enchanted echoes round

Through furthest Heaven resound

Wise Somers, guardian of their fame below.

VOL. XIV.

And tell me if, among the choir

Whose music charms the banks of Seine,

So full, so free, so rich a strain

E'er dictated the warbling Muse.

I