Could I recite the dangerous toils he chose
To bless his country with a fix'd repose;
Could I recount the labours he o'ercame
To raise his country to the pitch of fame ;
His councils, sieges, his victorious fights,
To save his country's laws, and native rights,
No father (every generous heart must own)
Has stronger fondness to his darling shown:
Britannia's sighs a double loss deplore,
Her father and her hero is no more.

Does Britain only pay her debt of tears? Yes; Holland sighs, and for her freedom fears.

[bands, When Gallia's monarch pour'd his wasteful Like a wide deluge, o'er her level lands, She saw her frontier towers in ruin lie, Ev'n Liberty had prun'd her wings to fly; Then Marlborough came! defeated Gallia fled, And shatter'd Belgia rais'd her languid head, In him secure, as in her strongest mound, That keeps the raging sea within its bound.

O Germany! remember Hockstet's plain,
Where prostrate Gallia bled at every vein;
Think on the rescue of the imperial throne,
Then think on Marlborough's death without a
groan!

Apollo kindly whispers me, Be wise;
How to his glory shall thy numbers rise?
The force of verse another theme might raise,
But here the merit must transcend the praise.

Hast thou, presumptuous bard! that godlike flame Which with the sun shall last, and Marlborough's fame?

Then sing the man: but who can boast this fire?
Resign the task, and silently admire.'

Yet shall he not in worthy lays be read?
Raise Homer, call up Virgil from the dead.
But he requires not the strong glare of verse,
Let punctual History his deeds rehearse;
Let truth in native purity appear,

You'll find Achilles and Æneas there.

Is this the comfort which the Muse bestows? I but indulge and aggravate your woes. A prudent friend, who seeks to give relief, Ne'er touches on the spring that mov'd the grief. Is it not barbarous, to the sighing maid,

To mention broken vows and nymphs betray'd? Would you the ruin'd merchant's soul appease, With talk of sands, and rocks, and stormy seas! Ev'n while I strive on Marlborough's fame to rise, I call up sorrow in a daughter's eyes.

Think on the laurels that his temples shade, Laurels that (spite of time) shall never fade; Immortal Honour has enroll'd his name, Detraction's dumb, and Envy put to shame. Say who can soar beyond his eagle flight? Has he not reach'd to glory's utmost height? What could he more, had Heav'n prolong'd his date?

All human power is limited by Fate.

Forbear; 'tis cruel further to commend;

I wake your sorrow, and again offend :

Yet sure your goodness must forgive a crime Which will be spread through every age and clime, Though in your life ten thousand summers roll, And though you compass earth from pole to pole, Where'er men talk of war and martial fame, They'll mention Marlborough's and Cæsar's

name.

But vain are all the counsels of the Muse ; A soul like yours could not a tear refuse: Could you your birth and filial love forego, Still sighs must rise and generous sorrow flow; For when from earth such matchless worth

removes,

A great mind suffers: virtue virtue loves.

TO

MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND,

WILLIAM LOWNDS, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED TREATISE IN FOLIO CALLED 'THE LAND-TAX BILL.'

WHEN poets print their works, the scribbling crew Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Christmas pew.

Can meagre poetry such fame deserve?
Can poetry, that only writes to starve?
And shall no laurel deck that famous head,
In which the senate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires?
O had I Virgil's force, to sing the man

Whose learned line can millions raise per ann.
Great Lownds's praise should swell the trump of
Fame,

And rapes and wapentakes resound his name.
If the blind poet gain'd a long renown
By singing every Grecian chief and town,

Sure Lownds's prose much greater fame requires,
Which sweetly counts five thousand knights and

'squires,

Their seats, their cities, parishes, and shires.

Thy copious preamble so smoothly runs,

Taxes no more appear like legal duns;

Lords, knights, and 'squires, the assessors' power

obey,

We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.
Ah! why did C thy works defame!
That author's long harangue betrays his name:
After his speeches can his pen succeed?
Though forc'd to hear, we 're not oblig'd to read.
Under what science shall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not poet born and bred;
Or dost thou boast the historian's lasting pen,
Whose annals are the acts of worthy men?

No: satire is thy talent; and each lash
Makes the rich miser tremble o'er his cash.
What on the drunkard can be more severe,
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?

Ev'n Button's wits are nought compar❜d to thee, Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his tea, While thou through Britain's distant isle shall

spread,

In every hundred and division read.
Critics in classics oft interpolate,

But every word of thine is fix'd as fate.

Some works come forth at morn, but die at night,
In blazing fringers round a tallow light;
Some may perhaps to a whole week extend,
Like S (when unassisted by a friend)
But thou shalt live a year in spite of fate;
And where's your author boasts a longer date?
Poets of old had such a wondrous power,
That with their verses they could raise a tower;
But in thy prose a greater force is found :
What poet ever rais'd ten thousand pound?
Cadmus, by sowing dragons' teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vast army from the poisonous seed.
Thy labours, Lownds! can greater wonders do,
Thou raisest armies, and canst pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen; thy annals cease;
Why need we armies when the land's in peace?
Soldiers are perfect devils in their way,
When once they 're rais'd, they 're cursed hard

to lay.