Where your soft partner, far from martial noise,
Your cares shall sweeten with domestic joys:
Your conquests she with doubtful pleasure hears,
-And in the midst of every triumph fears;
Betwixt her Queen and You divides her life,
A Friend obsequious, and a faithful Wife.
Hail, Woodstock! hail, ye celebrated glades! Grow fast, ye woods! and florish thick, ye shades! Ye rising towers, for your new Lord prepare,
Like
your old Henry, come from Gallia's war.
The General's arms as far the King's o'erpower,
As this new structure does surpass the bower.
The pleasing prospects and romantic scite, The spacious compass, and the stately height, The painted gardens, in their flowery prime, Demand whole volumes of immortal rhyme; And, if the Muse would second the design, Mean as they are, should in my numbers shine; There live the joy and wonder of our isles, Happy in Albion's love and Anna's smiles.
While, from the Godlike race of Churchill born, Four beauteous Rosamonds this bower adorn, Who with the ancient Syren of the place In charms might vie and every blooming grace; But, bless'd with equal virtues had she been, Like them she had been favour'd by the Queen,
Whom your high merit, and their own, prefers
To all the worthiest beds of England's Peers.
Thus the great Eagle, when Heaven's wars are o'er,
And the loud thunder has forgot to roar,
Jove's fires laid by, with those of Venus burns,
To his forsaken mate and shades returns ;
On some proud tree more sacred than the rest,
With curious art he builds his spacious nest;
In the warm sun lies basking all the day,
While round their Sire the generous Eaglets play;
Their Sire, well pleas'd to see the noble brood
Fill all the loftiest cedars of the wood.
SURE there's a fate in excellence, too strong
To struggle with the mortal fabric long;
Whether the weaken'd springs of life decay,
As active thoughts their energy display;
Or the Soul, scornful of her seat, aspires
And, like a guest unsatisfy'd, retires.
Or is Earth robb'd by a resuming Sky,
Only to show it can as fast supply?
Here scythe-arm'd Death the full-grown Virtues
There the restoring hand of Plenty sows :
Thus patriots die, and patriots mount the sphere,
As some stars set, that others may appear.
Give me profuse of tears o'er Craggs to mourn, And, grateful, consecrate the much-lov'd urn. Severe Disease! what power shall mock thy speed, Elusive of the skilful hand of Mead ?
Yet was his course complete, though finish'd soon;
His sun was strong, though darken'd in its noon.
O may no tongue profane thy tomb invade,
Nor envy posthumous pursue thy shade!
Fair shine thy fame, and be thy praises just,
And mix with Addison's thy sosial dust!
The sweet-tongu'd Addison, whose happy vein
First rival'd, Plato, thy immortal strain;
Though Tully with a strong resemblance vy'd,
And Lewis crowded Academies try'd.
Illustrious friends! (if this poor verse can give
Life to your names) your friendly names shall live,
Long as the structure that your urns contains,
Or liberty with George's line remains.
Who thinks of liberty, but Stanhope's name
Beats in his breast, and sets his soul on flame?
O much-lamented Ghost! thy virtues show
Like stars which through yon azure convex glow;
A beauteous train, that speak the power divine,
And strong in brightness, as in number shine.
Grant Heaven some influence from his ashes dart,
To warm and actuate each British heart!
Divide his gifts! This be the Warrior's heir,
Here let the Statesman, there the Scholar share :
In him were all these various prospects crost, And future Marlb'roughs and Godolphins lost.
Nor thou, O Carteret, with a frown disdain
The Muse that tunes this melancholy strain ;
For who the virtuous grave with incense strows,
The fairest mark to living merit shows.
To count our loss, is only to foresee
What the demanding age expects from thee.
Then let it give its proudest wishes scope,
Thy deeds shall justify its boldest hope.
What is the dark-drawn scene of life supine? A dream of entity without design,
A useless space 'twixt Nature's rise and fall,
Forgetting all things, and forgot of all ?
What is the land of sciences when past?
A wild of thistles, or a barren waste;
Or vainly wordy, fruitful of dispute;
Or deep-reserv'd, unprofitably mute.
Few, very few, have on this dross refin'd,
To polish nations, and improve mankind.
These too at mighty distances are seen,
And many a lazy age must pass between.
Fate various eras mix'd, and doubtful draws
Between a Solon's and a Parker's laws.
From our first William's trace to George's days,
Few Walsinghams, and fewer Carterets blaze.
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