Brings down the warrior's trophy to the duft,
And eats into his bloody fword like ruft.
B. I grant, that men continuing what they are, Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war.
And never meant the rule fhould be applied
To him that fights with justice on his fide.
Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnaffian dews,
Reward his mem'ry, dear to ev'ry muse,
Who, with a courage of unfhaken root,
In honour's field advancing his firm foot,
Plants it upon the line that justice draws,
And will prevail or perish in her cause.
Tis to the virtues of fuch men, man owes
His portion in the good that heav'n bestows,
And when recording history difplays
Feats of renown, though wrought in antient days,
Tells of a few ftout hearts that fought and dy'd
Where duty plac'd them, at their country's fide,
The man that is not mov'd with what he reads,
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,
Unworthy of the bleffings of the brave,
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.
But let eternal infamy purfue
The wretch to naught but his ambition true,
Who, for the fake of filling with one blast
The poft horns of all Europe, lays her wafte.
Think yourself station'd on a tow'ring rock,
To fee a people scatter'd like a flock,
Some royal mastiff panting at their heels,
With all the favage thirst a tyger feels,
Then view him felf-proclaim'd in a gazette,
Chief monfter that has plagu'd the nations yet,
The globe and fceptre in fuch hands misplac'd,
Thofe enfigns of dominion, how difgrac'd!
The glafs that bids man mark the fleeting hour,
And death's own scythe would better speak his pow'r,
Then grace the boney phantom in their stead
With the king's fhoulder knot and gay cockade,
Cloath the twin brethren in each other's dress,
The fame their occupation and fuccefs.
A. 'Tis your belief the world was made for man, Kings do but reason on the self same plan, Maintaining your's you cannot their's condemn,
Who think, or feem to think, man made for them.
B. Seldom, alas! the power of logic reigns
With much fufficiency in royal brains.
Such reas'ning falls like an inverted cone,
Wanting its proper base to stand upon.
Man made for kings! thofe optics are but dim
That tell you fo-fay rather, they for him.
That were indeed a king-enobling thought,
Could they, or would they, reafon as they ought.
The diadem with mighty projects lin❜d,
To catch renown by ruining mankind,
Is worth, with all its gold and glitt'ring ftore,
Just what the toy will fell for and no more.
Oh! bright occafions of difpenfing good,
How feldom ufed, how little understood!
To pour in virtue's lap her juft reward,
Keep vice restrain'd behind a double guard,
To quell the faction that affronts the throne,
By filent magnanimity alone;
To nurfe with tender care the thriving arts,
Watch every beam philofophy imparts;
To give religion her unbridl'd scope,
Nor judge by ftatute a believer's hope;
With close fidelity and love unfeign'd,
To keep the matrimonial bond unstain'd;
Covetous only of a virtuous praise,
His life a leffon to the land he sways;
To touch the fword with confcientious awe,
Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw,
To fheath it in the peace-reftoring close,
With joy, beyond what victory bestows,
Bleft country! where thefe kingly glories fhine,
Bleft England! if this happiness be thine.
A. Guard what you fay, the patriotic tribe
Will fneer and charge you with a bribe.-B. A bribe ?
The worth of his three kingdoms I defy,
To lure me to the baseness of a lie.
And of all lies (be that one poet's boast)
The lie that flatters I abhor the most.
Those arts be their's that hate his gentle reign,
But he that loves him has no need to feign.
A. Your smooth eulogium to one crown addrefs'd,
Seems to imply a cenfure on the rest.
B. Quevedo, as he tells his fober tale,
Afk'd, when in hell, to fee the royal jail,
Approv'd their method in all other things,
But where, good Sir, do you confine your kings?
There-faid his guide, the groupe is full in view.
Indeed? Replied the Don-there are but few.
His black interpreter the charge difdain'd-
Few, fellow? There are all that ever reign'd.
Wit undistinguishing is apt to strike
The guilty and not guilty, both alike.
I grant the farcasm is too fevere,
And we can readily refute it here,
While Alfred's name, the father of his age,
And the Sixth Edward's grace th' hiftoric page.
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