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Soft in his fancy drew a pleafing scheme,
And plan'd that landskip in a morning dream.

With the sweet view the fire of gardens fir'd,
Attempts the labour by the nymph inspir'd,
The walls and ftreets in rows of yew defigns,
And forms the town in all its ancient lines;

The corner trees he lifts more high in air,

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And girds the palace with a verdant square;

Nor knows, while round he views the rifing scenes,
He builds a city as he plants his greens,

With a fad pleasure the aërial maid

This image of her ancient realm furvey'd ;
How chang'd, how fallen from its primæval pride!
Yet here each moon, the hour her lover dy'd,
Each moon his folemn obfequies fhe pays,
And leads the dance beneath pale Cynthia's rays;
Pleas'd in the fhades to head her fairy train,

And grace the groves where Albion's kinsmen reign.

AN

AN

EPISTLE from a Lady in ENGLAND,

TO A

GENTLEMAN at AVIGNON.

10

T

By the Same.

O thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends,
The health she wants, thy gentle Chloe fends;
Though much you fuffer, think I fuffer more,
Worse than an exile on my native shore.
Companions in your mafter's flight you roam,
Unenvy'd by your haughty foes at home;
For-ever near the royal out-law's fide,

You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide ;
On glorious schemes, and thoughts of empire dwell,
And with imaginary titles fwell.

Say, (for thou know'ft I own his facred line,
The paffive doctrine, and the right divine)
Say, what new fuccours does the chief prepare?
The strength of armies? or the force of pray'r?
Does he from heav'n or earth his hopes derive ?
From faints departed? or from priests alive?

Nor

my

reft.

Nor faints nor priefts can Brunfwick's troops withstand,
And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand;
Heav'n to our vows may future kingdoms owe,
But skill and courage win the crowns below.
Ere to thy caufe, and thee, my heart inclin'd,
Or love to party had feduc'd my mind,
In female joys I took a dull delight,
Slept all the morn, and punted half the night;
But now, with fears and publick cares poffefs'd,
The church, the church, for-ever breaks
The Poft-boy on my pillow I explore,
And fift the news of ev'ry foreign shore,
Studious to find new friends, and new allies;
What armies march from Sweden in disguise;
How Spain prepares her banners to unfold,
And Rome deals out her bleffings, and her gold:
Then o'er the map my finger taught to ftray,
Crofs many a region marks the winding way;
From fea to fea, from realm to realm I rove,
And grow a mere geographer by love.

But ftill Avignon, and the pleafing coast

That holds Thee banish'd, claims my care the most;
Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes,

And span the distance that between us lies.

Let not our James, tho' foil'd in arms, despair,
Whilft on his fide he reckons half the fair:
In Britain's lovely isle a shining throng
War in his caufe, a thousand beauties ftrong.

Th

Th' unthinking victors vainly boaft their pow'rs;
Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours.
We reason with such fluency and fire,

The beaux we baffle, and the learned tire,
Against the prelates plead the church's cause,
And from our judges vindicate the laws.

Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms loft,
A crown, tho' late, thy facred brow may boaft;
Heav'n feems through us thy empire to decree,
Those who win hearts, have giv'n their hearts to thee.
Haft thou not heard that, when profufely gay,
Our well-drefs'd rivals grace their fov'reign's day,
We stubborn damfels met the publick view
In loathfome wormwood, and repenting rue?
What whig but trembled, when our spotless band
In virgin rofes whiten'd half the land!
Who can forget what fears the foe poffefs'd,
When oaken boughs mark'd ev'ry loyal breast;
Lefs fcar'd near Medway's ftream the Norman ftood,
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
"Till near at hand, a gleam of swords betray'd.
The youth of Kent beneath its wand'ring shade.
Thofe, who the fuccours of the fair defpife,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
The female bands, O prince by Fortune crofs'd,
At least more courage than thy men may boast;
Our fex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet,
And purchase fame in many a well-fought street.

From

From Drury-lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the town,
Fair patriots fallying oft have put to flight
With all their poles the guardians of the night,
And borne, with fcreams of triumph, to their fide
The leader's ftaff in all its painted pride.
Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
To vend the difcontented ftatesman's thought.
Tho' red with ftripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore fmitten for the love of facred fong,
The tuneful fifters fill purfue their trade,
Like Philomela darkling in the fhade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
And hums in concert o'er his empty chair.

Mean while, regardless of the royal cause,
His fword for James no brother fovereign draws,
The Pope himself surrounded with alarms,
To France his bulls, to Corfu fends his arms,
And though he hears his darling fon's complaint,
Can hardly spare one tutelary faint;

But lifts them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready money coins his gods.
The dauntless Swede, purfu'd by vengeful foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary fnows;
Nor muft the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feaft regale our garter'd youth again:
Safe, Bar-le-duc, within thy filent grove

The pheafant now may perch, the hare may rove:

The

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