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Oh, fact accurs'd! what tears has Albion shed,
'Hail, sacred peace! hail, long-expected days,
Of war or blood, but in the silvan chase;
'Thy trees, fair Windsor! now shall leave their
Tempt icy seas, where scarce the waters roll, Where clearer flames glow round the frozen pole; Or under southern skies exalt their sails, Led by new stars, and borne by spicy gales! For me the balm shall bleed, and amber flow, The coral redden, and the ruby glow, The pearly shell its lucid globe infold, And Phoebus warm the ripening ore to gold. The time shall come, when, free as seas or wind, Unbounded Thames shall flow for all mankind, Whole nations enter with each swelling tide, And seas but join the regions they divide; Earth's distant ends our glory shall behold, And the new world launch forth to seek the old. Then ships of uncouth form shall stem the tide, And feather'd people crowd my wealthy side; And naked youths and painted chiefs admire Our speech, our colour, and our strange attire! O stretch thy reign, fair Peace! from shore to shore, Till conquest cease, and slavery be no more; Till the freed Indians in their native groves Reap their own fruits, and woo their sable loves; Peru once more a race of kings behold, And other Mexicos be roof'd with gold. Exil'd by thee from earth to deepest hell, In brazen bonds, shall barbarous Discord dwell: Gigantic Pride, pale Terror, gloomy Care, And mad Ambition, shall attend her there : There purple Vengeance, bath'd in gore, retires, Her weapons blunted, and extinct her fires : There hated Envy her own snakes shall feel, And Persecution mourn her broken wheel: There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain, And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain.'
Here cease thy flight, nor with unhallow'd lays Touch the fair fame of Albion's golden days: The thoughts of gods let Granville's verse recite, And bring the scenes of opening fate to light. My humble Muse, in unambitious strains, Paints the green forests and the flowery plains, Where Peace descending bids her olives spring, And scatters blessings from her dove-like wing. Ev'n I more sweetly pass my careless days, Pleas'd in the silent shade with empty praise! Enough for me, that to the listening swains First in these fields I sung the silvan strains.
RAPE OF THE LOCK.
AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1712.
TO MRS. ARABELLA FERMOR.
Ir will be in vain to deny that I have some regard for this piece, since I dedicate it to you. Yet you may bear me witness, it was intended only to divert a few young ladies, who have good sense and good humour enough to laugh not only at their sex's little unguarded follies, but at their own. But as it was communicated with the air of a secret, it soon found its way into the world. An imperfect copy having been offered to a bookseller, you had the good-nature, for my sake, to consent to the publication of one more correct: this I was forced to, before I had executed half my design, for the machinery was entirely wanting to complete it.
The machinery, Madam, is a term invented by the critics, to signify that part which the deities, angels, or demons, are made to act in a poem : for the ancient poets are in one respect like many modern ladies; let an action be ever so trivial in itself, they always make it appear of the utmost importance. These machines I determined to raise on a very new and odd foundation, the Rosicrucian doctrine of spirits.
I know how disagreeable it is to make use of hard words before a lady; but it is so much the