In Answer to a LADY who advised
OU little know the heart that you advise;
I view this various fcene with equal eyes :
In crowded courts I find myself alone,
And pay my worship to a nobler throne.
Long fince the value of this world I know,
Pity the madness, and despise the show.
Well as I can my tedious part I bear,
And wait for my difmiffion without fear.
Seldom I mark mankind's detefted ways,
Not hearing cenfure, nor affecting praise ;
And, unconcern'd, my future ftate I trust
To that fole Being, merciful and just.
An Addrefs of the STATUES at STOWE, to Lord COBHAM, on his Return to his Gardens.
Muse and every art thy own,
Thy bow'rs our theatres, thy mind our throng!
Hail to thy virtues manumiz'd from state;
Hail to thy leisure to be wifely great.
Fetter'd by duties and to forms enflav'd,
How timely have thy years a remnant sav'd!
To taste that freedom which thy fword maintain❜d,
And lead in letter'd eafe, a life unpain❜d:
So Scipio (Carthage fall'n) refign'd his plume,
And smil'd at the forgetfulness of Rome.
O greatly blefs'd! whofe evening fweetest shines,
And, in unclouded flowness, calm declines!
While free reflection with reverted eye,
Wan'd from hot noon-tide and a troubled sky,
Divides life well: the largest part, long known
Thy country's claim; the last and best thy own.
Here while detach'd, thy felf-fupported foul
Refumes dominion and efcapes controul;
Moves with a grandeur, monarchs wish in vain,
Above all fears, ftorms, dangers, hopes or pain;
A glance sometimes from thy safe summit show,
And see the dusty world look dim below:
Thro' the dark throng difcern huge flaves of pride
Should'ring unheeded Happiness afide;
Thwarted and push'd and lab'ring into name,
And dignify'd with all the dirt of fame;
Then with a smile superior, turn away,
And lop th' exub'rance of some straggling spray;
Wind thro' thy mazes to ferene delight,
And from the bursting bubbles fhade thy fight.
Yet where thou fhin'ft, like heav'n behind a cloud,
Moving like light, all piercing, tho' not loud;
The Muse shall find thee in thy bleft retreat,
And breathe this honeft wish at Cobham's feet:
Fresh as thy lakes, may all thy pleasures flow!
And breezy like thy groves, thy paffions blow!
Wide as thy fancy, be thy fpreading praise !
And long and lovely as thy walks, thy days!
Whofe rays benignant blefs'd this ifle,
Made peaceful Nature round us smile
With calm, but cheerful light.
No bounty paft provokes my praise,
No future prospects prompt my lays,
From real grief they flow;
I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears,
My forrows fall with Britain's tears,
And join a nation's woe.
as you pass the crowded street,
Defpondence clouds each face you meet,
All their loft friend deplore:
You read in every pensive eye,
You hear in ev'ry broken figh,
That Pelham is no more.
If thus each Briton be alarm'd,
Whom but his distant influence warm'd,
What grief their breasts must rend,
Who in his private virtues blefs'd,
By Nature's dearest tyes poffefs'd
The Hufband, Father, Friend!
What! mute ye bards ?-no mournful verse,
No chaplets to adorn his hearse,
To crown the good and just ?
Your flowers in warmer regions bloom,
You feek no penfions from the tomb,
No laurels from the duft.
When pow'r departed with his breath,
The fons of Flatt'ry fled from death :
Such infects fwarm at noon.
Not for herself my Mufe is griev'd,
She never afk'd, nor e'er receiv'd,
One minifterial boon.
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