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Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine,
What! shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day,
Of honour bind me not to maul his tools;
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, 150
To see a footman kick'd that took his pay;
F. Hold, sir, for God's sake; where's th'affront to
The priest whose flattery be-dropp'd the crown How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown. ig5
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
P. Faith it imports not much from whom it came ;■> Whoever borrow'd could not be to blame, I
Since the whole house did afterwards the same. J
As hog to hog in huts of Westplialv:
VOL. II. H
The blessed benefit, not there confin'd,
F. This filthy simile, this beastly line,
Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read;
Because the insult's not on man, but God f
Ask you what provocation I have had?
Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense;
F. You're strangely proud.
P. So proud, I am no slave; 203 )
So impudent, I own myself no knave; (
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. )
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence,
ltevercnt 1 touch thee! but with honest zeal, 216
To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,
To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects' whom a court maintains, 220
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day,
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:
All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings, 224
All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings;
All, all but truth, drops dead-bom from the press,
Like the last gazette or the last address.
When black ambition stains a public cause, A monarch's sword when mad vain-glory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the natron's scar, 930 Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.
Not so when diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from virtue's Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die, [shrine, And opes the temple of eternity. 235
There other trophies deck the truly brave .
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thiue.)
Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw,
F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Essays on Man. 255
ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1708.
Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing;
The breathmg instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly-pleasing strain • i
Let the warbling lute complain;
Let the loud trumpet sound, *
Till the roofs all around
The shrill echoes rebound;
While in more lengthen'd notes and slow 10
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies: 15
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
Till by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
And melt away S*
In a dying, dying fall.
By music minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise,
Music her soft assuasive voice applies, tt
Or when the soul is press'd with cares,
Exalts her in enliv'nftg airs.
Warriors she fires w'ith animated sounds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wound
Melancholy lifts her head, 30
Morpheus rouses from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
List'ning envy drops her snakes;
Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy factions hear away their rage. 85
But when our country's cause provokes to arm?,
How martial .music ev'ry bosom warms!
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
While Argo saw her kindred trees 40
Descend trom Pelion to the main:
Transported demigods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Inflam'd with glory's charms:
Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd, 45
And half unsheath'd the shining blade;
And seas, and rocks, and skies, rebound
To arms, to arms, to arms!
But when through all th' infernal bounds,.
Love, strong as death, the poet led
O'er all the dreary coasts! 55
Sullen moans, 60
Thy stone, O Sisyphus! stands still,