"Made her heart, and tongue their seat,
Her heart profusely good,her tongue divinely sweet:
"Myrrha the wonder of his eyes.'

His heart recoil'd with sweet surprize,
With joys unknown before;

His soul dissolv'd in pleasing pain,
Flow'd to his eyes, and look'd again,
And could endure no more,
"Enough! th' impatient hero cries
"And seiz'd her to his breast,
"I seek no more below the skies,
"I give my slaves the rest."

To DAVID POLHILL, Esq.

An ANSWER to an infamous Satyr, called, ADVICE TO A PAINTER; written by a nameless Author, against King William III. of glorious Memory, 1698.

SIR,

WHEN you put this Satyr into my hand, you gave me the occasion of employing my pen to answer so detestable a writing; which might be done much more effectually by your known zeal for the interest of his Majesty, your counsels and your courage employed in the defence of your king and country. And since you provoked me to write, you will accept of these efforts of my loyalty to the best of kings, addressed to one of the most zealous of bis subjects, by,

SIR,

Your most obedient Servant,

I. W.

PART I.

Here in the front of vice and scandal stand?
The man of wond'rous soul, that scorn'd his ease,
Tempting the Winters, and the faithless seas,
And paid an annual tribute of his life.

To guard his England from the Irish knife,
And crush the French Dragoon? MustWilliam's name,
That brightest star that gilds the wings of Fame,
William the brave, the pious, and the just,
Adorn these gloomy scenes of tyranny and lust!

Polhill, my blood boils high, my spirits flame; Can your zeal sleep? Or are your passions tamë? Nor call revenge and darkness on the poet's name? Why smoke the skies not? why no thunders roll? Nor kindling light'nings blast his guilty soul? Audacious wretch! to stab a monarch's fame, And fire his subjects with a rebel-flame; To call the painter to his black designs, To draw our guardian's face in hellish lines: Painter, beware!, the monarch can be shown Under no shape but angels, or his own, Gabriel, or William, or the British throne.

O! could my thought but grasp the vast design, And words with infinite ideas join,

I'd rouse Apelles from his iron sleep,

And bid him trace the warrior o'er the deep:
Trace him, Apelles, o'er the Belgian plain

Fierce, how he climbs the mountains of the slain,
Scattering just vengeance thro' the red campaign.
Then dash the canvas with a flying stroke,
Till it be lost in clouds of fire and smoke,
And say, 'Twas thus the conqueror through the
squadron broke.

Mark him again emerging from the cloud,
Far from his troops; there like a rock he stood
His country's single barrier in a sea of blood.
Calmly he leaves the pleasure of a throne,
And, his Maria weeping; whilst alone

He wards the fate of nations, and provokes his own: But heaven secures his champion, o'er the field Paint hov'ring angels; though they fly conceal'd, Each intercepts a death, and wears it on his shield.

Now noble pencil lead him to our isle,
Mark how the skies with joyful luftre smile,
Then imitate the glory on the strand
Spread half the nation, longing till he land.
Wash off the blood, and take a peaceful teint,
All red the warrior, white the rural paint;
Abroad a hero, and at home a saint.
Throne him on high upon a shining seat,

Lust and profaneness dying at his feet,

While round his head the laurel and the olive meet,
The crowns of war and peace; and may they blow
With flow'ry blessings ever on his brow.

At his right hand pile up the English laws
In sacred volumes; thence the monarch draws
His wise and just commands.........

Rise, yê old sages of the British isle,

On the fair tablet çast a reverend smile,

And bless the peace; these statutes are your own,
That sway the cottage and direct the throne!
People and prince are one in William's name,
Their joys, their dangers, and their laws the same.

Let Liberty, and Right, with plumes display'd, Clap their glad wings around the Guardian's head, Religion o'er the rest her starry pinions spread. Religion guards him; round th' imperial queen Place waiting virtues, each of heav'nly mein;

1

Learn their bright air, and paint it from his eyes:
The just, the bold, the temperate and the wise
Dwell in his looks; majestic, but serene;
Sweet, with no fondness; cheerful, but not vain:
Bright, without terror; great without disdain.
His soul inspires us what his lips command,
And spreads his brave example through the land:
Not so the former reigns ;........................................
Bend down his earth to each afflicted cry,
Let beams of grace dart gently from his eyes;
But the bright treasures of his sacred breast
Are too divine, too vast to be exprest;

Colours must fail where words and numbers faint,
And leave the hero's heart for thought alone to paint

NOW

PART II,

TOW, muse, pursue the satyrist again,
Wipe off the blots of his envenom'd pen;
Hark, how he bids the servile painter draw,
In monstrous shapes, the patrons of our law;
At one slight dash he cancels every name
From the white rolls of honesty and fame:
This scribling wretch marks all he meets for knave,
Shoots sudden bolts promiscuous at the base and brave,
And with unpardonable malice shades

Poison and spite on undistinguish'd heads,
Painter, forbear; or, if thy bolder hand
Dares to attempt the villains of the land.
Draw first this poet, like some baleful star,
With silent influence shedding civil war;
Or factious trumpeter, whose magic sound

Calls off the subject to the hostile ground,
And scatters hellish feuds the nation round.
These are the imps of hell, that cursed tribe
That first create the plague, and then the pain describe

Draw next above, the great ones of our isle, Still from the good distinguishing the vile; Seat 'em in pomp, in grandeur, and command, Peeling the subjects with a greedy hand: Paint forth the knaves that have the nation sold,' And tinge their greedy looks with sordid gold. Mark what a selfish faction undermines The pious monarch's generous designs, Spoil their own native land as vipers do, Vipers that tear their mother's bowels through. Let great Nassau, beneath a careful crown, Mournful in majesty, look gently down, Mingling soft pity with an awful frown: He grieves to see how long in vain he strove To make us blest, how vain his labours prove To save the stubborn land he condescends to love.

To the Discontented and Unquiet.

Imitated partly from Casimire, Book IV. Ode 15.

VARIA, there's nothing here that's free

From wearisome anxiety:

And the whole round of mortal joys With short possession tires and cloys: 'Tis a dull circle that we tread,

Just from the window to the bed,