But such is my uncertain state,
"Tis dangerous to try my fate;
For I would only know from art
The future motions of your heart,
And what predestinated doom
Attends my love, for years to come;
No secrets else, that mortals learn,
My cares deserve, or life concern ;
But this will so important be,
I dread to search the dark decree;
For while the smallest hope remains,
Faint joys are mingled with my pains.
Vain distant views my fancy please,
And give some intermitting ease;
But should the stars too plainly show
That you have doom'd my endless woe,
No human force, or art, could bear
The torment of my wild despair.
This secret, then, I dare not know, And other truths are useless now. What matters if, unbless'd in love, How long or short my life will prove? To gratify what low desire
Should I with needless haste inquire,
How great, how wealthy I shall be?
Oh! what is wealth or power to me!
If I am happy or undone,
It must proceed from you
A FRIEND, ON HIS NUPTIALS.
WHEN Jove lay bless'd in his Alcmena's charms,
Three nights, in one, he press'd her in his arms;
The sun lay set, and conscious Nature strove
To shade her god, and to prolong his love.
From that auspicious night Alcides came:
What less could rise from Jove and such a dame?
May this auspicious night with that compare,
Nor less the joys, nor less the rising heir;
He strong as Jove, she like Alcmena fair.
PRAISING THE LADY HINCHINBROKE.
Of thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa and Hortense
She looks, henceforth, upon as dowdies.
Yet she to one must still submit,
To dear mamma must pay her duty; She wonders, praising Wilmot's wit,
Thou shouldst forget his daughter's beauty.
DESIRING THE QUEEN'S PICture.
WRITTEN AT PARIS, 1714, BUT LEFT UNFINISHED, BY THE
SUDDEN NEWS OF HER MAJESTY'S DEATH.
THE train of equipage and pomp of state,
The shining sideboard and the burnish'd plate,
Let other ministers, great Anne, require,
And partial fall thy gift to their desire.
To the fair Portrait of my sovereign Dame,
To that, alone, eternal be my claim.
My bright defender, and my dread delight,
If ever I found favour in thy sight;
If all the pains that for thy Britain's sake
My past has took, or future life may take,
Be grateful to my Queen; permit my prayer,
And with this gift reward my total care.
Will thy indulgent hand, fair Saint, allow
The boon? and will thy ear accept the vow?
That in despite of age, of impious flame,
And eating Time, thy Picture, like thy fame,
Entire may last, that as their eyes survey
The semblant shade, men yet unborn may say,
Thus great, thus gracious, look'd Britannia's Queen,
Her brow thus smooth, her look was thus serene;
When to a low, but to a loyal hand,
The mighty Empress gave her high command,
That he to hostile camps and kings should haste,
To speak her vengeance, as their danger, pass'd;
Το say, She wills detested wars to cease;
She checks her conquest for her subjects' ease,
And bids the world attend her terms of peace.
Thee, gracious Anne, thee present I adore Thee, Queen of Peace-If Time and Fate have Higher to raise the glories of thy reign,
In words sublimer, and a nobler strain,
May future bards the mighty theme rehearse:
Here Stator Jove, and Phoebus king of verse,
The votive tablet I suspend *******
MONSIEUR BOILEAU DESPREAUX, OCCASIONED BY THE VICTORY AT BLENHEIM,
Cupidum, Pater optime, vires
Deficiunt; neque enim quivis horrentia pilis
Agmina, nec fracta pereuntes cuspide Gallos.-
SINCE, hired for life thy servile Muse must sing
Successive conquests and a glorious King;
Must of a man immortal vainly boast,
And bring him laurels, whatsoe'er they cost,
What turn wilt thou employ, what colours lay
On the event of that superior day,
In which one English subject's prosperous hand
(So Jove did will, so Anna did command)
Broke the proud column of thy master's praise,
Which sixty winters had conspired to raise?
From the lost field a hundred standards brought, Must be the work of Chance, and Fortune's fault.
Bavaria's stars must be accused, which shone,
That fatal day the mighty work was done,
With rays oblique upon the Gallic sun.
Some demon, envying France, misled the fight,
And Mars mistook, though Louis order'd right.
When thy young Muse invoked the tuneful Nine,
To say how Louis did not pass the Rhine,
What work had we with Wageninghen, Arnheim,
Places that could not be reduced to rhyme?
And though the poet made his last efforts,
Wurts-who could mention in heroic-Wurts?
But, tell me, hast thou reason to complain
Of the rough triumphs of the last campaign?
The Danube rescued, and the empire saved,
Say, is the majesty of verse retrieved?
And would it prejudice thy softer vein
To sing the princes Louis and Eugene?
Is it too hard in happy verse to place
The Vans and Vanders of the Rhine and Maese?
Her warriors Anna sends from Tweed and Thames,
That France may fall by more harmonious names.
Canst thou not Hamilton or Lumley bear?
Would Ingoldsby or Palmes offend thy ear?
And is there not a sound in Marlborough's name
Which thou and all thy brethren ought to claim,
Sacred to verse, and sure of endless fame?
Cutts is in metre something harsh to read;
Place me the valiant Gowran in his stead:
Let the intention make the number good;
Let generous Sylvius speak for honest Wood.
And though rough Churchill scarce in verse will
stand,
So as to have one rhyme at his command,
Lord Cutts was created Baron Gowran of Ireland.
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