5 How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fate
To that melodious lyre assign'd,
Beneath a tutor who so late
With Midas and his rout combined
By spiteful clamour to confound
That very lyre's enchanting sound,
Though listening realms admired around:
6 How Horace own'd he thought the fire
Of his friend Pope's satiric line
Did further fuel scarce require
From such a militant divine:
How Milton scorn'd the sophist vain,
Who durst approach his hallow'd strain
With unwash'd hands and lips profane.
7 Then Shakspeare debonair and mild
Brought that strange comment forth to view;
Conceits more deep, he said and smiled,
Than his own fools or madmen knew:
But thank'd a generous friend above,
Who did with free adventurous love
Such pageants from his tomb remove.
8 And if to Pope, in equal need,
The same kind office thou wouldst pay,
Then, Edwards, all the band decreed
That future bards with frequent lay
Should call on thy auspicious name,
From each absurd intruder's claim
To keep inviolate their fame.
ODE XI.
TO THE COUNTRY GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 1758.
1 Whither is Europe's ancient spirit fled?
Where are those valiant tenants of her shore,
Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped,
Or with firm hand the rapid pole-axe bore?
Freeman and soldier was their common name,
Who late with reapers to the furrow came,
Now in the front of battle charged the foe:
Who taught the steer the wintry plough to endure,
Now in full councils check'd encroaching power,
And gave the guardian laws their majesty to know.
2 But who are ye? from Ebro's loitering sons
To Tiber's pageants, to the sports of Seine;
From Rhine's frail palaces to Danube's thrones
And cities looking on the Cimbric main,
Ye lost, ye self-deserted? whose proud lords
Have baffled your tame hands, and given your swords
To slavish ruffians, hired for their command:
These, at some greedy monk's or harlot's nod,
See rifled nations crouch beneath their rod:
These are the Public Will, the Reason of the land.
3 Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas, the while
Dost thou presume? O inexpert in arms,
Yet vain of Freedom, how dost thou beguile,
With dreams of hope, these near and loud alarms?
Thy splendid home, thy plan of laws renown'd,
The praise and envy of the nations round,
What care hast thou to guard from Fortune's sway?
Amid the storms of war, how soon may all
The lofty pile from its foundations fall,
Of ages the proud toil, the ruin of a day!
4 No: thou art rich, thy streams and fertile vales
Add Industry's wise gifts to Nature's store,
And every port is crowded with thy sails,
And every wave throws treasure on thy shore.
What boots it? If luxurious Plenty charm
Thy selfish heart from Glory, if thy arm
Shrink at the frowns of Danger and of Pain,
Those gifts, that treasure is no longer thine.
Oh, rather far be poor! Thy gold will shine
Tempting the eye of Force, and deck thee to thy bane.