Oh! do thou place on Dryden's learned brow The sacred bays; for none dare envy now. Thus He to future ages shall be shown, Immortal in Thy Works, as in His Own.

TO THE

DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.

PARDON, great Duke, if Britain's style delights;
Or, if the Imperial title more invites,

Pardon, great Prince! the failings of a Muse,
That dares not hope for more than your excuse,
Forc'd at a distance to attempt your praise,
And sing your victories in mournful lays,
To cast in shadows, and allay the light

That wounds with nearer rays the dazzled sight,
Nor durst in a direct and open strain
Such acts with her unhallow'd notes prophane:
In towering verse let meaner heroes grow,
And to elaborate lines their greatness owe;
Your actions, own'd by every nation, want
Praises no greater than a foe may grant.

Oh! when shall Europe, by her Marlborough's sword,

To lasting peace and liberty restor❜d,

Allow her weary Champion a retreat,

To his lov'd country and his rising seat?

Where your soft partner, far from martial noise,
Your cares shall sweeten with domestic joys:
Your conquests she with doubtful pleasure hears,
And in the midst of every triumph fears;
Betwixt her Queen and You divides her life,
A Friend obsequious, and a faithful Wife.

Hail, Woodstock! hail, ye celebrated glades! Grow fast, ye woods! and florish thick, ye shades! Ye rising towers, for your new Lord prepare, Like your old Henry, come from Gallia's war. The General's arms as far the King's o'erpower, As this new structure does surpass the bower.

The pleasing prospects and romantic scite, The spacious compass, and the stately height, The painted gardens, in their flowery prime, Demand whole volumes of immortal rhyme; And, if the Muse would second the design, Mean as they are, should in my numbers shine; There live the joy and wonder of our isles, Happy in Albion's love and Anna's smiles.

While, from the Godlike race of Churchill born, Four beauteous Rosamonds this bower adorn, Who with the ancient Syren of the place In charms might vie and every blooming grace; But, bless'd with equal virtues had she been, Like them she had been favour'd by the Queen,

Whom your high merit, and their own, prefers
To all the worthiest beds of England's Peers.

Thus the great Eagle, when Heaven's wars are o'er,

And the loud thunder has forgot to roar,

Jove's fires laid by, with those of Venus burns,
To his forsaken mate and shades returns ;

On some proud tree more sacred than the rest,
With curious art he builds his spacious nest;
In the warm sun lies basking all the day,
While round their Sire the generous Eaglets play;
Their Sire, well pleas'd to see the noble brood
Fill all the loftiest cedars of the wood.

SURE there's a fate in excellence, too strong
To struggle with the mortal fabric long;
Whether the weaken'd springs of life decay,
As active thoughts their energy display;
Or the Soul, scornful of her seat, aspires
And, like a guest unsatisfy'd, retires.
Or is Earth robb'd by a resuming Sky,
Only to show it can as fast supply?

Here scythe-arm'd Death the full-grown Virtues

mows,

There the restoring hand of Plenty sows :
Thus patriots die, and patriots mount the sphere,

As some stars set, that others may appear.