Classic Poem

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. JAMES STANHOPE. ESQ .

Born near Avona's winding stream,
I touch the trembling lyre;
No vulgar thoughts, no vulgar theme,
Shall the bold Muse inspire.
'Tis immortality's her aim;
Sublime she mounts the skies,
She climbs the steep ascent to fame,
Nor ever shall want force to rise,
While she supports her flight with Stanhope's name.
What though majestic Milton stands alone
Inimitably great!
Bow low, ye bards! at his exalted throne,
And lay your labours at his feet.
Capacious soul! whose boundless thoughts survey
Heav'n, hell, earth, sea;
Lo! where the' embattled gods appear,
The mountains from their seats they tear,
And shake the' empyreal heav'ns with impious war.
Yet nor shall Milton's ghost repine
At all the honours we bestow
On Addison's deserving brow,
By whom convinc'd we own his work divine,
Whose skilful pen has done his merit right,
And set the jewel in a fairer light.
Enliven'd by his bright Essay,
Each flowery scene appears more gay,
New beauties spring in Eden's fertile groves,
And by his culture Paradise improves.
Garth, by Apollo doubly bless'd,
Is by the god entire possess'd:
Age, unwilling to depart,
Begs life from his prevailing skill;
Youth, reviving from his art,
Borrows its charms and pow'r to kill:
But when the patriot's injur'd fame,
His country's honour or his friends,
A more extensive bounty claim,
With joy the ready muse attends,
Immortal honours she bestows,
A gift the muse alone can give;
She crowns the glorious victor's brows,
And bids expiring virtue live.
Nymphs yet unborn shall melt with amorous flames
That Congreve's lays inspire,
And Philips warm the gentle swains
To love and soft desire.
Ah! shun, ye fair! the dangerous sounds,
Alas! each moving accent wounds,
The sparks conceal'd revive again,
The god restor'd resumes his reign
In killing joys and pleasing pain.
Thus does each bard in different garb appear,
Each muse has her peculiar air,
And in propriety of dress becomes more fair:
To each impartial Providence
Well-chosen gifts bestows;
He varies his munificence,
And in divided streams the heav'nly blessing flows.
If we look back on ages past and gone,
When infant Time his race begun,
The distant view still lessens to our sight,
Obscur'd in clouds, and veil'd in shades of night;
The muse alone can the dark scenes display,
Enlarge the prospect, and disclose the day.
'Tis she the records of times past explores,
And the dead hero to new life restores,
To the brave man, who for his country died,
Erects a lasting pyramid,
Supports his dignity and fame,
When mouldering pillars drop his name;
In full proportion leads her warrior forth,
Discovers his neglected worth,
Brightens his deeds, by envious rust o'ercast,
To' improve the present age, and vindicate the past.
Did not the muse our crying wrongs repeat,
Ages to come no more should know
Of Lewis, by oppression great,
Than we of Nimrod now:
The meteor should but blaze and die,
Depriv'd of the reward of endless infamy.
Ev'n that brave chief who set the nations free,
The greatest man the world can boast,
Without the muse's aid shall be
Sunk in the tide of time, and in oblivion lost.
The sculptor's hand may make the marble live,
Or the bold pencil trace
The wonders of that lovely face,
Where every charm and every grace,
That man can wish or Heav'n can give,
In happy union join'd, confess
The hero born to conquer and to bless.
Yet vain, alas! is every art,
Till the great work the muse complete,
And everlasting fame impart,
That soars aloft above the reach of fate.
Hail, happy bard! on whom the gods bestow
A genius equal to the vast design,
Whose thoughts sublime in easy numbers flow,
While Marlborough's virtues animate each line.
How shall our trembling souls survey
The horrors of each bloody day,
The reeking carnage of the plain
Incumber'd with the mighty slam,
The strange variety of death,
And the sad murmurs of departing breath?
Scamander's streams shall yield to Danube's flood,
To the dark bosom of the deep pursued
By fiercer flames, and stain'd with nobler blood.
The gods shall arm on either side,
The important quarrel to decide;
The grand event embroil the realms above,
And faction revel in the court of Jove;
While heav'n and earth, and sea and air,
Shall feel the mighty shock and labour of the war.

Virtue conceal'd obscurely dies,
Lost in the mean disguise
Of abject sloth, depress'd, unknown:
Rough in its native bed the unwrought diamond lies,
Till chance or art reveal its worth,
And call its latent glories forth:
But when its radiant charms are view'd,
Becomes the idol of the crowd,
And adds new lustre to the monarch's crown.
What British harp can lie unstrung,
When Stanhope's fame demands a song?
Upward, ye muses! take your wanton flight,
Tune every lyre to Stanhope's praise,
Exert your most triumphant lays,
Nor suffer such heroic deeds to sink in endless night.
The golden Tagus shall forget to flow,
And Ebro leave its channel dry,
Ere Stanhope's name to time shall bow,
And lost in dark oblivion lie.
Where shall the muse begin her airy flight?
Where first direct her dubious way,
Lost in variety of light,
And dazzled in excess of day?
Wisdom and valour, probity and truth,
At once upon the labouring fancy throng,
The conduct of old age, the fire of youth,
United in one breast, perplex the poet's song.
Those virtues, which, dispers'd and rare,
The gods too thriftily bestow'd,
And scatter'd to amuse the crowd,
When former heroes were their care,
To exert at once their pow'r divine,
In thee, brave Chief! collected shine.
So from each lovely blooming face
The ambitious artist stole a grace,
When in one finish'd piece he strove
To paint the' all-glorious queen of Love.
Thy provident unbiass'd mind,
Knowing in arts of peace and war,
With indefatigable care
Labours the good of human kind:
Erect in dangers, modest in success,
Corruption's everlasting bane,
Where injur'd merit finds redress,
And worthless villains wait in vain.
Though fawning knaves besiege thy gate,
And court the honest man they hate,
Thy steady virtue charges through,
Alike unerring to subdue,
As when on Almanzara's plain the scatter'd squadrons flew.
Vain are the' attacks of force or art
Where Caesar's arm defends a Cato's heart.
Oh! could thy generous soul dispense
Through this unrighteous age its sacred influence
Could the base crowd from thy example learn
To trample on their impious gifts with scorn,
With shame confounded to behold
A nation for a trifle sold,
Dejected senates should no more
Their champion's absence mourn,
Contending boroughs should thy name return;
Thy bold Philippics should restore
Britannia's wealth, and pow'r, and fame,
Nor liberty be deem'd an empty name,
While tyrants trembled on a foreign shore.
No swelling titles, pomp, and state,
The trappings of a magistrate,
Can dignify a slave, or make a traitor great;
For, careless of external show,
Sage Nature dictates whom to obey,
And we the ready homage pay,
Which to superior gifts we owe.
Merit like thine repuls'd an empire gains,
And virtue, though neglected, reigns.
The wretch is indigent and poor
Who, brooding, sits o'er his ill-gotten store;
Trembling with guilt, and haunted by his sin,
He feels the rigid judge within:
But they alone are bless'd who wisely know
To' enjoy the little which the gods bestow;
Proud of their glorious wants, disdain
To barter honesty for gain;
No other ill but shame they fear,
And scorn to purchase life too dear:
Profusely lavish of their blood,
For their dear friends or country's good,
If Britain conquer can rejoice in death,
And in triumphant shouts resign their breath.