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no labours of a genius fo rich in itself, and fo cultivated with learning and manners, can prove an unwelcome present to the world.

WHAT rage does England from itself divide,

More than the feas from all the world befide?

From every part the roaring cannons play,
From every part blood roars as loud as they.
What English ground but ftill fome moisture bears,
Of young men's blood, and more of mothers' tears?
What air 's unthicken`d with the fighs of wives,
Though more of maids for their dear lovers' lives?
Alas! what triumphs can this victory fhew,
That dyes us red in blood and blushes too!
How can we wish that conqueft, which beftows
Cyprefs, not bays, upon the conquering brows!
It was not fo when Henry's dreadful name,
Not fword, nor caufe, whole nations overcame.
To fartheft Weft did his swift conquefts run,
Nor did his glory fet but with the fun.
In vain did Roderic to his hold retreat,
In vain had wretched Ireland call'd him great;
Ireland! which now moft bafely we begin

To labour more to lose than he to win.

It was not fo when in the happy East,

Richard, our Mars, Venus's Isle poffeft:

'Gainst the proud Moon he th' English crofs difplay'd,
Eclips'd one horn, and th' other paler made;
When our dear lives we ventur'd bravely there,
And digg'd our own to gain Chrift's fepulchre,

That

That facred tomb, which, fhould we now enjoy,
We should with as much zeal fight to destroy!
The precious figns of our dead Lord we fcorn,
And fee his crofs worfe than his body torn;
We hate it now both for the Greek and Jew,
To us 'tis foolishness and fcandal too.
To what with worship the fond Papist falls,
That the fond zealot a curs'd idol calls:

So, 'twixt their double madness, here 's the odds,

One makes false devils, t'other makes makes false gods. It was not fo when Edward prov'd his caufe,

By a fword ftronger than the Salique laws,

Tho' fetch'd from Pharamond; when the French did fight,
With women's hearts, against the women's right.
Th' afflicted ocean his first conquest bore,
And drove red waves to the fad Gallic fhore:
As if he 'ad angry with that element been,
Which his wide foul bound with an ifland in.
Where's now that fpirit with which at Creffey we,
And Poitiers, forc'd from Fate a victory?
Two kings at once we brought fad captives home,
A triumph fcarcely known to ancient Rome!
Two foreign kings: but now, alas! we strive,
Our own, our own good fovereign to captive!
It was not fo when Agincourt was won;
Under great Henry ferv'd the rain and fun :
A nobler fight the fun himself ne'er knew,
Not when he stopp'd his courfe a fight to view!
Then Death's old archer did more fkilful grow,
And learn'd to shoot more fure from th' English bow ;

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Then France was her own ftory fadly taught,
And felt how Cæfar and how Edward fought.

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It was not so when that vast fleet of Spain Lay torn and scatter'd on the English main ; Through the proud world a virgin terror ftrook ; The Auftrian crowns, and Rome's feven hills, she shook! To her great Neptune homag'd all his ftreams, And all the wide-ftretch'd ocean was her Thames. Thus our forefathers fought, thus bravely bled, Thus ftill they live, whilst we alive are dead Such acts they did, that Rome, and Cæfar too, Might envy those whom once they did fubdue. We 're not their offspring; fure our heralds lye; But born we know not how, as now we die; Their precious blood we could not venture thus: Some Cadmus, fure, fow'd ferpents' teeth for us; We could not elfe by mutual fury fall, Whilft Rhine and Sequan for our armies call: Chuse war or peace, you have a prince, you know, As fit for both, as both are fit for you; Furious as lightning, when war's tempeft came, But calm in peace, calm as a lambent flame. Have you forgot thofe happy years of late, That faw nought ill, but us that were ingrate; Such years, as if earth's youth return'd had been, And that old ferpent Time had caft his skin? As gloriously and gently did they move, As the bright fun that measures them above; Then only in books the learn'd could misery see, And the unlearn'd ne'er heard of mifery.

Then

Then happy James with as deep quiet reign'd,
As in his heavenly throne, by death, he gain'd;
And, left this bleffing with his life fhould ceafe,
He left us Charles, the pledge of future peace;
Charles, under whom, with much ado, no lefs
Than fixteen years, we endur'd our happiness;
Till in a moment, in the North, we find
A tempeft conjur'd up without a wind.
As foon the North her kindness did repent;
First the peace-maker, and next war,
Juft Tweed, that now had with long peace forgot
On which fide dwelt the English, which the Scot,
Saw glittering arms shine sadly on his face,
Whilft all th' affrighted fish fank down apace.
No blood did then from this dark quarrel grow,

It

fhe fent.

gave blunt wounds, that bled not out till now! For Jove, who might have us'd his thundering power,. Chofe to fall calmly in a golden fhower!

A way we found to conquer, which by none
Of all our thrifty ancestors was known;
So ftrangely prodigal of late we are,

We there buy peace, and hère at home buy war.
How could a war fo fad and barbarous pleafe,
But first by flandering those bleft days of peace?
Through all the excrements of state they pry,
Like emp'ricks, to find out a malady;

And then with defperate boldness they endeavour,
Th' ague to cure by bringing-in a fever :
The way is fure to expel fome ill, no doubt;
The plague, we know, drives all difeafes out.

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What strange wild fears did every morning breed,
Till a ftrange fancy made us fick indeed!
And cowardice did valour's place supply,
Like thofe that kill themselves for fear to die!
What frantic diligence in these men appears,
That fear all ills, and act o'er all their fears!
Thus into war we fcar'd ourselves; and who
But Aaron's fons, that the first trumpet blew ?
Fond men who knew not that they were to keep
For God, and not for facrifice, their sheep!
The churches firft this murderous doctrine sow,
And learn to kill, as well as bury, now:
The marble tombs where our forefathers lie,
Sweated with dread of too much company;
And all their fleeping afhes fhook for fear,
Left thousand ghosts should come and shroud them there.
Petitions next from every town they frame,

To be reftor'd to them from whom they came:
The fame ftyle all, and the fame fenfe, does pen,
Alas! they' allow fet forms of prayer to men.
Oh happy we, if men would neither hear
Their ftudied form, nor God their fudden prayer
They will be heard, and, in unjustest wise,
The many-headed rout for justice cries;
They call for blood, which now I fear does call
For blood again, much louder than they all.
In fenfelefs clamours, and confused noise,
We loft that rare, and yet unconquer'd voice:
So, when the facred Thracian lyre was drown'd
In the Biftonian women's mixed found,

The

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