English

Maecenas, whence is this caprice,
That mortals cannot live in peace?
But their own lot of life disclaim,
Whether by choice, or chance it came,
And give the rest invidious praise! —
O happy merchants! (full of days
And worn with toil the soldier cries)
To which the merchant-man replies,
His ship by the south wind distrest,
The military life is best;
The troops engage, and in a breath
Glad triumph comes, or instant death.
The lawyer, when his clients knock,
At the first crowing of the cock,

At length to scientific charms
I yield, whose force my heart alarms,
And suppliant pray thee by the reign
Of Proserpine and Dian's fane,
Whose pow'r's inexorably fierce,
And by the books of magic verse,
That make the very stars descend
From heav'n, and cite them to attend. —
No more in cursed mumblings deal,
But backward turn th'electric wheel;
The son of Thetis, when implor'd
By Telephus, the man restor'd;
Tho' he with darts oppos'd his way,
And set his Mysians in array.
The corse of Hector, meant a feast

Why this inertia, you ask,
Sensing my mental disorder.
Why don't I finish the task,
Writing a poem to order?

Sensing my mental disorder,
Seeing the way I put off
Writing a poem to order,
I do not wonder you scoff.

Seeing the way I put off,
(Laugh as you will, doubting Thomas)
I do not wonder you scoff —
Yet there's a reason, I promise.

Under an evil star she slips,
Accompanied by my hate;
She reels, unluckiest of ships,
With him, her stinking freight.

Do not forget, O southwest wind,
To lash her sides with waves,
Till Maevius sees, before, behind,
Nothing but yawning graves.

Litter the sea, till on it lie
These oars and tattered ropes;
And make the breakers tower as high
As mountains on his hopes.

Let not one friendly star appear,
Let even days be dark;
So that he'll fare as calm and clear

Why do ye rush, oh wicked folk,
To a fresh war?
Again the cries, the sword, the smoke —
What for?

Has not sufficient precious blood
Been fiercely shed?
Must ye spill more until ye flood
The dead?

Not even armed in rivalry
Your hate's employed;
But 'gainst yourselves until ye be
Destroyed!

Even when beasts slay beasts, they kill
Some other kind.
Can it be madness makes ye still
So blind?

Make answer! Is your conscience numb?
Each ashy face

TO THE THOUGHTLESS AND DELUDED MULTITUDE,
ADMIRERS OF FRENCH FRATERNITY .

A H whither, Traitors, with your pikes in hand,
Rush ye — to desolate your native land?
Has blood of yours been spar'd upon the sea,
Or on the Continent has life been free?
Or is it that at Paris , or The Hague ,
Ye may repel in arms that impious plague?
Or is it in the consecrated way,
Lords of the main, your trophies to display?
Is it for these? — No, Rebels, no! ye fight

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.

The snows are fled away, leaves on the shaws
And grasses in the mead renew their birth,
The river to the river-bed withdraws,
And altered is the fashion of the earth.

The Nymphs and Graces three put off their fear
And unapparelled in the woodland play.
The swift hour and the brief prime of the year
Say to the soul, Thou was not born for aye.

Thaw follows frost; hard on the heel of spring
Treads summer sure to die, for hard on hers
Comes autumn, with his apples scattering;

BOOK IV. ODE I .

Venus! call'st thou once more to arms?
Sound'st thou once more thy dire alarms?
Annoy'st my peaceful state again —
Oh, faith of treaties sworn in vain!
Seal'd with the signet of thy doves,
And ratified by all the Loves.
Spare, Goddess! I implore, implore!
Alas! thy suppliant is no more
What once he was in happier time,
(Illustrated by many a rhyme)
When, skill'd in every ruling art,
Good A****s sway'd his yielding heart:
Love's champion then, and known to fame,

Tonson : While at my House in Fleet-street once you lay,
How merrily, dear Sir, Time pass'd away?
While I partook your Wine, your Wit, and Mirth,
I was the happiest Creature on God's Yearth .

Congreve : While in your early Days of Reputation,
You for blue Garters had not such a Passion;
While yet you did not use (as now your Trade is)
To drink with noble Lords, and toast their Ladies;
Thou, J ACOB T ONSON , wert, to my conceiving,
The chearfullest, best, honest, Fellow living.