"Where pliant Dorset sits, and long has sat, "Secure from changes, and the storms of

state."

But arbitrary Fortune (who derides,

Whate'er Experience frames, or Wisdom guides; Without whose smiles, all honour, virtue,

worth,

Still plead in vain) presided at his birth Newcastle, then (and yet a child), she blest, And rapt'rous these prophetic truths exprest; "Tho' void of honesty, of sense, of art, "A foolish head, and a perfidious heart.* "Yet riches, honours, pow'r, he shall enjoy, "Parties shall follow, monarch shall employ; "Great Britain's seal be to his hand consign'd, "The Ducal coronet his temples bind.

"He shall betray and lye, but all in vain,

Spite of himself, his posts he shall maintain ; "No changes shall involve my favʼrite's fall, "He'll join the current, and be all to all.

* Sir R. Walpole said of the Duke of Newcastle, “His name is Perfidy."-W.

"Let him but keep his outside show of power, "He'll act with Orford, Granville, Bath, or

Gower:"

"Prudence, howe'er you smile, howe'er are kind,

Thy vot'ries ne'er are leaders of mankind; "Unfit to govern England's restive realm, "She asks a genius to conduct her helm, "That dares forsake thy paths, offend thy law, "Unaw'd by all the fantoms that you draw.

Thy fav'rites should to Switzerland repair,

"And gently rule some peaceful Canton there; "Or in the neutral, Adriatic state,

"With her inactive senators debate:

“Think how thy Pelham would in Lucca shine,

"And Sands be in Marino styl'd divine. "There let 'em shine, but Britain's reins demand "An Orford's, or, at least, a Granville's hand. "Hence, Goddess, to such supplicants repair, "Who make thy narrow rules their only care; "Whose utmost aim is, barely to do well,

"Taught by thy precepts never to excel:

"Here I renounce thee, fly thy out-stretch'd

arms,

"And own the Muse's more prevailing charms."
And why not own them? can't her pow'r remove
The curse of poverty, the pangs of love?
Blunt th' edge of pain, unload the weight of

care,

Hush loud distress, and mitigate despair?

Have not her smiles, when sunk in private grief,
Turn'd my disorder'd mind, and brought relief;
Bid agonizing thought at distance wait,
Nor dare approach the Muse's sacred seat?
Nor can she only give Affliction ease,
Pleasure is her's, and her's the power to please;
She can amuse a friend's unbended hour,
And ev'ry fair one owns the Muse's pow'r.
Have not my lays made Ilchester attend,
Berkeley* approve, and Harrington + commend?

* Elizabeth Drax, Countess of Berkeley, wife of the fourth Earl. W.

+ Lady Caroline Fitzroy, Countess of Harrington, eldest daughter of the Duke of Grafton.-W.

Has not my verse o'er Cælia's frown prevail'd? The poet triumph'd where the lover fail'd.

But farther still her wide command is shown,
Immortal Fame attends on her alone;

In vain, without her cares, without her smiles,
The Hero conquers, and the Statesman toils:
Their names would soon in dark oblivion lie,
But that the Muse forbids the good to die.
She bids them live-and from the silent tomb,
Draws forth examples for the times to come.
'Tis by her influence, too, her sons survive,
And more than share the vast renown they give;
Still round the Goddess diff'rent laurels grow,

To crown the Hero, and the Poet too.
And while posterity with rapture reads,
Eneas' labours, and Achilles' deeds;
Beyond all piety or feats of arms,

'Tis Virgil pleases and 'tis Homer charms.
Tho' more inclin'd to give desert its praise,
Yet keenest Satire waits upon her lays ;
Virtue and Vice are both within her view,
She can reward-but she can punish too :

And from her just revenge, and slighted power,
No abject state can hide, no height secure.
She from the kennel rakes up Chartres' shame;
She plucks down Bath's exalted dirty name;
Her arrows fly thro' every rank of men :
Pelham read this, and dread the lifted pen.
The chosen few whose praise I strive to gain,
Still urge my songs, and still approve the strain.
I dread their censure, but th' applause they
give

I feel, for they can judge, but not deceive.

*

Has my young Walpole, blest with truest taste,
Adorn'd with learning, with politeness grac❜d,
When I repeated, thought the moments long;
Friend to the Poet partial to his song?
When Winnington + fatigued with public cares,
With me the social hours of friendship shares;
He too awakes the Muse, and bids me write,
Points out the quarry, and directs my flight:

* Horace Walpole, youngest son of Sir Robert, and the last Earl of Orford of that creation.

+ Thomas Winnington, Paymaster of the Forces. VOL. II.

K