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An Address of the STATUES at STOWE, to Lord COBHAM, on his Return to his Gardens.

F

ROM

Mufe and every

every

art thy own,

Thy bow'rs our theatres, thy mind our throne;

Hail to thy virtues manumiz'd from state;
Hail to thy leisure to be wifely great.

Fetter'd by duties and to forms enflav'd,
How timely have thy years a remnant fav'd!
To taste that freedom which thy fword maintain'd,
And lead in letter'd ease, a life unpain❜d :
So Scipio (Carthage fall'n) refign'd his plume,
And fmil'd at the forgetfulness of Rome.

O greatly blefs'd! whofe evening sweetest fhines,
And, in unclouded flownefs, calm declines!
While free reflection with reverted eye,

Wan'd from hot noon-tide and a troubled sky,
Divides life well: the largest part, long known
Thy country's claim; the last and best thy own.

Here while detach'd, thy felf-fupported foul
Refumes dominion and escapes controul;
AMoves with a grandeur, monarchs wish in vain,
Above all fears, ftorms, dangers, hopes or pain;

A glance

A glance fometimes from thy safe fummit throw,
And fee the dusty world look dim below:

Thro' the dark throng difcern huge flaves of pride
Should'ring unheeded Happiness afide;
Thwarted and push'd and lab'ring into name,
And dignify'd with all the dirt of fame;
Then with a smile fuperior, turn away,·
And lop th' exub'rance of fome ftraggling spray;
Wind thro' thy mazes to ferene delight,
And from the bursting bubbles fhade thy fight.

Yet where thou fhin'ft, like heav'n behind a cloud,
Moving like light, all piercing, tho' not loud;
The Muse shall find thee in thy bleft retreat,
And breathe this honest wish at Cobham's feet:
Fresh as thy lakes, may all thy pleasures flow!
And breezy like thy groves, thy passions blow!
Wide as thy fancy, be thy fpreading praise !
And long and lovely as thy walks, thy days.

An

O DE

ΟΝ ΤΗΕ

DEATH of Mr. PELHAM.

An honeft man's the nobleft work of God!

L

ET others hail the rifing fun,

I bow to that whofe courfe is run,
Which fets in endless night;

Whofe rays benignant blefs'd this isle,
Made peaceful Nature round us smile
With calm, but chearful light.

No bounty paft provokes my praise,
No future profpects prompt my lays,

From real grief they flow;

I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears,
My forrows fall with Britain's tears,

And join a nation's woe.

POPE.

See

See

—as you pass the crowded street,

Defpondence clouds each face you meet,

All their lost friend deplore: You read in every penfive eye, You hear in ev'ry broken figh,

That Pelham is no more.

If thus each Briton be alarm'd,
Whom but his diftant influence warm'd,
What grief their breasts must rend,
Who in his private virtues blefs'd,
By Nature's dearest tyes poffefs'd
The Hufband, Father, Friend.

no mournful verfe,

What! mute ye bards?
No chaplets to adorn his hearfe,

To crown the good and juft?

Your flowers in warmer regions bloom,
You seek no pensions from the tomb,
No laurels from the duft.

When pow'r departed with his breath,
The fons of Flatt'ry fled from death:
Such infects fwarm at noon.
Not for herself my Mufe is griev'd,

She never ask'd, nor e'er receiv'd,

One ministerial boon.

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Hath fome peculiar strange offence,
Against us arm'd Omnipotence,
To check the nation's pride?
Behold th' appointed punishment!
At length the vengeful bolt is fent,
It fell when Pelham dy'd!

Uncheck'd by shame, unaw'd by dread,
When Vice triumphant rears her head,
Vengeance can sleep no more;
The evil angel stalks at large,

The good submits, refigns his charge,
And quits th' unhallow'd fhore,

The fame fad morn a to church and state,
(So for our fins 'twas fix'd by fate)

A double ftroke was giv'n;

Black as the whirlwinds of the north,
St. J-n's fell Genius iffu'd forth,
And Pelham fled to heav'n!

By angels watch'd in Eden's bow'rs,
Our parents pafs'd their peaceful hours,
Nor guilt nor pain they knew ;
But on the day which usher'd in
The hell-born train of mortal fin,

The heav'nly guards withdrew.

a The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of a late Lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham.

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