TO SIR FRANCIS HENRY DRAKE, BART.
EHOLD, the balance in the sky
Swift on the wintery scale inclines;
To earthy caves the Dryads fly,
And the bare pastures Pan refigns.
Late did the farmer's fork o'erfpread
With recent foil the twice-mown mead,
Tainting the bloom which autumn knows
He whets the rufty coulter now,
He binds his oxen to the plough,
And wide his future harveft throws.
Now, London's bufy confines round,
By Kenfington's imperial towers,
From Highgate's rough defcent profound,
Effexian heaths, or Kentish bowers,
Where'er I pafs, I fee approach
Some rural statesman's eager coach
Hurried by fenatorial cares :
Where rural nymphs (alike within,
Afpiring courtly praise to win)
Debate their drefs, reform their airs.
Say, what can now the country boast,
O Drake, thy footsteps to detain,
When peevish winds and gloomy frost
The funshine of the temper ftain ?
Say, are the priests of Devon grown
Friends to this tolerating throne,
Champions for George's legal right?
Have general freedom, equal law,
Won to the glory of Naffau
Each bold Weffexian fquire and knight?
IV.
I doubt it much; and guess at least
That when the day, which made us free,
Shall next return, that facred feast
Thou better may'ft obferve with me.
With me the fulphurous treafon old
A far inferior part shall hold
In that glad day's triumphal strain ;
And generous William be rever'd,
Nor one untimely accent heard
Of James or his ignoble reign.
Then, while the Gafcon's fragrant wine
With modeft cups our joy fupplies,
We'll truly thank the
Who bade the chief, the patriot rife;
Rife from heroic eafe (the fpoil
Due, for his youth's Herculean toil,
From Belgium to her faviour fon)
Rife with the fame unconquer'd zeal
For our Britannia's injur'd weal,
Her laws defac'd, her fhrines o'erthrown.
The tyrant from our shore,
Like a forbidden demon, fled;
And to eternal exile bore
Pontific rage and vaffal dread.
There funk the mouldering Gothic reign:
New years came forth, a liberal train,
Call'd by the people's great decree.
That day, my friend, let bleffings crown:
-Fill, to the demigod's renown
From whom thou haft that thou art free.
Then, Drake, (for wherefore should we part
The public and the private weal?)
In vows to her who fways thy heart,
Fair health, glad fortune, will we deal.
Whether Aglaia's blooming cheek,
Or the foft ornaments that speak
So eloquent in Daphne's finile,
Whether the piercing lights that fly
From the dark heaven of Myrto's eye,
Haply thy fancy then beguile.
For fo it is. Thy ftubborn breast,
Though touch'd by many a flighter wound,
Hath no full conquest yet confefs'd,
Nor the one fatal charmer found.
While I, a true and loyal fwain,
My fair Olympia's gentle reign
Through all the varying seasons own.
Her genius ftill my bofom warms:
No other maid for me hath charms,
Or I have eyes for her alone.
NCE more I join the Thefpian choir,
And taste the infpiring fount again:
O parent of the Grecian lyre,
Admit me to thy powerful ftrain-
And lo, with ease my step invades
The pathless vale and opening fhades,
Till now I spy her verdant seat :
And now at large I drink the found,
While these her offspring, liftening round,
By turns her melody repeat.
I fee Anacreon fmile and fing,
His filver treffes breathe perfume;
His cheek difplay's a fecond spring
Of roses taught by wine to bloom.
Away, deceitful cares, away,
And let me liften to his lay;
Let me the wanton pomp enjoy,
While in smooth dance the light-wing'd hours
Lead round his lyre its patron powers,
Kind laughter and convivial joy.
Broke from the fetters of his native land,
Devoting fhame and vengeance to her lords,
With louder impulse and a threatening hand
The Lesbian patriot fmites the founding chords
Ye wretches, ye perfidious train,
Ye curs'd of gods and free-born men,
Ye murderers of the laws,
Though now ye glory in your luft,
Though now ye tread the feeble neck in duft,
Yet Time and righteous Jove will judge your dreadful·
But lo, to Sappho's melting airs
Defcends the radiant queen of love:
She fmiles, and afks what fonder cares
Her fuppliant's plaintive measures move:
Why is my faithful maid diftrefs'd?
Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast!
Say, flies he?-Soon he fhall pursue:
Shuns he thy gifts?-He foon fhall give:
Slights he thy forrows?-He fhall grieve,
And foon to all thy wishes bow.
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