Classic Poem

LONDON :

Let jarring Realms, and Europe's doubtful State.
Of Politicians be the dull Debate,
Stocks, languish'd Trade, let such, their Subject make,
And plead, and bellow for their Country's Sake;
A more important Theme demands the Muse,
A Theme, She neither can, nor dares refuse,

A Theme, from whence her fairest Lawrels spring,
Which first inspir'd, and taught her first to sing;
'Tis Beauty calls her; and in Beauty's Cause,
Her Lays are ready, and her Pen she draws;
Yet think Clarissa ! what her Pangs must be,
To Sing in Sorrow, when she sings of Thee.

In matchless Lustre lately did'st thou shine.
Nor knew the Court a brighter Name than Thine?
Of Wit and Beauty had'st thou ev'ry Grace?
(Thy Mind the only Rival of thy Face ;)
O'er thy own Sex triumphant did'st thou reign,
And bid them put forth all their Charms in vain?
Was this thy Empire, till Lorenzo 's Ire,
Mean and inglorious, did thy Fall conspire?
To his dread Liege thy keen Rebukes convey'd,
And gave thy weak despairing Sex his Aid?
If so he thinks, His Triumph let it be,
And still new Cause of just Contempt from Thee;
Thy wrongs, bright Exile ! like thy self endure.
And let the Muse thy injur'd Beauty cure;
The Muse with faithful Service shall attend,
And be, at all Events, Clarissa 's Friend,
With joyful Pains Thy ev'ry Merit trace,
And shew Thee even bright'ned by Disgrace .

Nor think thy Beauty claims her Lays alone,
She has a Debt of Gratitude to own,
Since in her Cause, you wag'd a generous War,
And urg'd your Stout Antagonist so far,
That, thy superior Arguments to close,
He vengeful, made the Court and Beauty , Foes.

The Task be thine, at large, much envied G — y ?
Thy own, and ev'ry Muse's Debt to pay,
Nor let the Fair , who rose in the Defence
Of Wit, just Satyr, Truth , and common Sense ,
In These her Moments of Dishonour , find,
Thy pointed Numbers, like the C — — unkind.

From bold MACHEATH awhile thy Rage withdraw,
And let him, still uncensur'd, brave the Law,
Attack, Despoil, with a rapacious Hand,
And deal to Tools the Plunder of a Land ;
Give him, kind Bard ! the Grace of thy Reprieve.
And to his own dark Breast the Robber leave;
He'll find, when trembling late with Guilt and Fear,
No Stings , no Satire are excluded There .
Lorenzo be thy Satire's present View:
'Tis a Resentment to Clarissa due:
Ask him, what Warmth could urge him to despise
The brightest Judgment , and the brightest Eyes ;
Could it arraign his Prudence , to submit,
When Beauty soft'ned the Attacks of Wit ?
Or could it taint his Honour , to be meek,
And, unresenting, hear a Lady speak?

When Greece and Troy , as say Great Homer 's Strains,
With fierce embatt'led Numbers throng'd the Plains,
And when their clashing Arms, and Martial Rage
Did in their Contests all the Gods engage;
Unaw'd, in Slaughter did Tydides move,
And wound with daring Arm the Queen of Love ?
Rough was He form'd, unfashion'd for a Court,
War was his Feast , and Cruelty his Sport :
From him, Lorenzo , would'st Thou Pattern take?
In Courage, first, Thyself an equal make:
But 'twas Thy Merit to be train'd Polite ,
And rather taught the Art to Wooe , than Fight.
At Beauty's Altar daily did'st thou vow;
Then, whence a Carriage quite so diff'rent, now ?
Could'st Thou not use, for once, the Courtier's Guile,
Caress thy Foe, " and tho" offended, Smile?

Rallied by Woman, think it no Disgrace?
And let her Tongue be pardon'd, for her Face ?
Such is the Conduct should Lorenzo boast;
Were not Lorenzo in the Statesman lost.
Repent of lovely Woman thy Disdain,
And to thy former Self return again:
Make Thy Submission to the Banish'd Fair ,
Confess her Beauty, and her Wrongs repair.

No, no, Lorenzo is too proud to yield,
And when he once has gain'd, to quit the Field;
The Sanction of his Dignity and Post ,
With Insolence unparallell'd, He'll boast,
Facts charg'd upon him, nor deny, nor own,
But poorly fly for Shelter to the — —

What! by Lorenzo is That — — — — abus'd,
At which, his ROYAL MASTER stood accus'd?
Fresh Charges does he still presume to bring,
And in the injur'd PRINCE , to court the KING ?
Whilst frantick Humours in his Brain prevail,
Trots He industrious on each Gossip's Tale?
Does He at Empire , and at Beauty strike?
And wound his SOVEREIGN , and the Fair alike?

Once more, disdain, Clarissa ! to repine,
And let the Muse assure the Conquest Thine;
The Lustre of the Court impair'd we see,
(Impair'd indeed, — — — — because depriv'd of Thee;)
In thy Disgrace the First does more than Share;
The Banishment is Thine ; the Loss is There .