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TO THE RIGHT HON. HENRY PELHAM

Take wing, my Muse! from shore to shore
Fly, and that happy place explore,
Where Virtue deigns to dwell;
If yet she treads on British ground,
Where can the fugitive be found,
In city, court, or cell?

Not there, where wine and frantic mirth
Unite the sensual sons of Earth
In Pleasure's thoughtless train;
Nor yet where sanctity's a show,
Where souls, nor joy nor pity know
For human bliss or pain.

Her social heart alike disowns
The race, who, shunning crowds and thrones,
In shades sequester'd doze;
Whose sloth no generous care can wake,
Who rot, like weeds on Lethe's lake,
In senseless vile repose.

With these she shuns the factious tribe,
Who spurn the yet unoffer'd bribe,
And at Corruption lour;
Waiting till " Discord" Havoc cries,
In hopes, like Catiline, to rise
On anarchy to pow'r!

Ye wits! who boast from ancient times
A right divine to scourge our crimes,
Is it with you she rests?
No; interest, slander, are your views,
And Virtue now with every Muse
Flies your unhallow'd breasts.

There was a time, I heard her say,
Ere females were seduc'd by play,
When Beauty was her throne;
But now, where dwelt the Soft Desires,
The Furies light forbidden fires,
To Love and her unknown.

From these the' indignant goddess flies,
And, where the spires of Science rise,
Awhile suspends her wing;
But pedant Pride and Rage are there,
And Faction, tainting all the air,
And poisoning every spring.

Long through the sky's wide pathless way,
The Muse observ'd the wanderer stray,
And mark'd her last retreat;
O'er Surrey's barren heaths she flew,
Descending, like the silent dew,
On Esher's peaceful seat.

There she beholds the gentle Mole
His pensive waters calmly roll
Amidst Elysian ground;
There, through the windings of the grove,
She leads her family of Love,
And strews her sweets around.

I hear her bid the daughters fair
Oft to you gloomy grot repair,
Her secret steps to meet;
" Nor thou, (she cries) these shades forsake;
But come, lov'd Consort! come, and make
The husband's bliss complete."

Yet not too much the soothing ease
Of rural indolence shall please
My Pelham's ardent breast:
The man whom Virtue calls her own,
Must stand the pillar of a throne,
And make a nation blest.

Pelham! 'tis thine with temperate zeal
To guard Britannia's public weal,
Attack'd on every part;
Her fatal discords to compose,
Unite her friends, disarm her foes,
Demands thy head and heart.

When bold Rebellion shook the land,
Ere yet from William's dauntless hand
Her barbarous army fled;
When Valour droop'd and Wisdom fear'd,
Thy voice expiring Credit heard,
And rais'd her languid head.

Now by thy strong assisting hand,
Fix'd on a rock I see her stand,
Against whose solid feet
In vain, through every future age,
The loudest, most tempestuous rage
Of angry War shall beat.

And grieve not if the sons of strife
Attempt to cloud thy spotless life,
And shade its brightest scenes;
Wretches! by kindness unsubdued,
Who see, who share the common good,
Yet cavil at the means.

Like these, the metaphysic crew,
Proud to be singular and new,
Think all they see, deceit;
Are warm'd and cherish'd by the day
Feel and enjoy the heavenly ray,
Yet doubt of light and heat.
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