Classic Poem

Whilst weeping Europe bends beneath her ills,
And where the sword destroys not, famine kills;
Our isle enjoys, by your successful care,
The pomp of peace, amidst the woes of war.
So much the public to your prudence owes,
You think no labour's long for our repose:
Such conduct, such integrity are shown,
There are no coffers empty, but your own.
From mean dependence, merit you retrieve,
Unask'd you offer, and unseen you give:
Your favour, like the Nile, increase bestows,
And yet conceals the source from whence it flows.
No pomp or grand appearance you approve;
A people at their case is what you love:
To lessen taxes, and a nation save,
Are all the grants your services would have.
Thus far, the state-machine wants no repair,
But moves in matchless order by your care;
Free from confusion, settled, and serene;
And, like the universe, by springs unseen.
But now some star sinister to our pray'rs,
Contrives new schemes, and calls you from affairs:
No anguish in your looks, or cares appear,
But how to teach the' unpractis'd crew to steer.
Thus, like a victim, no constraint you need,
To expiate their offence by whom you bleed.
Ingratitude's a weed of every clime,
It thrives too fast at first, but fades in time.
The god of day and your own lot's the same;
The vapours you have rais'd, obscure your flame:
But though you suffer, and awhile retreat,
Your globe of light looks larger as you set.