Classic Poem

Sincerest Critick of my Prose, or Rhime,
Tell how thy pleasing Stowe employs thy Time,
Say, COBHAM, what amuses thy Retreat?
Or Stratagems of War, or Schemes of State?
Dost thou recal to Mind with Joy, or Grief,
Great MALBRO's Actions: That Immortal Chief,
Whose slightest Trophy rais'd in each Campaign,
More than suffic'd to signalize a Reign?
Does thy remembrance rising warm thy Heart,
With Glory past, where Thou thy self hadst Part,
Or dost thou grieve indignant, now to see,
The fruitless End of all thy Victory?
To see th' Audacious Foe, so late subdu'd,
Dispute those Terms for which so long they su'd,
As if BRITTANIA now were sunk so low,
To buy that Peace she wonted to bestow,
Be far that Guilt! be never known that Shame!
That ENGLAND shou'd retreat her rightful Claim,
Or ceasing to be dreaded & ador'd
Stain with her Pen the Lustre of her Sword,
Or dost thou give the Winds a far to blow
Each vexing Thought and heart-devouring Woe,
And fix thy Mind alone on rural Scenes,
To turn the level'd Lawns to liquid Plains,
To raise the creeping Rills from humble Beds,
And force the latent Springs to lift their Heads,
On watry Columns Capitals to rear,
That mix their flowing Curls with upper Air.
Or dost thou, weary grown these Works neglect,
No Temples, Statues, Obblisques erect,
But catch the Morning Breeze from fragrant Meads,
Or shun the noontide Ray in wholsome Shades,
Or slowly walk along the mazy Wood
To meditate on all that's wise and good,
For Nature bountiful in thee has join'd,
A Person pleasing with a Worthy Mind,
Not given the Form alone, but Means and Art,
To draw the Eye, or to allure the Heart,
Poor were the Praise in Fortune to excel,
Yet want the Way to use that Fortune well.
While thus adorn'd, while thus with Virtue crown'd,
At Home in Peace, Abroad in Arms renown'd,
Graceful in Form, and winning in Address
While well you think, what aptly you express,
With Health, with Honour, with a fair Estate,
A Table free, and elegantly neat.
What can be added more to mortal Bliss?
What can he want who stands possest of this?
What can the fondest wishing Mother more
Of Heaven attentive for her Son implore!
And yet a Happiness remains unknown.
Or to Philosophy reveal'd alone;
A Precept, which unpractis'd renders vain,
Thy flowing Hopes, and Pleasure turns to Pain.
Shou'd Hope and Fear thy Heart alternate tear.
Or Love, or Hate, or Rage, or anxious Care,
Whatever Passions may thy Mind infest,
(Where is that Mind which Passions ne'er molest?)
For Virtue now is neither more or less,
And Vice is only varied in the Dress;
Believe it, Men have ever been the same,
And all the Golden Age, is but a Dream.