Epigram Upon The Golden Medal.[1]

Our guard upon the royal side! On the reverse our beauty's pride! Here we discern the frown and smile, The force and glory of our isle. In the rich medal, both so like Immortals stand, it seems antique; Carved by some master, when the bold Greeks made their Jove descend in gold, And Danaë wond'ring at their shower, Which, falling, storm'd her brazen tower. Britannia there, the fort in vain Had batter'd been with golden rain; Thunder itself had fail'd to pass; Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

'Golden Medal': it is said that a Miss Stewart, the favourite of the unprincipled king, is the original of the figure of Britannia on the medals to which the poet here alludes. second "a" and another over the "e", rather than the more conventional diaresis shown here.

WRITTEN ON A CARD THAT HER MAJESTY TORE AT OMBRE.

The cards you tear in value rise; So do the wounded by your eyes. Who to celestial things aspire, Are by that passion raised the higher.

TO MR GRANVILLE (NOW LORD LANSDOWNE), ON HIS VERSES TO KING JAMES II.

An early plant! which such a blossom bears, And shows a genius so beyond his years; A judgment! that could make so fair a choice; So high a subject to employ his voice; Still as it grows, how sweetly will he sing The growing greatness of our matchless king!

LONG AND SHORT LIFE.

Circles are praised, not that abound In largeness, but th'exactly round: So life we praise that does excel Not in much time, but acting well.

TRANSLATED OUT OF SPANISH.

Though we may seem importunate, While your compassion we implore; They whom you make too fortunate, May with presumption vex you more.

TRANSLATED OUT OF FRENCH.

Fade, flowers! fade, Nature will have it so; 'Tis but what we must in our autumn do! And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground, The loss alone by those that loved them found; So in the grave shall we as quiet lie, Miss'd by some few that loved our company; But some so like to thorns and nettles live, That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.

SOME VERSES OF AN IMPERFECT COPY, DESIGNED FOR A FRIEND, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF OVID'S 'FASTI.'

Rome's holy-days you tell, as if a guest With the old Romans you were wont to feast. Numa's religion, by themselves believed, Excels the true, only in show received. They made the nations round about them bow, With their dictators taken from the plough; Such power has justice, faith, and honesty! The world was conquer'd by morality. Seeming devotion does but gild a knave, That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave; But where religion does with virtue join, It makes a hero like an angel shine.

ON THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES I., AT CHARING CROSS, IN THE YEAR 1674.

That the First Charles does here in triumph ride, See his son reign where he a martyr died, And people pay that rev'rence as they pass, (Which then he wanted!) to the sacred brass, Is not the effect of gratitude alone, To which we owe the statue and the stone; But Heaven this lasting monument has wrought, That mortals may eternally be taught Rebellion, though successful, is but vain, And kings so kill'd rise conquerors again. This truth the royal image does proclaim, Loud as the trumpet of surviving Fame.

PRIDE.

Not the brave Macedonian youth alone, But base Caligula, when on the throne, Boundless in power, would make himself a god, As if the world depended on his nod. The Syrian king to beasts was headlong thrown, Ere to himself he could be mortal known. The meanest wretch, if Heaven should give him line, Would never stop till he were thought divine. All might within discern the serpent's pride, If from ourselves nothing ourselves did hide. Let the proud peacock his gay feathers spread, And woo the female to his painted bed; Let winds and seas together rage and swell-- This Nature teaches, and becomes them well. 'Pride was not made for men;' a conscious sense Of guilt, and folly, and their consequence, Destroys the claim, and to beholders tells, Here nothing but the shape of manhood dwells.

'Macedonian youth': Alexander. 'Syrian king': Nebuchadnezzar. 'For men': Ecclus. x. 18.

EPITAPH ON SIR GEORGE SPEKE.

Under this stone lies virtue, youth, Unblemish'd probity, and truth, Just unto all relations known, A worthy patriot, pious son; Whom neighb'ring towns so often sent To give their sense in Parliament; With lives and fortunes trusting one Who so discreetly used his own. Sober he was, wise, temperate, Contented with an old estate, Which no foul avarice did increase, Nor wanton luxury make less. While yet but young his father died, And left him to a happy guide; Not Lemuel's mother with more care Did counsel or instruct her heir, Or teach with more success her son The vices of the time to shun. An heiress she; while yet alive, All that was hers to him did give; And he just gratitude did show To one that had obliged him so; Nothing too much for her he thought, By whom he was so bred and taught. So (early made that path to tread, Which did his youth to honour lead) His short life did a pattern give How neighbours, husbands, friends, should live.

The virtues of a private life Exceed the glorious noise and strife Of battles won; in those we find The solid int'rest of mankind.

Approved by all, and loved so well, Though young, like fruit that's ripe, he fell.