Epistles.
123
The Pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
To France his bulls to Corfu sends his arms, 90
And tho' he hears his darling son's complaint
Can hardly spare one tutelary saint,
But lists them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready money coins his gods.
The dauntless Swede pursu'd by vengeful foes 95
Scarce keeps his own hereditary snows;
Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feasts regale our garter'd youth again.
Safe, Bar-le-Duc! within thy silent grove
The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove;
The knight who aims unerring from afar, 101
Th' advent'rous knight, now quits the sylvan war;
Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd,
Or grunt secure beneath the chestnut shade.
Inconstant Orleans! (still we mourn the day 105
That trusted Orleans with imperial sway)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,
Far from the call of his desponding friends;
Such are the terms to gain Britannia's grace,
And such the terrours of the Brunswick race! 110
Was it for this the sun's whole lustre fail'd,
And sudden midnight o'er the moon prevail'd?
For this did Heav'n display to mortal eyes
Aerial knights and combats in the skies? 114
Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red,
And Thames driv'n backward shew'd his secret bed?
To France his bulls to Corfu sends his arms, 90
And tho' he hears his darling son's complaint
Can hardly spare one tutelary saint,
But lists them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready money coins his gods.
The dauntless Swede pursu'd by vengeful foes 95
Scarce keeps his own hereditary snows;
Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feasts regale our garter'd youth again.
Safe, Bar-le-Duc! within thy silent grove
The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove;
The knight who aims unerring from afar, 101
Th' advent'rous knight, now quits the sylvan war;
Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd,
Or grunt secure beneath the chestnut shade.
Inconstant Orleans! (still we mourn the day 105
That trusted Orleans with imperial sway)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,
Far from the call of his desponding friends;
Such are the terms to gain Britannia's grace,
And such the terrours of the Brunswick race! 110
Was it for this the sun's whole lustre fail'd,
And sudden midnight o'er the moon prevail'd?
For this did Heav'n display to mortal eyes
Aerial knights and combats in the skies? 114
Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red,
And Thames driv'n backward shew'd his secret bed?
