Epistles.
125
The fate of James with pitying eyes I view, 145
And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due:
To James my passion and my weakness guide,
But reason sways me to the victor's side.
Tho' griev'd I speak it; let the truth appear;
You know my language and my heart sincere. 150
In vain did falsehood his fair frame disgrace;
What force had falsehood when he show'd his face?
In vain to war our boastful Clans were led;
Heaps driv'n on heaps in the dire shock they fled.
France shuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame 155
A second Dunkirk in another name.
In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows.
Spite of feign'd fears and artificial cries
The pious Town sees fifty churches rise. 160
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And sits more firmly on his shaken throne.
To my sad thought no beam of hope appears
Thro' the long prospect of succeeding years.
The son aspiring to his father's fame 165
Shows all his fire, another and the same:
He blest in lovely Carolina's arms
To future ages propagates her charms.
With pain and joy at strife I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face; 170
Half sick'ning at the sight, too well I spy
The father's spirit thro' the mother's eye:
And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due:
To James my passion and my weakness guide,
But reason sways me to the victor's side.
Tho' griev'd I speak it; let the truth appear;
You know my language and my heart sincere. 150
In vain did falsehood his fair frame disgrace;
What force had falsehood when he show'd his face?
In vain to war our boastful Clans were led;
Heaps driv'n on heaps in the dire shock they fled.
France shuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame 155
A second Dunkirk in another name.
In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows.
Spite of feign'd fears and artificial cries
The pious Town sees fifty churches rise. 160
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And sits more firmly on his shaken throne.
To my sad thought no beam of hope appears
Thro' the long prospect of succeeding years.
The son aspiring to his father's fame 165
Shows all his fire, another and the same:
He blest in lovely Carolina's arms
To future ages propagates her charms.
With pain and joy at strife I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face; 170
Half sick'ning at the sight, too well I spy
The father's spirit thro' the mother's eye:
