For not a conqueror's fword,
Nor the strong powers to civil founders known, Were his but truth by faithful search explor'd, And focial fenfe, like feed, in genial plenty fown. Wherever it took root, the foul (reftor'd
To freedom) freedom too for others fought,
Not monkish craft the tyrant's claim divine,
Not regal zeal the bigot's cruel fhrine
Could longer guard from reason's warfare fage:
Not the wild rabble to fedition wrought,
Nor fynods by the papal Genius taught,
Nor St. John's fpirit loose, nor Atterbury's rage.
But where shall recompence be found?
Or how fuch arduous merit crown'd?
For look on life's laborious scene:
What rugged spaces lie between
Adventurous virtue's early toils
And her triumphal throne! The shade
Of death, mean time, does oft invade
Her progrefs; nor, to us display'd,
Wears the bright heroine her expected spoils.
III. 2.
Yet born to conquer is her power:
-O Hoadly, if that favourite hour
Henry St. John, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.
Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester.
No cold nor unperforming hand
Was arm'd by heaven with this command,
The world foon felt it: and, on high,
To William's ear with welcome joy
Did Locke among the blest unfold
The rifing hope of Hoadly's name :
Godolphin then confirm'd the fame;
And Somers, when from earth he came,
And valiant Stanhope the fair fequel told ",
II. 2.
Then drew the lawgivers around,
(Sires of the Grecian name renown'd)
And liftening afk'd, and wondering knew,
What private force could thus fubdue
The vulgar and the great combin'd;
Could war with facred folly wage;
Could a whole nation disengage
From the dread bonds of many an age,
And to new habits mould the public mind.
b Mr. Locke died in 1704, when Mr. Hoadly was beginning to diftinguish himself in the caufe of civil and religious liberty: Lord Godolphin in 1712, when the doctrines of the Jacobite faction were chiefly favoured by thofe in power: Lord Somers in 1716, amid the practices of the non-juring clergy against the proteftant establishment; and Lord Stanhope in 1721, during the controverfy with the lower houfe of convocation.
For not a conqueror's fword,
Nor the strong powers to civil founders known, Were his but truth by faithful search explor'd, And focial fenfe, like feed, in genial plenty fown. Wherever it took root, the foul (reftor'd
To freedom) freedom too for others fought,
Not monkish craft the tyrant's claim divine,
Not regal zeal the bigot's cruel fhrine
Could longer guard from reafon's warfare fage:
Not the wild rabble to fedition wrought,
Nor fynods by the papal Genius taught,
Nor St. John's fpirit loofe, nor Atterbury's rage.
But where fhall recompence be found?
Or how fuch arduous merit crown'd?
For lock on life's laborious scene:
What rugged spaces lie between
Adventurous virtue's early toils
And her triumphal throne! The shade
Of death, mean time, does oft invade
Her progrefs; nor, to us display'd,
Wears the bright heroine her expected fpoils,
III. 2.
Yet born to conquer is her power:
-O Hoadly, if that favourite hour
Henry St. John, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.
Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester.
On earth arrive, with thankful awe
We own juft heaven's indulgent law,
And proudly thy fuccefs behold;
We 'attend thy reverend length of days
With benediction and with praise,
And hail Thee in our public ways
Like fome great spirit fam'd in ages old.
III. 3.
While thus our vows prolong
Thy steps on earth, and when by us refign'd
Thou join'ft thy feniors, that heroic throng
Who refcu'd or preferv'd the rights of human kind,
O! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongue
Thee, still her friend and benefactor, name:
O! never, Hoadly, in thy country's eyes,
May impious gold, or pleasure's gaudy prize,
Make public virtue, public freedom vile;
Nor our own manners tempt us to disclaim
That heritage, our nobleft wealth and fame,
Which Thou haft kept intire from force and factious guile.
O me, whom in their lays the fhepherds call
Actæa, daughter of the neighbouring stream,
This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,
Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot,
Were plac'd by Glycon. He with cowflips pale,
Primrose, and purple Lychnis, deck'd the green
Before my threshold, and my fhelving walls
With honeysuckle cover'd. Here at noon,
Lull'd by the murmur of my rifing fount,
I flumber here my clustering fruits I tend;
Or from the humid flowers, at break of day,
Fresh garlands weave, and chace from all my bounds
Each thing impure or noxious. Enter-in,
O ftranger, undifmay'd. Nor bat nor toad
Here lurks: and if thy breaft of blameless thoughts
Approve thee, not unwelcome fhalt thou tread
My quiet manfion: chiefly, if thy name
Wife Pallas and the immortal Mufes own.
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