Iii.—3

Which envy hardly grants. But, O renown,O praise from judging heaven and virtuous men,If thus they purchased thy divinest crown,Say, who shall hesitate, or who complain?And now they sit on thrones above:And when among the gods they moveBefore the Sovereign Mind,'Lo, these,' he saith, 'lo, these are theyWho to the laws of mine eternal swayFrom violence and fear asserted human kind.'

Thus honour'd while the trainOf legislators in his presence dwell;If I may aught foretell,The statesman shall the second palm obtain.For dreadful deeds of armsLet vulgar bards, with undiscerning praise,More glittering trophies raise:But wisest Heaven what deeds may chiefly moveTo favour and to love?What, save wide blessings, or averted harms?

Nor to the embattled fieldShall these achievements of the peaceful gown,The green immortal crownOf valour, or the songs of conquest, yield.Not Fairfax wildly bold,While bare of crest he hew'd his fatal wayThrough Naseby's firm array,To heavier dangers did his breast opposeThan Pym's free virtue chose,When the proud force of Strafford he controll'd.

But what is man at enmity with truth?What were the fruits of Wentworth's copious mind,When (blighted all the promise of his youth)The patriot in a tyrant's league had join'd?Let Ireland's loud-lamenting plains,Let Tyne's and Humber's trampled swains,Let menaced London tellHow impious guile made wisdom base;How generous zeal to cruel rage gave place;And how unbless'd he lived and how dishonour'd fell.

Thence never hath the MuseAround his tomb Pierian roses flung:Nor shall one poet's tongueHis name for music's pleasing labour choose.And sure, when Nature kindHath deck'd some favour'd breast above the throng,That man with grievous wrongAffronts and wounds his genius, if he bendsTo guilt's ignoble endsThe functions of his ill-submitting mind.

For worthy of the wiseNothing can seem but virtue; nor earth yieldTheir fame an equal field,Save where impartial freedom gives the prize.There Somers fix'd his name,Enroll'd the next to William. There shall TimeTo every wondering climePoint out that Somers, who from faction's crowd,The slanderous and the loud,Could fair assent and modest reverence claim.

Nor aught did laws or social arts acquire,Nor this majestic weal of Albion's landDid aught accomplish, or to aught aspire,Without his guidance, his superior hand.And rightly shall the Muse's careWreaths like her own for him prepare,Whose mind's enamour'd aimCould forms of civil beauty drawSublime as ever sage or poet saw,Yet still to life's rude scene the proud ideas tame.

Let none profane be near!The Muse was never foreign to his breast:On power's grave seat confess'd,Still to her voice he bent a lover's ear.And if the blessed knowTheir ancient cares, even now the unfading groves,Where haply Milton rovesWith Spenser, hear the enchanted echoes roundThrough farthest heaven resoundWise Somers, guardian of their fame below.

He knew, the patriot knew,That letters and the Muse's powerful artExalt the ingenuous heart,And brighten every form of just and true.They lend a nobler swayTo civil wisdom, than corruption's lureCould ever yet procure:They, too, from envy's pale malignant lightConduct her forth to sight,Clothed in the fairest colours of the day.

O Townshend, thus may Time, the judge severe,Instruct my happy tongue of thee to tell:And when I speak of one to Freedom dearFor planning wisely and for acting well,Of one whom Glory loves to own,Who still by liberal means aloneHath liberal ends pursued;Then, for the guerdon of my lay,'This man with faithful friendship,' will I say,'From youth to honour'd age my arts and me hath view'd.'