How blest is he who for his country dies, Since death pursues the coward as he flies! The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack; With trembling knees, and Terror at his back; Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind, Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind. Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine; But shall with unattainted honour shine; Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down, Just as the rabble please to smile or frown. Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try Some new unbeaten passage to the sky; Where Jove a seat among the gods will give To those who die, for meriting to live. Next faithful Silence hath a sure reward; Within our breast be every secret barr'd! He who betrays his friend, shall never be Under one roof, or in one ship, with me: For who with traitors would his safety trust, Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just? And though the villain’scape a while, he feels Slow vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels. ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapours; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not, we no danger see, And were they hang'd, there would no danger be. But we must silent be, amidst our fears, And not believe our senses, but the Peers. So ravishers, that know no sense of shame, First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame. A POEM ON HIGH CHURCH High Church is undone, As sure as a gun, For old Peter Patch is departed; And Eyres and Delaune, And the rest of that spawn, Are tacking about broken-hearted. For strong Gill of Sarum, That _decoctum amarum_, Has prescribed a dose of cant-fail; Which will make them resign Their flasks of French wine, And spice up their Nottingham ale. It purges the spleen Of dislike to the queen, And has one effect that is odder; When easement they use, They always will chuse The Conformity Bill for bumfodder. A POEM OCCASIONED BY THE HANGINGS IN THE CASTLE OF DUBLIN, IN WHICH THE STORY OF PHAETHON IS EXPRESSED Not asking or expecting aught, One day I went to view the court, Unbent and free from care or thought, Though thither fears and hopes resort. A piece of tapestry took my eye, The faded colours spoke it old; But wrought with curious imagery, The figures lively seem'd and bold. Here you might see the youth prevail, (In vain are eloquence and wit,) The boy persists, Apollo's frail; Wisdom to nature does submit. There mounts the eager charioteer; Soon from his seat he's downward hurl'd; Here Jove in anger doth appear, There all, beneath, the flaming world. What does this idle fiction mean? Is truth at court in such disgrace, It may not on the walls be seen, Nor e'en in picture show its face? No, no, 'tis not a senseless tale, By sweet-tongued Ovid dress'd so fine;[1] It does important truths conceal, And here was placed by wise design.