Then drew the lawgivers around (Sires of the Grecian name renown'd), And listening ask'd, and wondering knew, What private force could thus subdue The vulgar and the great combined; Could war with sacred folly wage; Could a whole nation disengage From the dread bonds of many an age, And to new habits mould the public mind. II.-3. For not a conqueror's sword, Nor the strong powers to civil founders known, Were his; but truth by faithful search explored, And social sense, like seed, in genial plenty sown. Wherever it took root, the soul (restored To freedom) freedom too for others sought. Not monkish craft, the tyrant's claim divine, Not regal zeal, the bigot's cruel shrine, Could longer guard from reason's warfare sage; Nor the wild rabble to sedition wrought, Nor synods by the papal Genius taught, Nor St. John's spirit loose, nor Atterbury's rage. III.--1. But where shall recompense be found? Or how such 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, meantime, does oft invade Her progress; 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 On earth arrive, with thankful awe We own just Heaven's indulgent law, And proudly thy success behold; We attend thy reverend length of days With benediction and with praise, And hail thee in our public ways Like some great spirit famed in ages old. III.--3. While thus our vows prolong Thy steps on earth, and when by us resign'd Thou join'st thy seniors, that heroic throng Who rescued or preserved the rights of human kind, Oh! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongue Thee still, her friend and benefactor, name: Oh! 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 noblest wealth and fame, Which thou hast kept entire from force and factious guile. ODE VIII. 1 If rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fix'd in Love's decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell, What fair can Amoret excel? 2 Behold that bright unsullied smile, And wisdom speaking in her mien: Yet (she so artless all the while, So little studious to be seen) We nought but instant gladness know, Nor think to whom the gift we owe.