To the Earl of Abingdon. Ode

As when some humble, lab'ring Swain
Is favour'd with a large encrease of grain,
Straight to the Gods he sends his Prayer
Through the obsequious Air,
More swift than the wing'd race themselves can flee;
For nothing is so swift as Piety:
With no less hearty Zeal, my Lord, to you
My Praises I acknowledge due;
For all the Bounties you dispence,
And with an Influence
So far diffus'd and free,
It ev'n extends to me!
Disdain not, then, that Praise (my Off'ring) to receive,
For that, alas! is all that I can give;
But then the World shall see
I'll never cease to pay you that, till I shall cease to be.

Were I in Ricot's happy shade,
Where no State-noise the Rites of Peace invade;
But every Morn does still fresh Pleasure bring,
And Plenty flows with an unbounded Spring;
Where Horses neighing, and the cheerful sound
Of Huntsman, Horn and Hound,
Echo's a grateful Harmony to all the Country round.
Or when your sportful Lavington we name,
The jocund Scene is much the same:
There only 'tis where Nature is with Art at strife;
Both are ambitious to excel,
And both have done so well,
That 'twou'd be hard to tell
Which of 'em's most adorn'd with Beauty and with life!
Such haunts as these might, possibly, inspire
My Breast with a Poetick Fire,
And set those thoughts on wing,
Which now but faintly fly and hoarsely sing.

No longer, Clio, on the Mansions live,
Though they deserve more praise than thou can st give,
(As situate in a happy soil,
And blest with Flora's earliest smile)
But view the Hospitality within,
And a new flight begin;
For that's a Theme where thou may'st ever dwell,
And every day have something new to tell:
A Theme which had great Pindar's greater Son
Been but so happy to have known,
Through every Village 'twou'd have rung,
The sole delight of every Tongue,
Through ev'ry Meadow, ev'ry Grove,
Where Shepherds seal their Vows of Love,
Through ev'ry populous City, ev'ry Cell,
And every where, where Vertue's known to dwell;
Nay to the Clouds it Echoing wou'd have flew;
What less when his the Song and the great Subject you?

Nor had his vast Carere
Or stop't, or tired here:
Your God-like Sire's high worth he wou'd have sung,
Who, while he liv'd, was blest by every Loyal Tongue:
He wou'd have told, inspir'd with the Heroick thought,
How great his Conduct and how well he fought;
How like a Bulwark by his Prince he stood,
When 'twas found Treason to be great, or good;
And, spite of Death and Time's devouring Jaws,
Have crown'd his memory with deserv'd applause:
So great the Warriour, and so just his Cause!
From thence, Triumphantly, have fled
To the Production of your fertile Bed;
In whom already does appear,
(And 'tis the Spring that crowns the following Year)
Their Father's Courage and their Mother's Charms;
A Guard from future harms:
And here again fresh thoughts wou'd spring,
How they might one day serve their Country and their King.
For that untainted Blood which from your Veins does flow,
Can produce nothing but what's truly so.

Nor had your Wisdom and your Piety
Been past neglected by;
And least of all your stedfast Loyalty;
Which stood the pow'rful Faction's late Impetuous shock,
Unshaken as a Rock:
Upon smooth Seas we may with safety steer,
For there the Pleasure does surmount the Fear;
But hard and dangerous 'tis, to gain the Port,
When Winds and Waves with equal Fury roar,
And make those stately Barks their cruel sport,
They seem'd to court before:
Such is the Sea; nor was our storm at Land,
By yours and other Loyal Hands represt,
Less dangerous to withstand.
All this he gladly wou'd have done
In Verse as lasting as the Sun;
While, at an humble distance, I
Had blest the happy Muse that wou'd have soar'd so high!