THE BRICKLAYER'S POEM, TO THE Counteſs of CHESTERFIELD, &c.
[3]WHAT means this diſmal Sound, that March ſo ſlow,
This ſolemn Sadneſs, and this Pomp of Woe?
Why hangs that Horror on the Soldier's Mien?
Why droop the Multitude? What means the Scene?
Behold! two Victims, pale and trembling, led,
Already number'd with the mould'ring dead;
[4]What ghaſtly Terrors on each Brow we trace!
See Death imprinted on each dying Face!
Frail Nature bends beneath the pond'rous Woe,
And prone to Death would fain prevent the Blow:
Yet Love of Life aſſerts its eager Claim,
But Hope, alas! affords no flatt'ring Gleam.
Lo! the pale King in horrid Pomp appears!
What cruel Eye could then refrain from Tears?
What Heart relentleſs, then, forbear to melt?
Who ſaw their Sorrows, but like Sorrows felt?
How ſad the Conflict! how ſevere the Strife
Of Wretches, clinging to the Verge of Life!
When angry Juſtice claim'd her deſtin'd Prey;
And frown'd, vindictive, on the kind Delay:
(Thy ſaving Mercy, in that Moment flew,
The darling Attribute of Heav'n and You):
To ſoft Compaſſion won thy willing Lord,
His Juſtice temp'ring ſheath'd th' uplifted Sword.
[5]And in that fearful, that tremendous Hour,
Snatch'd the pale Victims from th' offended Pow'r.
As when by adverſe Stars or Chance miſled,
Entic'd by Lucre, or purſu'd by Dread,
A Wretch from ſome high Rock's ſtupendous Brow,
Hangs o'er the Waves, and dreadful Depths below.
The ſlender Bough he graſps, his only Stay,
Yields to his Weight, and more and more gives way;
Of Hope abandon'd, as the Branch he tears,
He views th' Abyſs, and, as he views, deſpairs,
'Till ſome unhop'd for Hand prevents his Doom,
Lifts him to Life, and lengthen'd Years to come:
Redeem'd from Fate, nor yet reſtor'd to Life,
They wond'ring pauſe, and feel a doubtful Strife;
If ſtill on Earth they breathe with human Race,
Or mix with Shades in Death's obſcure Embrace;
'Till dawning Hope the dubious Horror clears,
Confirms their Safety, and diſpels their Fears:
[6]Loud Shouts of Triumph waft Thy Name on high,
And STANHOPE'S Goodneſs fills the vaulted Sky.
Oh! hadſt Thou Pow'r afflicted Realms to ſpare,
And reſcue Europe from the Waſte of War,
Fell Rage and Diſcord at thy Nod ſhould ceaſe,
And all Mankind enjoy the Sweets of Peace.
Then human Blood ſhould deluge Earth no more,
But Leagues of Commerce ſtretch from Shore to Shore.
You like the Dove the friendly Branch would bring,
And blooming Olives in each climate ſpring;
[...] golden Age the guilty Globe ſhou'd ſee,
And Scotia faithful as Hibernia be.
No Feuds inteſtine in her Boſom jar,
No Breath rebellious wakes the Trump of War.
Her martial Tribe a loyal Fervour feels,
And Virtue's Strength each manly Boſom ſteels.
[7]For Truth and Freedom firmly they unite,
And ſtand reſolv'd to tempt the hardy Fight.
Thy STANHOPE'S Preſence ſhall each Breaſt inſpire,
And GEORGE's Glory ſet their Souls on Fire
The END.