AN EPISTLE FROM A Lady in ENGLAND; TO A GENTLEMAN at AVIGNON.
[1]TO Thee, dear Rover, and thy vanquiſh'd Friends,
The Health, ſhe wants, thy gentle Chloe ſends:
Though much You ſuffer, think I ſuffer more,
Worſe than an Exile on my Native Shore.
Companions in your Maſter's Flight you roame,
Unenvy'd by your haughty Foes at home;
For-ever near the Royal Outlaw's ſide
You ſhare his Fortunes, and his Hopes divide,
On glorious Schemes, and Thoughts of Empire dwell,
And with Imaginary Titles ſwell.
Say (for thou know'ſt I own his ſacred Line,
The Paſſive Doctrine, and the Right Divine)
[2] Say, what new Succours do's the Chief prepare?
The Strength of Armies? Or the Force of Pray'r?
Do's he from Heav'n or Earth his Hopes derive?
From Saints Departed? Or from Prieſts Alive?
Nor Saints nor Prieſts can Brunſwick's Troops withſtand,
And Beads drop uſeleſs through the Zealot's Hand;
Heav'n to our Vows may Future Kingdoms owe,
But Skill and Courage win the Crowns below.
E're to thy Cauſe, and Thee, my Heart inclin'd,
Or Love to Party had ſeduce'd my Mind,
In Female Joys I took a dull Delight,
Slept all the Morn, and Punted half the Night:
But now, with Fears and publick Cares poſſeſt,
The Church, the Church, for-ever breaks my Reſt.
The Poſt-Boy on my Pillow I explore,
And ſift the News of ev'ry foreign Shore,
Studious to find new Friends, and new Allies;
What Armies march from Sueden in Diſguiſe;
How Spain prepares her Banners to unfold,
And Rome deals out her Bleſſings, and her Gold:
Then o'er the Map my Finger, taught to ſtray,
Croſs many a Region marks the winding Way;
From Sea to Sea, from Realm to Realm I rove,
And grow a mere Geographer by Love.
[3] But ſtill Avignon, and the pleaſing Coaſt
That holds Thee baniſh'd, claims my Care the moſt,
Oft on the well-known Spot I fix my Eyes,
And Span the Diſtance that between us lies.
Let not our James, tho' foil'd in Arms, Deſpair,
Whilſt on his Side he reckons half the Fair:
In Britain's lovely Iſle a ſhining Throng
War in his Cauſe, a thouſand Beauties ſtrong.
Th' unthinking Victors vainly boaſt their Pow'rs;
Be Theirs the Muſquet, while the Tongue is Ours.
We Reaſon with ſuch Fluency and Fire,
The Beaux we baffle, and the Learned tire,
Againſt her Prelates plead the Churche's Cauſe,
And from our Judges vindicate the Laws.
Then mourn not, hapleſs Prince, thy Kingdoms loſt,
A Crown, tho' late, thy ſacred Brow may boaſt;
Heav'n ſeems through Us thy Empire to decree,
Thoſe who Win Hearts, have giv'n their Hearts to Thee.
What Dames! what Doctors in thy Cauſe combine!
What Petticoats in Either Sex are Thine!
Ha'ſt thou not heard that, when profuſely gay
Our well-dreſt Rivals grace'd their Sov'raign's Day,
We ſtubborn Damſels met the publick View
In loathſome Wormwood, and repenting Rue?
[4] What Whig but trembled, when our ſpotleſs Band
In Virgin Roſes whiten'd half the Land!
Who can forget what Fears the Foe poſſeſt,
When Oaken Boughs mark'd ev'ry loyal Breaſt!
Leſs ſcar'd near Medway's Stream the Norman ſtood,
When croſs the Plain he ſpy'd a marching Wood,
'Till, near at hand, a Gleam of Swords betray'd
The Youth of Kent beneath it's wandring Shade.
Thoſe, who the Succours of the Fair deſpiſe,
May find that we have Nails as well as Eyes.
Thy Female Bands, O Prince by Fortune croſt,
At leaſt more Courage than thy Men may boaſt:
Our Sex has dar'd the Mugg-Houſe Chiefs to meet,
And purchas'd Fame in many a well-fought Street.
From Drury-Lane, the Region of Renown,
The Land of Love, the Paphos of the Town,
Fair Patriots ſallying oft have put to flight
With all their Poles the Guardians of the Night,
And bore, with Screams of Triumph, to their Side
The Leader's Staff in all its painted Pride.
Nor fears the Hawker in her warbling Note
To vend the diſcontented Stateſman's Thought.
Tho' red with Stripes, and recent from the Thong,
Sore ſmitten for the Love of ſacred Song,
[5] The tuneful Siſters ſtill purſue their Trade,
Like Philomela darkling in the Shade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a Fare,
And Hums in Concert o'er his Empty Chair.
Mean while, regardleſs of the Royal Cauſe,
His Sword for James no Brother Sov'rain draws.
The Pope himſelf, ſurrounded with Alarms,
To France his Bulls, to Corfu ſends his Arms,
And though He hears his Darling Son's Complaint,
Can hardly ſpare one Tutelary Saint,
But liſts them all to guard his own Abodes,
And into Ready Money coyns his Gods.
The dauntleſs Suede, purſu'd by vengeful Foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary Snows;
Nor muſt the friendly Roof of kind Lorrain
With Feaſts regale our Garter'd Youth again:
Safe, Bar-le-duc, within thy ſilent Grove
The Pheaſant now may perch, the Hare may rove:
The Knight, who aims unerring from afar,
Th' Advent'rous Knight, now quits the Sylvan War:
Thy brinded Boars may ſlumber un-diſmay'd,
Or grunt ſecure beneath the Cheſnut Shade.
Inconſtant Orleans (ſtill we mourn the Day
That truſted Orleans with Imperial Sway)
[6] Far o'er the Alps our helpleſs Monarch ſends,
Far from the Call of his deſponding Friends.
Such are the Terms to gain Britainnia's Grace!
And ſuch the Terrours of the Brunſwick Race!
Was it for this the Sun's whole Luſtre fail'd,
And ſudden Midnight o'er the Noon prevail'd!
For this did Heav'n diſplay to Mortal Eyes
Aërial Knights and Combates in the Skies!
Was it for this Northumbrian Streams look'd Red!
And Thames driv'n backward ſhow'd his Secret Bed!
Falſe Auguries! th' inſulting Victor's Scorn!
Ev'n our own Prodigies againſt us turn!
O Portents conſtru'd on our Side in vain!
Let never Tory truſt Eclipſe again!
Run clear, ye Fountains! be at Peace, ye Skies!
And, Thames, henceforth to thy green Borders riſe▪
To Rome then muſt the Royal Wand'rer go,
And fall a Suppliant at the Papal Toe?
His Life in Sloth inglorious muſt he wear,
One half in Luxury, and one in Pray'r?
His Mind perhaps at length debauch'd with Eaſe
The proffer'd Purple and the Hat may pleaſe.
[7] Shall He, whoſe Ancient Patriarchal Race
To mighty Nimrod in One Line we trace▪
In ſolemn Conclave ſit, devoid of Thought,
And poll for Points of Faith his Truſty Vote!
Be ſummon'd to his Stall in time of Need,
And with his caſting Suffrage fix a Creed!
Shall He in Robes on ſtated Days appear,
And Engliſh Hereticks curſe once a Year!
Garnet and Faux ſhall He with Pray'rs invoke,
And beg that Smithfield Piles once more may ſmoak!
Forbid it Heav'n! my Soul, to Fury wrought,
Turns almoſt Hanoverian at the Thought.
From James and Rome I feel my Heart decline,
And fear, O Brunſwick, 'twill be wholly Thine;
Yet ſtill his Share thy Rival will conteſt,
And ſtill the Double Claim divides my Breaſt.
The Fate of James with pitying Eyes I view,
And wiſh my Homage were not Brunſwick's Due:
To James my Paſſions and my Weakneſs guide,
But Reaſon ſways me to the Victor's Side.
Though griev'd I ſpeak it, let the Truth appear;
(You know my Language, and my Heart, ſincere.)
In vain did Falſhood his fair Fame diſgrace;
What force had Falſhood, when He ſhow'd his Face!
[8] In vain to War our boaſtful Clans were led;
Heaps driv'n on Heaps, in the dire Shock they fled:
France ſhuns his Wrath, nor raiſes to our Shame
A ſecond Dunkirk in Another Name:
In Britain's Funds their Wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the World's Abundance flows:
Spite of feign'd Fears, and artificial Cries,
The Pious Town ſees Fifty Churches riſe:
The Hero triumphs as his Worth is known,
And ſits more firmly on his Shaken Throne.
To my ſad Thought no Beam of Hope appears
Through the long Proſpect of ſucceeding Years.
The Son, aſpiring to his Father's Fame,
Shows all his Sire: Another and the Same.
He, bleſt in lovely Carolina's Arms,
To future Ages propagates Her Charms:
With Pain and Joy at ſtrife, I often trace
The mingled Parents in each Daughter's Face,
Half ſick'ning at the Sight, too well I ſpie
The Father's Spirit through the Mother's Eye:
In vain new Thoughts of Rage I entertain,
And ſtrive to Hate their Innocence in vain.
O Princeſs! happy by thy Foes confeſt!
Bleſt in thy Husband! in thy Children bleſt!
[9] As They from Thee, from Them New Beauties born,
While Europe laſts, ſhall Europe's Thrones adorn.
Tranſplanted to each Court, in times to come,
Thy Smile Celeſtial and un-fading Bloom
Great Auſtria's Sons with ſofter Lines ſhall grace,
And ſmooth the Frowns of Bourbon's haughty Race.
The fair Deſcendents of thy ſacred Bed
Wide-branching o'er the Weſtern World ſhall ſpread,
Like the fam'd Banian Tree, whoſe pliant Shoot
To Earthward bending of it's ſelf takes Root,
Till, like their Mother Plant, ten thouſand ſtand
In verdant Arches on the fertile Land;
Beneath her Shade the tawny Indian roves,
Or hunts at large through the wide echoing Groves.
O Thou, to whom theſe mournful Lines I ſend,
My promis'd Husband, and my deareſt Friend;
Since Heav'n appoints this favour'd Race to reign,
And Blood has drench'd the Scottiſh Fields in vain;
Muſt I be wretched, and thy Flight partake?
Or wilt not Thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's ſake,
Tir'd out at length, ſubmit to Fate's Decree?
If not to Brunſwick, O return to me!
Proſtrate before the Victor's Mercy bend:
What ſpares whole Thouſands, may to Thee extend.
[10] Should blinded Friends thy doubtful Conduct blame,
Great Brunſwick's Virtues will ſecure thy Fame:
Say, theſe invite thee to approach his Throne,
And own the Monarch, Heav'n vouchſafes to own.
The World, convinc'd, thy Reaſons will approve,
Say this to Them; but ſwear to Me 'twas Love.
FINIS.