SACELLUM HONORIS. A Congratulatory POEM To the Right Honourable the Marquis of Tavistock, ON HIS Happy Return from Travel.
By E. SETTLE.
[...].
LONDON: Printed for A. Baldwin, at the Oxford Arms in Warwick Lane. MDCC.
TRavel, the Mart of
Glory, where each Plume
Is all Imported Wealth, t' enrich at Home.
If
Wisdom's Chace, the Search of
Nature's Veins,
The study'd
Universe be worth the Pains;
'Tis in thy
School must tugging
Honour sweat,
Travel, thou best
Gamaliel of the Great.
'Tis Thou set'st
Knowledge at a Light more fair:
To
See's to Know, to Judge is to
Compare;
Reasons best Guide,
Distinction. Greatness bound
Only to a Home Circuit's narrow round,
Too
fond or
weak, does no true Ballance hold.
'Tis
Travel lends the
Scales to weigh the
Gold.
[Page 4] Thus 'tis Thou wreath'st the Flow'rs t' adorn the
Great,
And add'st the
Lawrel to the CORONET.
This knew Great
TAVISTOCK, and in thy Chace
Resolv'd to set out His First
Glories Race.
Yes,
Travel, thou shalt His young Pinions try:
And in thy open Air the
Eaglet fly.
In
Belgia is His first Great
Entry made:
Perhaps a Ceremonious
Homage paid;
To
Belgia first His
Zeal and
Duty move:
Belgia, the
Cradle of our
Albion JOVE.
Here the Great
Race thus prosperously begun,
Must now around the Circled
Europe run.
All that the
Rhine, Sein, Tybur, or the
Po,
All the rich Banks their watry Urns o'erflow,
Great
TAVISTOCK must range; no
Throne too far:
Nor
Alps nor
Apennines His Course must bar.
No
Air nor
Clime His Progress must restrain,
From the cold
Norway to the sultry
Spain.
What tho' Adorn'd with every
Grace before,
That
Britain's Noblest Nursery cou'd store;
With all th'
Improv'd and
Innate VIRTUES fill'd,
His
Education or His
Birth could yield?
[Page 5] What tho' before so Rich; yet still too Poor,
To all He carries out, He yet wants more.
Men, Manners, Laws and
Lands, He studies All;
And as He moves, He rolls the Gathering Ball:
In
Nature's Book that Learn'd
Proficient grown,
Resolv'd to make the
well-read World his own.
Ambition thus warms with a Sacred Heat:
'Tis Godlike to
Aspire thus to be
Great.
To Courts, Thrones, Kingdoms, over Lands or Sea,
Wherever Leading
Honour guides His Way;
Through all the
Regions His vast
Circuit calls,
Behold him in proud
Rome's Triumphant Walls.
Rome, whose once potent Arm the
Thunder hurl'd,
Held th'
Universal Reins, and drove the
World:
But now her
Consuls and her
Caesar's lost,
Her Race of
Worthies does no longer boast.
But tho' her
Capitol commands no more;
Her
Conclave arrogates th'
Imperial Pow'r;
The subject
Universe no longer driven,
Sets up her
Phaetons, and now drives
Heav'n.
Here
TAVISTOCK all pleas'd and wond'ring read
The Monumental Fames of her Great
Dead:
Her sev'n proud
Hills and prouder
Heroes Dust.
Fired with a Generous Heat here long He stay'd,
And all the Glories of
Old Rome survey'd.
From her new Glory with a colder Look,
His Icy Veins but small Impression took.
He with her Scarlet
Syren's Songs uncharm'd,
At her old
Urns, not her new
Altars warm'd.
Here He with Scorn look'd down. He saw no more
The Ancient
Rome's Imperial
Eagles soar.
No, the old
Bird of Jove, long dispossest,
Her
Vultures now usurp her
Eagles Nest.
Those
Vultures!—Oh the dire remember'd Day,
When those devouring Ravenous Birds of Prey,
Through His own
Veins their barb'rous Quarry tore,
And gorg'd the
purest Blood that
Albion ever bore!
Thus
Rome did the Great
TAVISTOCK divide;
Supply'd at once both His
Contempt and
Pride.
But whilst
Antiquity, her various Scenes,
Her Piles and Rolls of
Fame, those Great Remains,
With all their Transient Glory treat His
Eyes:
His
Soul to yet Sublimer Transports flies.
[Page 7] His glorious
Travels, with their pompous Train,
Only a Nobler
Exiles ling'ring Pain;
Of a long
Servitude the Dragging
Chain;
All a
Divorce from LOVE's Immortal Charms,
The long-wish'd
Joys in His
URANIA's Arms.
But now the finishing Great
Circle run,
His
Two Years wand'ring Age, now almost done;
He shakes the emptying
Glass, pleas'd to behold
The fleeting Sparks, and number'd Minutes told:
For, oh, the Last expiring Sands run
Gold.
Charm'd with the Prospect of approaching
Bliss,
His yet but Visionary Paradice;
Thus rapt, thus fired, the
Bridegroom Lord returns:
Ev'n when He treads the
Alpine Snow, He burns.
In vain the coming
Jubilee, and all
Rome's pompous Lustre wou'd His Flight recal.
His
Revels are in
Albion, not at
Rome:
Yes LOVE! Great LOVE! His
Jubilee's at home.
Thus th' happy Call th' impatient LOVER bore,
With all His Plumes to His dear
Albion Shore.
A posting
Mercury more pleas'd ne'er Rod,
To bear the Mandates of th'
Imperial GOD,
Wings on his Feet, and
Transport in his Eyes;
Then
TAVISTOCK to His
URANIA flies.
But hold; one Bar of
Glory stops his Way:
Proud
Gallia must awhile his
Joys delay.
Of all who his divided
Favours wore,
The
European Courts he'had
grac'd before,
The last, not least,
France claims a Sister's share:
Her Rivals must not All the Trophies bear:
France, the World's
Boreas once Tempestuous Throne,
From whose bleak Coast our
angry Winds all blown,
Down by th' Impetuous Torrent over born,
Hence all our
Wrecks, hence
Europe's Entrails
torn;
Till the rough Storm by
Albion lull'd to Rest,
Calm'd by Great WILLIAM to a
Halcyon Nest.
Here the Great welcom'd
TAVISTOCK, no less
Than homaging Knees and circling Arms caress.
With that
Magnificence, with all that
Port,
His
Albion Lustre fill'd his Foreign COURT;
That
Lustre, that cou'd add the
Noblest Ray
Ev'n to Great WILLIAM's proud
Triumphant Day.
Embassadors Entry.
Yes,
France must
TAVISTOCK's full Lustre view;
His SOUL Great as his VEINS; his equal
Glories due,
Not th'
Albion Pride alone, but
Albion's
Champion too.
In His defended
Country's Cause so Warm;
'Till His o'erboiling
Courage swell'd so high,
As durst the Boldest Sword of
France defy.
Oh
Gallia, Gallia, here what dost Thou owe?
Thy blushing
Lillies cannot bend too low;
To that fair
British ROSE this Tribute paid,
Whose Sacred STEM once thy vile
Arts betray'd,
In Dust by thy Destroying
Councils laid.
Thy Knees His Homagers we scarce dare call;
Poor
Expiation for that
Barb'rous Fall;
'Tis but thy Penitential Duty all.
And if relenting
Penitence once more
Can
Whiteness to thy
Sanguin'd Liss restore;
Great
TAVISTOCK with Songs of
Triumph greet,
And strow thy flow'ry Garlands at His Feet:
To th' Honour'd BRANCH thy
Io Paeans sung,
Thou own'st the
Martyr'd Root from whence He sprung.
But whil'st with her best Smiles and chearful Face,
The pleas'd
Versails does her Great Guest embrace;
[Page 10] The sad
St. Germains with a gloomier Air,
That melancholy Region of Despair,
All wrapt in Clouds does a bleak Aspect bear.
To see bright GLORY's
Resurrection made
From
Rome's black
Chaos, Britain's once dark
Shade;
To see the
Coronet on that Young HEAD,
Perhaps with a too conscious
Shame o'erspread,
It calls, alas, the dire
Remembrance down,
Of those
mad Councils on that
Jehu Throne,
That drove so fast till they ev'n dropt a
Crown.
Now the long
Race quite run, a prosp'rous Gale
And all the smiling
Sea-Nymphs wait His Sail.
The ecchoing
Tritons and the
Nereids join:
Nor wonder
Love can tune their
Trumps Marine;
In that cold Element His Praises sung:
When Love's
fair Goddess from the
Ocean sprung.
But stay—Upon this floating Scene must rise
One short-liv'd Mist awhile to damp the Joys.
The Vessel by an unskill'd Steersman led;
Of Sands and Rocks the visionary Dread,
To the whole Crew that Pannick
Terror gives;
Resolv'd they'll quit the Bark to save their Lives.
[Page 11] Blind
Cowardise, that meets what it wou'd shun:
They'll trust those Waves in which they fear to drown.
This saw the dauntless
TAVISTOCK, and here
To check this Torrent of their abject Fear;
To stop their Flight there needs not His drawn Sword:
Ev'n His commanding Look their half-fled Souls restor'd.
They saw the HERO, and with Shame they blusht,
Back to the
Helm the shrinking Dastards husht.
So
Rome's Great
Julius in a Tempest tost,
To see his Drooping
Pilot's Courage lost;
He bid his shaking Hand more boldly steer:
Thou carry'st
Nil time Caesarem vehis.
CAESAR; that secures thy Fear.Their Frights all husht, now safely lands the Barge:
Yes, His
protecting Guardians knew their
Charge.
By those blest
Tutelar Genii wafted o'er,
Once more He steps on His
Britannia's Shore.
When
Neptune's Float resigns his
Honour'd Load,
A waiting
Chariot of the Gentler
God,
With
Harnest Doves attends: Great
Hymen waits,
His smiling
Usher to His
BEDFORD Gates.
Here th' AUGUST HEAD, blest with long prosp'rous Years,
In Venerable
Glory's Silver Hairs,
[Page 12] Meets His Great HEIR, with all
Paternal Joy:
No
Gates of Hell shall these
Young Hopes destroy.
Around His Neck He twines. Th' Embrace so warms;
He throws off Twenty Winters in Those
Arms.
All
pleas'd and
charm'd He sees the
Forward Spring,
All the Rich
Harvest such
Ripe Hopes shall bring.
For, oh! the
Stars in the Great MARTYRS
Crown,
On that
Young Head pour all their
Influence down:
Worth, Honour, Virtue, that Great FOUNT supplies:
'Tis from such
Ashes must the
Phoenix rise.
No more Great
BEDFORD shall His
Wrecks deplore:
Looks Forward now, and oh, looks back no more.
From the too
Fiery Chariot's fatal Call,
See's ev'n the Double Spirited
Mantle fall.
A Dance of
Harmony moves all around;
And nought but Pleasure treads th'
Hallow'd Ground.
Ev'n the Great WIDOW with that
Joy appears;
Throws off the
Veil of Seventeen
Mourning Years.
So Charm'd to see the Glorious CYON shoot,
Forgets the blasting Thunder tore the ROOT.
Nay those
Wet Eyes, that yet more lately mourn,
In pious
Sable at a
Father's Urn,
Of her fresh
Griefs stops the whole Rolling Tide.
She Blesses all the Winds, the Seas, the Shores;
All that her darling
TAVISTOCK restores.
That dearer
Wealth has one
Rich Sail brought o'er,
Then all her Father's
Indies ever bore.
From this Fair
Gordian, this Blest
Genial Bed,
Where can't her Hopes
prophetick Raptures lead?
Th' Enlightning Joy, (Joy She can scarce contain)
Presents her dazled Thought that Beauteous Scene;
A Prospect ev'n through endless
Ages drawn.
Of
Glories yet
Unborn she views the smiling
Dawn.
Foresees, where such
Descending VIRTUE reigns,
From the Great
CHILD and Greater
BEDFORD's Veins,
A
Race, of that bright
Worth, th' unbroken Line,
That to the World's last setting Sun shall shine.
But, oh the happy PAIR! Their meeting Joys!
The
Eyes, the
Arms, the Bliss, the
Extasies!
His
Travels now no more His
Sweating Toils;
Back to a thousand wander'd Leagues He smiles.
The parching
Dogstars Heat all Spring-tide Ray,
And the rough
Alpine Rocks all Flow'ry Way;
Blest
Pilgrimage that leads to such a
Shrine!
A Tributary Troop of
Triumph waits:
For see a Press of
Honour crowds His Gates;
To wish the
Bridegroom Joy Wish, did I say?
That idle Vow throws a vain Breath away.
Joys He has
All. They wish but a full Shine
T'a
mid-day Sun, or Wealth t'an
Indian Mine.
And hark! the Martial Drums and Trumpets round!
'Tis to the
Amorous War that now they sound.
To all these Homagers i'th' Front appear,
The whole
Poetick Choir bring up the Reer.
All the
Castalian Nine (a Theme t' inspire
Their
Patron God, and tune
Apollo's Lyre!)
At those Great
Rites chant their best Ayrs Divine.
The
Muses sing to see the GRACES join.
Now
TAVISTOCK begin Thy
Reign of
Fame,
All Thy
Hereditary Native Claim.
Thou ow'st Thy
Birth all the true Generous Arts
Of founding
Greatness, and of winning
Hearts:
Copying those Great
Originals, secure
Thy
Conquest, and thy Great
Foundation sure.
In their full Lustre when
Great Heads appear,
And
Truly Noble fill their awful Sphere:
'Tis
publick Justice that supports their Thrones,
Justice the Jem in
Coronets and
Crowns!
But oh degenerate
Honour, when we see
The most Exalted
Touring Quality,
In their triumphant Chariots proudly ride,
When 'tis an unpaid Purple decks their Pride.
Distributive Right, a Cobweb Lawn too weak,
How poorly does strong-wing'd
Oppression break?
Oh the Descending Shame of Veins so High,
To have Great Names in
Suburb Compters lie,
There in Records of
Chalk to rust and die!
Thus, 'stead of
Leading Lights, those Beams divine,
With which
Nobility was born to shine;
They make (to their own shaded
Glory blind)
Greatness the Greatest
Satyr on Mankind.
But stop my Muse, quit this too Cloudy
Theme;
Brighten thy Ayrs with a
Sublimer Beam:
Tune to the
Musick of Great
BEDFORD's
Sphere:
The bright
Astrea holds th'
Ascendant here.
The Exil'd Maid her Heav'nly Flight recals;
Descends once more to Grace those
Hallow'd Walls.
[Page 16] Here
Right, Truth, Justice, their full Glory reigns,
All
genuine Lustre, born with
BEDFORD's
Veins.
Here the white
Ermyn does all Spots disdain:
No
City Tears shall their
Court - GRANDEUR stain.
No, proud
Augusta, with transporting Charms,
Meets her Great
TAVISTOCK with open Arms:
With Flutes and Timbrels does her Darling greet;
And bends her tow'ry Forehead at His Feet.
Let poorer
Greatness, in supiner
Sloth,
Rust in their
Ease, and chill their Noble
Growth;
Cold in the Quest of a true
Glorious Name,
Leave th' Herald-Office all their Care of Fame.
Nor thinking VIRTUE worth a Manly Toil,
Neglect their whole uncultivated Soil.
Here the
Rich Bed's
poor Product is no more
Than Indigested, all
Imperfect Ore.
The
BEDFORD Race, by
warmer Virtues Shine,
Cherish'd and Ripen'd to a
pregnant Mine,
Such course Allay does with Contempt behold;
The
Refin'd TAVISTOCK's all
Angel-Gold.
FINIS.