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.

A Congratulatory POEM To the Right Honourable the Marquis of Tavistock.

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:
[Page 6] View'd her old Piles of Venerable Rust;
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.
[Page 9] Saw the Young Hero, with a Zeal and Arm,
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,
[Page 13] To see her dear URANIA's smiling Pride,
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;
[Page 14] A Tour of Europe to such Joys Divine;
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.

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