An Epistle from a Lady in England to a Gentleman at Avignon

To thee, dear Rover! and thy vanguish'd friends,The health she wants thy gentle Chloe sends:Tho' much you suffer think I suffer more,Worse than an exile on my native shore.Companions in your master's flight you roam 5Unenvy'd by your haughty foes at home;For ever near the Royal Outlaw's sideYou share his fortunes and his hopes divide,On glorious schemes and thoughts of empire dwell,And with imaginary titles swell. 10Say, for thou know'st I own his sacred line,The passive doctrine and the right divine,Say, what new succours does the Chief prepare?The strength of armies or the force of pray'r?Does he from heav'n or earth his hopes derive? 15From saints departed or from priests alive?Nor faints nor priests can Brunswick's troops withstand,And beads drop useless thro' the zealot's hand.Heav'n to our vows may future kingdoms owe,But skill and courage win the crowns below. 20Ere to thy cause and thee my heart inclin'd,Or love to party had seduc'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 25The Church! the Church! for ever breaks my rest.The Postboy 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 Sweden in disguise, 30How Spain prepares her banners to unfold,And Rome deals out her blessings and her gold;Then o'er the map my finger taught to strayCross many a region marks the winding way;From sea to sea, from realm to realm, I rove, 35And grow a mere geographer by love;But still Avignon and the pleasing coastThat holds thee banish'd claims my care the most;Oft' on the wellknown spot I fix my eyes,And span the distance that between us lies. 40Let not our James tho' foil'd in arms despairWhilst on his side he reckons half the fair.In Britain's lovely isle a shining throngWar in his cause, a thousand beauties strong.Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their pow'rs; 45Be theirs the musket while the tongue is ours.We reason with such fluency and fireThe beaux we baffle and the learned tire,Against her prelates plead the church's cause,And from our judges vindicate the laws. 50Then mourn not, hapless Prince! thy kingdoms lost,A crown tho' late thy sacred brows may boast;Heav'n seems thro' us thy empire to decree;Those who win hearts have giv'n their hearts to thee.Hast thou not heard that when profusely gay 55Our welldrest rivals grac'd their sov'reign's day,We stubborn damsels met the publick viewIn loathsome wormwood and repenting rue?What Whig but trembled when our spotless bandIn virgin roses whiten'd half the land! 60Who can forget what fears the foe possestWhen oaken boughs mark'd ev'ry loyal breast!Less fear'd than Medway's stream the Norman stoodWhen cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,Till near at hand a gleam of swords betray'd 65The youth of Kent beneath its wand'ring shade.Those who the succours of the fair despisedMay find that we have nails as well as eyes.Thy female bands, O Prince by Fortune crost!At least more courage than thy men can boast. 70Our sex has dar'd the mughouse chiefs to meet,And purchas'd fame in many a wellfought 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 75With all their poles the guardians of the night,And bore with screams of triumph to their sideThe leader's staff in all its painted pride.Nor fears the hawker in her warbling noteTo vend the discontented statesman's thought, 80Tho' red with stripes, and recent from the thong,Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,The tuneful sisters still pursue their tradeLike Philomela, darkling in the shade.Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare, 85And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.Mean-while regardless of the royal causeHis sword for James no brother sov'reign draws;The Pope himself, surrounded with alarms,To France his bulls to Corfu sends his arms, 90And tho' he hears his darling son's complaintCan hardly spare one tutelary saint,But lists them all to guard his own abodes,And into ready money coins his gods.The dauntless Swede pursu'd by vengeful foes 95Scarce keeps his own hereditary snows;Nor must the friendly roof of kind LorrainWith feasts regale our garter'd youth again.Safe, Bar-le-Duc! within thy silent groveThe pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove;The knight who aims unerring from afar, 101Th' advent'rous knight, now quits the sylvan war;Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd,Or grunt secure beneath the chestnut shade.Inconstant Orleans! (still we mourn the day 105That trusted Orleans with imperial sway)Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,Far from the call of his desponding friends;Such are the terms to gain Britannia's grace,And such the terrours of the Brunswick race! 110Was it for this the sun's whole lustre fail'd,And sudden midnight o'er the moon prevail'd?For this did Heav'n display to mortal eyesAerial knights and combats in the skies? 114Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red,And Thames driv'n backward shew'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. 120Run 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, 125One half in luxury and one in pray'r?His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with easeThe proffer'd purple and the hat may please.Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal raceTo mighty Nimrod in one line we trace, 130In 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,135And English hereticks curse once a-year?Garnet and Faux shall he with pray'rs invoke,And beg that Smithfield piles once more may smoke?Forbid it, Heav'n! my soul to fury wroughtTurns almost Hanoverian at the thought.140From James and Rome I feel my heart decline,And fear, O Brunswick! it will 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, 145And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due:To James my passion and my weakness guide,But reason sways me to the victor's side.Tho' griev'd I speak it; let the truth appear;You know my language and my heart sincere. 150In vain did falsehood his fair frame disgrace;What force had falsehood when he show'd his face?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 155A 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 criesThe pious Town sees fifty churches rise. 160The hero triumphs as his worth is known,And sits more firmly on his shaken throne.To my sad thought no beam of hope appearsThro' the long prospect of succeeding years.The son aspiring to his father's fame 165Shows all his fire, another and the same:He blest in lovely Carolina's armsTo future ages propagates her charms.With pain and joy at strife I often traceThe mingled parents in each daughter's face; 170Half sick'ning at the sight, too well I spyThe father's spirit thro' 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, 175Blest in thy husband, in thy children blest,As they from thee, from them new beauties bornWhile Europe lasts shall Europe's thrones adorn;Transplanted to each court, in times to comeThy smile celestial and unfading bloom 180Great Austria's sons with softer lines shall grace,And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race:The fair descendants of thy sacred bedWide branching o'er the western world shall spreadLike the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot 185To earthward bending of itself takes root,Till like their mother plant ten thousand standIn verdant arches on the fertile land;Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove,Or hunt at large thro' the wide echoing grove. 190O 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? 195Or 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; 199What spares whole thousands may to thee extend.Should blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blameGreat Brunswick's virtues shall 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 it was love. 206