Sacellum honoris a congratulatory poem to the Right Honourable the Marquis of Tavistock on his happy return from travel / by E. Settle.

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. 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? 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: 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. 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. 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; 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. 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, 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, 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; 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. 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.