THE EIGHTH ODE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED by THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER

1. If ever Justice with her iron Hand,
Had dar'd to thrust thee from this groaning Land,
Or on thy Front, t' avenge a People's Cry,
Burnt the red Marks of shameless Villany;
Or, as from righteous @3Japhet,@1 cropt an Ear,
Which, daily, fine-spun Flatt'ry wont to hear;
Poor @3Britain@1 might appease her Griefs, and smile,
And hope her Genius had not left her Isle.

2. But You——the less your Country you befriend,
The more the Courtier-mob before you bend:
Each vile Corruption lures 'em to your Purse,
As hungry Insects a corrupted Corse;
While bowing Bards with panegyric Lays,
Wipe off, or turn your Vices to your Praise;
As if the Muse, with all her @3Pindus'@1 Stream,
Cou'd wash a Negro white, or clean your Name.

3. What tho' you swear your Country to redress,
To shield in War, to cherish her in Peace;
None dare thy false, @3Ligurian@1 Words believe,
Who deem'st it Depth of Wisdom to deceive.

4. At this Corruption smiles with ghastly Grin,
Foretelling Triumphs to her Sister Sin;
Who, as with baneful Wings aloft she flies,
"This ruin'd Land be mine"——exulting cries;
Grim Tyranny attends her on her Way,
And whets his flaming Sword that thirsts to slay.

5. How widely spreads thy Pow'r! almighty Knight!
Conquest is surer when you bribe, than fight:
No more let @3Persia@1 hail her laurell'd Lord,
Before a Sesterce what avails a Sword?
Yet sure 'tis strange your Slaves will Slaves remain,
Tho' ten Times kick'd they come, they cringe again;
As foolish @3Phædria@1 still sigh'd for his Whore,
Tho' the dear Jilt had thrust him from her Door.

6. Striking her Breast, what Tears has Virtue shed,
To see plain Justice, Truth, and Valour fled?
Who can relate her home-felt, Patriot-Pains,
How much she sighs, how deeply she complains,
That @3Britain@1 bends to thy corruptive Pow'r,
Debauch'd, like @3Danäe,@1 with a golden Show'r?

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