And where the sword destroys not, famine kills;
Our isle enjoys by your successful care,
The pomp of peace amidst the woes of war.
So much the public to your prudence owes,
You think no labours long, for our repose.
Such conduct, such integrity are shewn,
There are no coffers empty, but your own.
From mean dependence, merit you retrieve;
Unask'd you offer, and unseen you give.
Your favour, like the Nile, increase bestows;
And yet conceals the source from whence it flows.
So poiz'd your passions are, we find no frown,
If funds oppress not, and if commerce run,
Taxes diminish'd, liberty entire,
These are the grants your services require.
Thus far the State Machine wants no repair,
But moves in matchless order by your care.
Free from confusion, settled, and serene;
And like the universe by springs unseen.

But now some star, sinister to our pray'rs;
Contrives new schemes, and calls you from affairs.

No anguish in your looks, nor cares appear,
But how to teach th' unpractic'd crew to steer.
Thus like some victim no constraint; you need,
To expiate their offence, by whom you bleed.
Ingratitude's a weed in every clime;
It thrives too fast at first, but fades in time.
The god of day, and your own lot's the same;
The vapours you have rais'd obscure your flame
But tho' you suffer, and awhile retreat,
Your globe of light looks larger as you set.

These verses, however they may express the gratitude, and candour of the
author, and may contain no more than truth of the personage to whom they
are addressed, yet, every reader of taste will perceive, that the verses
are by no means equal to the rest of Dr. Garth's poetical writings.
Remarks upon these verses were published in a Letter to the Examiner,
September 7, 1710. The author observes, 'That there does not appear
either poetry, grammar, or design in the composition of this poem; the
whole (says he) seems to be, as the sixth edition of the Dispensary,
happily expresses it, a strong, unlaboured, impotence of thought. I
freely examine it by the new test of good poetry, which the Dr. himself
has established. Pleasing at first sight: Has this piece the least title
even to that? or if we compare it to the only pattern, as he thinks, of
just writing in this kind, Ovid; is there any thing in De Tristibus so
wild, so childish, so flat? what can the ingenious Dr. mean, or at what
time could he write these verses? ha