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 Chase, the Search of Nature's Veins,  
The studied Universe be worth the Pains;  
'Tis in thy School must tugging Honour sweat,  
Travel, thou best Gamaliel of the Great.  
'Tis Thou settest 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 Circuits narrow round,  
Too fond or weak, does no true Balance hold.  
'Tis Travel lends the Scales to weigh the Gold.  
Thus 'tis Thou wreath'st the Flowers t' adorn the Great,  
And add'st the Laurel to the CORONET.   

This knew Great TAVISTOCK, and in thy Chase  
Resolved 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 watery Urns overflow,  
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' Adorned with every Grace before,  
That Britain's Noblest Nursery could store;  
With all th' Improved and Innate VIRTUES filled,  
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 Learned Proficient grown,  
Resolved 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 hurled,  
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 Power;  
The subject Universe no longer driven,  
Sets up her Phaeton's, and now drives Heaven.   

Here TAVISTOCK all pleased and wondering read  
The Monumental Fames of her Great Dead:  
Viewed her old Piles of Venerable Rust;  
Her seven proud Hills and prouder Heroes Dust.  
Fired with a Generous Heat here long He stayed,  
And all the Glories of Old Rome surveyed.  
From her new Glory with a colder Look,  
His Icy Veins but small Impression took.  
He with her Scarlet Syren's Songs uncharmed,  
At her old Urns, not her new Altars warmed.  
Here He with Scorn looked down. He saw no more  
The Ancient Rome's Imperial Eagles soar.  
No, the old Bird of Jove, long dispossessed,  
Her Vultures now usurp her eagle's Nest.  
Those Vultures!— Oh the dire remembered Day,  
When those devouring Ravenous Birds of Prey,  
Through His own Veins their barbarous Quarry tore,  
And gorged the purest Blood that Albion ever bore!   

Thus Rome did the Great TAVISTOCK divide;  
Supplied 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 lingering Pain;  
Of a long Servitude the Dragging Chain;  
All a Divorce from LOVE's Immortal Charms,  
The long-wished Joys in His URANIA's Arms.  
But now the finishing Great Circle run,  
His Two Years wandering Age, now almost done;  
He shakes the emptying Glass, pleased to behold  
The fleeting Sparks, and numbered Minutes told:  
For, oh, the Last expiring Sands run Gold.  
Charmed with the Prospect of approaching Bliss,  
His yet but Visionary Paradise;  
Thus rapt, thus fired, the Bridegroom Lord returns:  
Even when He treads the Alpine Snow, He burns.  
In vain the coming Jubilee, and all  
Rome's pompous Lustre would His Flight recall.  
His Revels are in Albion, not at Rome:  
Yes LOVE! Great LOVE! His Jubilees at home.  
Thus th' happy Call th' impatient LOVER bore,  
With all His Plumes to His dear Albion Shore.  
A posting Mercury more pleased 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 graced 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 lulled to Rest,  
Calmed by Great WILLIAM to a Halcyon Nest.   

Here the Great welcomed TAVISTOCK, no less  
Than homaging Knees and circling Arms caress.  
With that Magnificence, with all that Port,  
His Albion Lustre filled his Foreign COURT;  
That Lustre, that could add the Noblest Ray  
Even to Great WILLIAM's proud Triumphant Day. 
* Ambassadors 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 swelled so high,  
As durst the Boldest Sword of France defy.   

Oh Gallia, Gallia, here what dost Thou owe?  
Thy blushing Lilies cannot bend too low;  
To that fair British ROSE this Tribute paid,  
Whose Sacred STEM once thy vile Arts betrayed,  
In Dust by thy Destroying Councils laid.  
Thy Knees His Homagers we scarce dare call;  
Poor Expiation for that Barbarous Fall;  
'Tis but thy Penitential Duty all.  
And if relenting Penitence once more  
Can Whiteness to thy Sanguined Liss restore;  
Great TAVISTOCK with Songs of Triumph greet,  
And strew thy flowery Garlands at His Feet:  
To th' Honoured BRANCH thy Io Paeans sung,  
Thou ownest the Martyred Root from whence He sprung.   

But whilst with her best Smiles and cheerful Face,  
The pleased Versails does her Great Guest embrace;  
The sad St. Germains with a gloomier Air,  
That melancholy Region of Despair,  
All wrapped 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 overspread,  
It calls, alas, the dire Remembrance down,  
Of those mad Councils on that Jehu Throne,  
That drove so fast till they even dropped a Crown.   

Now the long Race quite run, a prosperous Gale  
And all the smiling Sea-Nymphs wait His Sail.  
The echoing Tritons and the Nereids join:  
Nor wonder Love can tune their Trumpets 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-lived Mist awhile to damp the Joys.  
The Vessel by an unskilled Steersman led;  
Of Sands and Rocks the visionary Dread,  
To the whole Crew that Panic Terror gives;  
Resolved they'll quit the Bark to save their Lives.  
Blind Cowardice, that meets what it would 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:  
Even His commanding Look their half-fled Souls restored.  
They saw the HERO, and with Shame they blushed,  
Back to the Helm the shrinking Dastards hushed.  
So Rome's Great Julius in a Tempest tossed,  
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 hush, now safely land's the Barge:  
Yes, His protecting Guardians knew their Charge.  
By those blessed Tutelar Genii wafted over,  
Once more He steps on His Britannia's Shore.  
When Neptune's Float resigns his Honoured Load,  
A waiting Chariot of the Gentler God,  
With Harnessed Doves attends: Great Hymen waits,  
His smiling Usher to His BEDFORD Gates.   

Here th' AUGUST HEAD, blest with long prosperous 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 pleased and charmed He sees the Forward Spring,  
All the Rich Harvest such Ripe Hopes shall bring.  
For, oh! the Stars in the Great MARTYR'S 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,  
sees even the Double Spirited Mantle fall.   

A Dance of Harmony moves all around;  
And nought but Pleasure treads th' Hallowed Ground.  
Even the Great WIDOW with that Joy appears;  
Throws off the Veil of Seventeen Mourning Years.  
So Charmed 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 over,  
Then all her Father's Indieses ever bore.  
From this Fair Gordian, this Blessed Genial Bed,  
Where can't her Hopes prophetic Raptures lead?  
Th' Enlightening Joy, (Joy She can scarce contain)  
Presents her dazzled Thought that Beauteous Scene;  
A Prospect even 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 Ecstasies!  
His Travels now no more His Sweeting Toils;  
Back to a thousand wandered Leagues He smiles.  
The parching Dogstars Heat all Springtide Ray,  
And the rough Alpine Rocks all Flowery Way;  
A Tour of Europe to such Joys Divine;  
Blessed 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 midday 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 Poetic Choir bring up the Rear.  
All the Castalian Nine (a Theme t' inspire  
Their Patron God, and tune Apollo's Lyre!)  
At those Great Rites chant their best Airs 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 public Justice that supports their Thrones,  
Justice the Gem 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-winged 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 satire on Mankind.   

But stop my Muse, quit this too Cloudy Theme;  
Brighten thy Airs with a Sublimer Beam:  
Tune to the Music of Great BEDFORD's Sphere:  
The bright Astrea holds th' Ascendant here.  
The Exiled Maid her Heavenly Flight recals;  
Descends once more to Grace those Hallowed 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,  
Cherished and Ripened to a pregnant Mine,  
Such course Alloy does with Contempt behold;  
The Refined TAVISTOCK's all Angel-Gold.   
FINIS.