Whilft this grand chorus fhakes the skies

"Above, beneath the fun, "Through boundlefs age, by men, by gods, "Jehovah's will be done."

'Tis done in heaven; whence headlong hurl'd Self-will with Satan fell;

And must from earth be banish'd too,

Or earth's another hell;.
Madam! felf-will inflicts your pains:
Self-will's the deadly foe
Which deepens all the difmal fhades,

And points the fhafts of woe:
Your debt to nature fully paid,

Now virtue claims her due :
But virtue's cause I need not plead,
'Tis fafe; I write to You:
You know, that virtue's bafis lies
In ever judging right;

And wiping error's clouds away,

Which dim the mental fight:

Why mourn the dead? you wrong the gravé,
From ftorm that fafe refort;
We are fill toffing out at fea,

Our admiral in port.

Was death deny'd, this world, a fcene
How difmal and forlorn?

To death we owe, that 'tis to man
A bleffing to be born;

When every other bleffing fails,

Or fapp'd by flow decay,

Or, ftorm'd by fudden blafts of fate,

Is fwiftly whirl'd away;

How happy! that no ftorm, or time,
Of death can rob the just!
None pluck from their unaching heads
Soft pillows in the duft!

Well-pleas'd to bear heaven's darkest frown,
Your utmost power employ;
'Tis noble chemistry to turn
Neceffity to joy.

Whate'er the colour of my fate,
My fate shall be my choice:
Determin'd am I, whilst I breathe,
To praife and to rejoice;

What ample caufe! triumphant hope!

Refign, refign: this leffon none
Too deeply can instill;

A crown has been refign'd by more,
Than have refign'd the will;

Though will refign'd the meanest makes
Superior in renown,

And richer in celestial eyes,

Than him who wears a crown;

Hence, in the bofom cold of age,
It kindled a strange aim,
To thire in fong; and bid me boast
The grandeur of my theme;
But oh! how far prefumption falls
Its lofty theme below!

Our thoughts in life's December freeze,
And numbers cease to flow.

First! greatest! beft! grant what I wrote
For others, ne'er may rife

To brand the writer; thou alone
Can't make our wifdom wife;
And how unwife! how deep, in guilt!
How infamous the fault!

"A teacher thron'd in pomp of words,
"Indeed, beneath the taught !"

Means most infallible to make

The world an infidel;

And, with inftructions most divine,
To pave a path to hell;

O! for a clean and ardent heart,
O! for a foul on fire,

Thy praife, begun on earth, to found
Where angels ftring the lyre;

How cold is man? to him how hard
(Hard, what most easy seems)
"To fet a just esteem on that,

"Which yet he-most esteems."

What fhall we fay, when boundless blifs
Is offer'd to mankind,

And, to that offer when a racę

Of rationals is blind?

Of human nature ne'er too high
Are our ideas wrought;

Of human merit ne'er too low
Deprefs'd the daring thought,

Though you, long fince beyond Britannia
known,

Have spread your country's glory with own;
To me you never did more lovely fhine,
Than when fo late the kindled wrath divine
Quench'd our ambition, in great Anna's fate,
And darken'd all the pomp of human state.
Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay,
Though rais'd in life, and greatnefs fade away,
Your luftre brightens: virtue cuts the gloom
With purer rays, and fparkles near a tomb.

Kaow, fir, the great efteem and honour due,
I chose that moment to profefs to you,
When fadnefs reign'd, when fortune, fo fevere,
Had warm'd our bofoms to be moft fincere.
And when no motives could have force to raise
A serious value, and provoke my praise,
But fuch as rife above, and far tranfcend
Whatever glories with this world fhall end,
Then thining forth, when deepest fhades fhall blot
The fun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot.
1 fing-but ah! my theme I need not tell,
See every eye with confcious forrow fwell:
Who now to verfe would raise his humble voice,
Can only fhew his duty, not his choice.
How great the weight of grief our hearts fuftain!
We languish, and to fpeak is to complain.

Let us look back, (for who top oft can view That most illuftrious fcene, for ever New!) See all the feafons fhine on Anna's throne, And pay a conftant tribute, not their own. Her fummer's heats nor fruits alone beftow, They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe;' And when black ftorms confefs the diftant fun, Her winters wear the wreaths her fummers won. Revolving pleasures in their turns appear, And triumphs are the product of the year. To crown the whole, great joys in greater ceafe, And glorious victory is loft in peace.

Whence this profusion on our favour'd ide? Did partial fortune on our virtue fimile? Or did the fceptre, in great Anna's hand, Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land? Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim, Thy queen and thy good fortune are the fame.

Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky'; 'Tis Anna reigns! the Gallic fquadrons fly. We spread our canvafs to the fouthern fhore; 'Tis Anna reigns! the fouth refigns her store. Her virtue fmooths the tumult of the main, And fwells the field with mountains of the flain. Argyll and Churchill but the glory share, While millions lie fubdued by Anna's prayer. How great her zeal! how fervent her defire! How did her foul in holy warmth expire! Conftant devotion did her time divide, Not fet returns of pleasure or of pride. Not want of reft, or the fun's parting ray, But finish'd duty, limited the day.

How fweet fucceeding fleep! what lovely themes Smil'd in her thoughts, and foften'd all her

dreams!

Her royal couch defcending angels spread, And join'd their wings a fhelter o'er her head.

New to behold, and awfully furprize!
Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown,
And facred domes on palaces look down:
A noble pride of piety is fhown,
And temples caft a luftre on the throne.
How would this work another's glory raife!
But Anna's greatness robs her of the praife.
Drown'd in a brighter blaze it disappears,
Who dry'd the widow's, and the orphan's tears)
Who ftoop'd from high to fuccour the distrest,
And reconcile the wounded heart to rest?
Great in her goodnefs, well could we perceive,
Whoever fought, it was a queen that gave.
Misfortune loft her name, her guiltless frown
But made another debtor to the crown;
And each unfriendly ftroke, from fate
Became our title to the regal store.

we bore,

Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot, And their wounds bloffom with a fairer fruit. Ye numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd, When firft the dreadful blaft of fame arriv'd, Say what a fhock, what agonies you felt, How did your fouls with tender anguish melt! That grief which living Anna's love fuppreft, Shook like a tempeft every grateful breast. A fecond fate our linking fortunes try'd! A fecond time our tender parents dy'd!

Heroes returning from the field we crown, And deify the haughty victor's frown. His fplendid wealth too rafhly we admire, Catch the difeafe, and burn with equal fire: Wifely to spend, is the great art of gain; And one reliev'd tranfcends a million flain. When time shall afk, where once Ramillia lay, Or Danube flow'd that fwept whole troops away, One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry, Shall rife a fountain of eternal joy.

But ah to that unknown and diftant date; Is virtue's great reward push'd off by fate; Here random fhafts in every breast are found, Virtue and merit but provoke the wound. August in native worth and regal state, Anna fate arbitrefs of Europe's fate; To diftant realms did every accent fly, And nations watch'd each motion of her eye. Silent, nor longer awful to be seen, How fmall a fpot contains the mighty queen! No throng of fuppliant princes mark the place, Where Britain's greatnefs is compos'd in peace The broken earth is fcarce difcern'd to rife, And a ftone tells us where the monarch lies.

Thus

Thus end matoreft honours of the crown! This is the laft conclufion of renown!

So when with idle fkill the wanton boy Breathes through his tube; he fees, with eager joy,

The trembling bubble, in its rifing small;
And by degrees expands the glittering ball.
But when, to full perfection blown, it flies
High in the air, and fhines in various dyes,
The little monarch, with a falling tear,
Sees his world burst at once, and disappear..
'Tis not in forrow to reverse our doom,
No groans unlock th' inexorable tomb!
Why then this fond indulgence of our woe!
What fruit can rife, or what advantage flow!
Yes, this advantage; from our deep distress
We learn how much in George the Gods can
blefs.

Had a lefs glorious princefs left the throne,

But half the hero had at first been shown:
An Anna falling all the king employs,
To vindicate from guilt our rifing joys:
Our joys arife and innocently thine,
Aufpicious monarch! what a praife is thine!
Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne!
Nor let thy country think thee all her own.
Of thy delay how oft did we complain !

Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main.

With prayer we fmooth the billows for thy fleet;
With ardent wishes fill thy fwelling fheet;
And when thy foot took place on Albion's fhore,
We bending blefs'd the Gods, and aik'd no more.
What hand bnt thine fhould conquer and com-
pofe,

Join thofe whom intereft joins, and chace our foes?

Repel the daring youth's prefumptuous aim,
And by his rival's greatnefs give him fame?
Now in fome foreign court he may fit down,
And quit without a blush the British crown.
Secure his honour, though he lose his store,
And take a lucky moment to be poor.

Nor think, great fir, now first, at this late
hour,

In Britain's favour, you exert your power;
To us, far back in time, I joy to trace
The numerous tokens of your princely grace.
Whether you chofe to thunder on the Rhine,
Infpire grave councils, or in courts to fhine;
In the more fcenes your genius was display'd,
The greater debt was on Britannia laid:
"They all confpir'd this mighty man to raise,
And your new fubjects proudly share the praife.
All fhare; but may not we have leave to boast

That we contemplate, and enjoy it most?
This ancient nurfe of arts, indulg'd by fate
On gentle Ifis' bank, a calm retreat,
For many rolling ages juftly fam'd,

Has through the world her loyalty proclaim'd;
And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!)
Her blood and treafure to fupport the throne !
For England's church her latest accents firain'd;
And freedom with his dying hand retain'd,

I need no Mufe, a Walpole is my theme.

Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd fons of praise! Our morning ftars! our boast in former days! Which hovering o'er, your purple wings dif play,

Lur'd by the pomp of this diftinguish'd day, Stoop, and attend: by one, the knee be bound; One, throw the mantle's crim fon folds around; By that, the fword on his proud thigh be plac'd; This, clafp the diamond-girdle round his wail; His breaft, with rays, let juft Godolphin fpread; Wife Burleigh plant the plumage on his head; And Edward own fince first he fix'd the race, None pieft fair glory with a fwifter pace.

When fate would call fome mighty genius
forth

To wake a drooping age to godlike worth,
Or aid fome favourite king's illuftrious toil,
It bids his blood with generous ardour boil;
His blood, from virtue's celebrated fource,
Pour'd down the fteep of time, a lengthen'd

Weigh peace and war, now Europe's eyes are

bent

On mighty Brunfwick, for the great event, Brunfwick, of kings, the terror, or defence! Who dares detain thee at a world's expenee?

AN

EPISTL E.

TO THE

"Parnaffia laurus

"Parva fub ingenti matris fe fubjicit umbra."

WHE

MDCCXII.

VIRG.

THEN Rome, my lord, in her full glory
fhone,

And great Auguftus rul'd the globe alone,
While fuppliant Kings in all their pomp and state,
Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace
gate;

Horace did oft' the mighty man detain,
And footh'd his breaft with no ignoble strain;
Now foar'd aloft, now ftruck an humbler string;
And taught the Roman genius how to fing.

Pardon, if I his freedom dare puifue,
Who knows no want of Cæfar, finding you;
The Mufe's friend is pleas'd the Mufe fhould
prefs

Through circling crowds, and labour for accefs,
That partial to his darling he may prove,
And fining throngs for her approach remove,
To all the world induftrious to proclaim
His love of Arts, and boaft the glorious flame.
Long has the western world reclin'd her head,
Pour'd forth her forrow, and bewail'd her dead;
Fell difcord through her bordeis fiercely rang'd,
And shook her nations, and her monarchschang'd;
By land and fea its utmoft rage employ'd;
Nor heaven repair'd fo faft as men destroy'd.

In vain kind fummers plenteous fields bestow'd, In vain the vintage liberally flow'd;

Alarms from loaden boards all pleafures chac'd,
And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of tale;
Te fmiles of Nature could no blessing bring,
The fruitful autumn, or the flowery fpring;
Time was diflinguifh'd by the fword and spear,
Not by the various afpects of the year;
The trumpet's found proclaim'd a milder sky,
And bloodshed told us when the fun was nigh.

But now (fo foon as Britain's ble flings feen,
When fuch as you are near her glorious Queen!)
Now peace, though long repuls'd, arrives at last,
And bids us fmile on all our labours past;
Bids every nation ceafe her wonted moan,
And every Monarch call his crown his own:
To valour gentler virtues now fucceed;
No longer is the great man born to bleed;
Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle fhall tell,
Wisdom and prowefs in one breast may dwell:
Through milder tracks he fears to deathlefs fame,
And without trembling we refound his name,

Nothing fo cheap and vulgar but can please,
And borrow beauties from his late difcafe.

Nor is it peace alone, but fuch a peace,
As more than bids the rage of battle ceaie,
Death may determine war, and ruft fucceed,
Caufe nought furvives on which our rage may
feed;

In faithful friends we lofe our glorious focs,
And ftrifes of love exalt our fweet repofc.
See graceful Bolingbroke your friend advance,
Nor mifs his Lanfdowne in the court of France;
So well receiv'd, fo welcome, fo at home,
(Blefs'd change of fate) in Bourbon's flately
dome;

The monarch ps'd, defcending from his throne,
Will not that Anna call him all her own;
He claims a part, and looking round to find
Something might speak the fulnefs of his mind,
A diamond thines, which oft had touch'd him near,
Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear;
Now firft with joy beheld, well pleas'd on one,
Who makes him lefs regret his darling fon;
So dear is Anna's minifter, fo great
Your glorious friend in his own private state.

To make out nations longer two, in vain
Does nature interpoft the raging main a
The Gallic fhore to diftant Britain grows,
For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows:
From conflicts pass'd each other's worth we find,
And thence in ficter friendship now are join'd;
Each wound receiv'd, now pleads the cause of love,
And former injuries endearments prove.
What Briton but muft prize th' illuftrious fword,
That caufe of fear to Churchill could afford?
Who fworn to Bourbon's fceptre, but muft frame
Vaft thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard

tame?

Thus generous hatred in affection ends,
And war, which rais'd the foes, compleats the
friends.

A thousand happy confequences flow
(The dazzling profpect makes my bofom glow);
Commerce fhall lift her fwelling fails, and roll
Her wealthy fleets fecure from pole to pole;
The British merchant, who with care and pain
For many moons fees only skies and main;
When now in view of his lov'd native shore,
The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er,
Caufe to reget his wealth no more shall find,
Nor curfe the merey of the sea and wind;
By hardest fate condemn'd to ferve a foe,
And give him ftrength to strike a deeper blow,

Sweet