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For thee her mind in doubtful terms she told,
And learn’d to speak like oracles of old.
For thee, for thee alone, what could the more ?
She lost the honour-fhe had gain'd before ;
Lost all the trophies, which her arms had won
(Such Cæsar never knew, nor Philip's fon);
Resign'd the glories of a ten years' reign,
And such as none but Marlborough's arm could gain,
For thee in annals she's content to shine,
Like other monarchs of the Stuart line.
WHERE, where, degenerate countrymen--how high
your fond folly and your madness Ay?
Are scenes of death, and servile chains fo dear,
To fue for blood and bondage every year,
Like rebel Jews, with too much freedom curst,
To court a change - though certain of the worst?
There is no climate which you have not fought,
Where tools of war, and vagrant kings, are bought ;
0! noble passion, to your country kind,
To crown her with the refuse of mankind.
As if the new Rome, which
Were to be built on rapine, like the old,
While her afylum openly provides
: For every cuffian every nation hides.
great avenger's blow,
And force the bolt which he is loath to throw?
Have there too few already bit the plains,
To make you seek new Prestons and Dumblains ?
If vengeance loses its effects fo fast,
Yet those of
fure should longer last. Say, is it rashness or despair provokes Your harden'd hearts to these repeated strokes ? Reply: - Behold, their looks, their souls declare, All pale with guilt, and dumb with deep despair.
Hear then, you sons of blood, your destin'd fate, Hear, ere you fin too soon Madly you try to weaken George's reign, And item the stream of Providence in vain. By right, by worth, by wonders, made our own, The hand that gave it shall preserve his throne. As vain your hopes to distant times remove, To try the second, or the third from Jove ; For 'tis the nature of that sacred linc, To conquer monsters, and to grow divine.
KING OF SPAIN. PALLAS, destructive to the Trojan line,
Raz'd their proud walls, though built by hands
But Love's bright goldels, with propitious grace,
Preserv'd a hero, and restor’el the race.
Thus the fam'd empire where the Iber Aows,
Fell by Eliza, and by Anna role.
ARLISLE's a name can every
Muse inspire ;
To Carlisle fill the glass, and tune the lyre.
With his lov’d bays the God of Day shall crown
A wit and lustre equal to his own.
At once the Sun and Carlisle took their way,
To warm the frozen north, and kindle day;
'The flowers to both their glad creation ow'd,
Their virtues he, their beauties she bestow’d.
The bravest hero, and the brightest dame,
From Belgia's happy clime Britannia drews
One pregnant cloud we find does often frame
The awful thunder, and the gentle dew.
To Essex fill the sprightly winc ;
The health 's engaging and divine.
Let purest odours scent the air,
And wreaths of roses bind our hair:
In her chaste lips these blushing lie,
And those her gentle fighs fupply.
The God of Wine grows jealous of his art,
He only fires the head, but Hyde the heart.
The Queen of Love looks on, and smiles to feet
A nymph more mighty than a deity.
ON LADY HYDE IN CHILD-BED.
HYDE, though in agonies, her graces keeps,
A thousand charms the nymph's complaints adorn ; In tears of dew so mild Aurora weeps,
But her bright offspring is the chearful morn.
When Jove to Ida did the gods invite,
And in immortal toasting pass’d the night,
With more than nectar he the banquet blessid,
For Wharton was the Venus of the feast.
TODAY a mighty hero comes, to warm
Your curdling blood, and bid you, Britons, arm.
To valour much he owes, to virtue more ;
He fights to save, and conquers to restore.
He strains no texts, nor makes dragoons persuade ;
He likes religion, but he hates the trade.
Born for mankind, they by his labour live ;
Their property is his prerogative.
His sword destroys less than his mercy faves,
And none, except his passions, are his Raves.
Such, Britons, is the prince that you possess,
In council greatest, and in camps no less :
Brave, but not cruel ; wise, without deceit-,
Born for an age curs'd with a Bajazet.
But you, disdaining to be too secure,
Ask his protection, and yet grudge his power.
With you a monarch's right is in dispute ;
Who give fupplies, are only absolute.
Britons, for shame! your factious feuds decline,
Too long you 've labour'd for the Bourbon line :
Allert loft rights, an Austrian prince along
Is born to nod upon a Spanish throne.
A cause no less could on great Eugene call;
Sevep Alpine rocks require an Hannibal: