Against her prelates plead the church's cause,
And from our judges vindicate the laws.

Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms loft
A crown, though late, thy facred brows may boast;
Heaven feems through us thy empire to decree;
Those who win hearts, have given their hearts to thee.
Haft thou not heard that when, profusely gay,
Our well-drest rivals grac'd their fovereign's day,
We stubborn damfels met the public view
In lothfome wormwood, and repenting rue?
What Whig but trembled, when our spotlefs band
In virgin roses whiten'd half the land!
Who can forget what fears the foe poffeft,

When oaken-boughs mark'd every loyal breast!
Less scar'd than Medway's stream the Norman stood,
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
Till, near at hand, a gleam of fwords betray'd
The youth of Kent beneath its wandering shade?
Those who the fuccours of the fair despise,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
Thy female bards, O prince by fortune croft,
At least more courage than thy men can boast:
Our fex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet,
And purchas'd fame in many a well-fought street.
From Drury-Lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the town,
Fair patriots fallying oft have put to flight
With all their poles the guardians of the night,
And bore, with fcreams of triumph, to their fide
The leader's staff in all its painted pride..

Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
To vend the discontented statesman's thought,
Though red with ftripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore fmitten for the love of facred fong,
The tuneful fifters ftill purfue their trade,
Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.

Meanwhile, regardless of the royal caufe,
His fword for James no brother fovereign draws.
The Pope himself, furrounded with alarms,
To France his bulls, to Corfu fends his arms,
And though he hears his darling fon's complaint,
Can hardly fpare one tutelary faint,

But lifts them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready money coins his gods.
The dauntless Swede, purfued by vengeful foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary fnows;
Nor muft the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feafts regale our garter'd youth again.
Safe, Bar-le-Duc, within thy filent grove
The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove:
The knight, who aims unerring from afar,
Th' adventurous knight, now quits the fylvan war:
Thy brinded boars may lumber undismay'd,
Or grunt fecure beneath the chefnut shade.
Inconftant Orleans (ftill we mourn the day
That trufted Orleans with imperial fway,)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,
Far from the call of his defponding friends.

Such

Such are the terms, to gain Britannia's grace!
And fuch the terrors of the Brunfwick race!

Was it for this the fun's whole luftre fail'd,
And fudden midnight o'er the moon prevail'd!
For this did heaven difplay to mortal eyes

Aërial knights and combats in the skies!

Was it for this Northumbrian ftreams look'd red!
And Thames driv'n backward fhow'd his fecret bed!
False auguries! th' insulting victor's scorn!
Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn!
O portents conftrued on our fide in vain!
Let never Tory truft eclipse again!

Run clear, ye fountains be at peace, ye skies!
And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise !
To Rome then must the royal wanderer go,
And fall a fuppliant at the papal toe?
His life in floth inglorious must he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in prayer?
His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease,
The profier'd purple and the hat may please.
Shall he, whofe ancient patriarchal race
To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace,
In folemn conclave fit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trufty vote!
Be fummon'd to his ftall in time of need,
And with his cafting fuffrage fix a creed!
Shall he in robes on stated days appear,

And English heretics curse once a year!
Garnet and Faux thall he with prayers invoke,

And beg that Smithfield piles once more may fmoke!

Forbid it, heaven! my foul, to fury wrought,
Turns almoft Hanoverian at the thought.

From James and Rome I feel my heart decline,
And fear, O Brunfwick, 'twill be wholly thine;
Yet ftill his fhare thy rival will contest,

And fill the double claim divides my breaft.
The fate of James with pitying eyes I view,
And with my homage were not Brunswick's due:
To James my paffion and my weakness guide,
But reafon fways me to the victor's fide.
Though griev'd I speak it, let the truth appear!
You know my language, and my heart, sincere.
In vain did falsehood his fair frame difgrace;
What force had falfehood, when he show'd his face!
In vain to war our boastful clans were led ;

Heaps driv'n on heaps', in the dire fhock they fled :
France fhuns his wrath, nor raises to our fhame
A fecond Dunkirk in another name :

In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows:
Spite of feign'd fears and artificial cries,

The pious town fees fifty churches rife :
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And fits more firmly on his thaken throne.

Το my fad thought no beam of hope appears
Through the long profpect of fucceeding years.
The fon, afpiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his fire: another and the fame.
He, bleft in lovely Carolina's arms,
To future ages propagates her charms :

With pain and joy at strife, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face
Half fickening at the fight, too well I spy
The father's spirit through the mother's eye:
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And ftrive to hate their innocence in vain.
O princess! happy by thy foes confest!
Bleft in thy husband! in thy children blest !
As they from thee, from them new beauties born,
While Europe lasts, shall Europe's thrones adorn.
Transplanted to each court, in times to come,
Thy fmile celeftial and unfading bloom,
Great Auftria's fons with fofter lines fhall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race,
The fair defcendants of thy facred bed,
Wide-branching o'er the western world shall spread,
Like the fam'd Banian tree, whofe pliant shoot
To earthward bending of itself takes root,
Till, like their mother plant, ten thousand stand
In verdant arches on the fertile land;

Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove,

Or hunt, at large, through the wide echoing grove.
O thou, to whom thefe mournful lines I fend,
My promis'd husband, and my dearest friend;
Since heaven appoints this favour'd race to reign,
And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain;
Muft I be wretched, and thy flight partake?
Or wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's fake,
Tir'd out at length, fubmit to fate's decree?
If not to Brunswick, O return to me!