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Let grim Bellona haunt the lawless plain,
Where Tartar-clans and grifly Coffacks reigns ;
Let the steel'd Turk be deaf to matrons' cries,
See virgins ravish'd with relentless eyes ;
To death grey heads and smiling infants doom,
Nor spare the promise of the pregnant womb;
Q'er wasted kingdoms spread his wide command,
The favage lord of an unpeopled land,

Her guiltless glory just Britannia draws
From pure religion, and impartial laws :
To Europe's wounds a mother's aid she brings,
And holds in equal scales the rival kings :
Her gen'rous fons in choicest gifts abound,
Alike in arms, alike in arts renown'd,

As when fweet Venus, (so the fable fings)
Awak’d by Nereids from the Ocean springs ;
With smiles the fees the threat'ning billows rise,
Spreads smooth the surge, and clears the louring fkies ;
Light, o'er the deep, with flutt'ring Cupids crown'd,
The pearly couch and silver turtles bound;
Her treffes fhed ambrofial odours round.

Amidst the world of waves fo stands ferene
Britannia's ifle, the Ocean's stately queen ;
In vain the nations have confpird her fall,
Her trench the sea, and fleets her floating wall ,
Defenceless barks, her powerful navy near,
Have only waves and hurricanes to fear,



What bold invader, or what land oppress'd
Hath not her anger quell'd, her aid redress'd?
Say, where have e'er her union-croffes fail'a,
But much 'her arms, her justice more prevaild?
Her labours áré to plead th' Almighty's cause,
Her pride to teach th' untam'd barbarian laws :
Who conquers, wins by brutal strength the prize ;
But 'tis a godlike work to civilize.

Have we forgot how from great Raffia's throne,
The king, whose pow'r half Europe's regions own,
Whose scepter waving, with one shout rush forth
In swarms the harness'd millions of the north ;
Through realms of ice pursu'd his tedious way,
To court our friendship, and our fame survey!
Hence the rich prize of useful arts he bore,
And round his empire spread the learned fore,
(T'adorn old realms is more than new to raise,
His country's parent is a monarch's praise.)
His bands now march in just array to war,
And Caspian gulphs unusual naviệs bear;
With Runic lays Smolensko's forests ring,
And wond'ring Volga hears the mufes fing,
Did not the painted kings of India greet
Our Queen, and lay their scepters at her feet?
Chiefs who full bowls of hostile blood had quaff’d,
Fam'd for the javelin, and invenom'd shaft;
Whose haughty brows made favages adore,
Nor bow'd to less than ftars, or fun before :


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Her pitying smile accepts their suppliant claim,
And adds four monarchs to the Chriftian name.

Bleft use of pow'r! O virtuous pride in kings!
And like his bounty, whence dominion springs!
Which o'er new worlds makes heaven's indulgence shine,
And ranges myriads under laws divine !
Well bought with all that those sweet regions hold,
With groves of spices, and with mines of gold.

Fearless our merchant now pursues his gain,
And roams securely o’er the boundless main.
Now o'er his head the polar bear he spies,
And freezing spangles of the Lapland skies;
Now swells his canvas to the sultry line,
With glitt'ring spoils where Indian grottoes shine ;
Where fumes of incense glad the southern seas,
And wafted citron scents the balmy breeze.
Here nearer funs prepare the rip’ning gem,
To grace great Anne's imperial diadem ;
And here the ore, whose melted mass shall yield
On faithful coins each memorable field;
Which mix'd with medals of immortal Rome,
May clear disputes, and teach the time to come.

In circling beams Thall godlike Anna glow,
And Churchill's sword hang o'er the prostrate foe;
In comely wounds shall bleeding worthies ftand,
Webb's firm platoon, and Lumly's faithful band !
Bold Mordaunt in Iberian trophies dress'd,
And Campbell's dragon on his dauntless breast;


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Great Ormond's deeds on Vigo's spoils enroll'd,
And Guiscard's knife on Harley's Chili gold.
And if the muse, O BRISTOL, might decree,
Here Granville noted by the lyre should be,
The lyre for Granville, and the cross for thee.

Such are the honours grateful Britain pays,
So patriots merit, and so monarchs praise.
O'er diftant times such records shall prevail,
When English numbers, antiquated, fail :
A trilling fong the mufe can only yield,
And footh her foldiers panting from the field;
To sweet retirements see them fafe convey'd,
And raise their battles in the rural shade.
From fields of death to Woodstock's peaceful glooms
(The poet's haunt) Britannia's hero comes
Begin, my muse, and softly touch the string :
Here Henry lov'd ; and Chaucer learn'd to fing.
Hail fabled grotto ! hail Elyfian foil ;
Thou faireft spot of fair Britannia's ifle !
Where kings of old conceal'd forgot the throne,
And beauty was content to shine unknown;
Where love and war by turns pavilions rear,
And Henry's bow'rs near Blenheim's dome appear;
The weary'd champion lull in soft alcoves,
The noblest boast of thy romantic groves.
Oft, if the muse presage, shall he be seen
By Rosamonda fleeting o'er the green,

In dreams be hail'd by heroes' mighty shades,
And hear old Chaucer warble through the glades:
O'er the fam'd echoing vaults his name shall bound,
And hill to hill reflect the favourite found.

Here, here at least thy love for arms give o'ery
Nor, one world conquer'd, fondly with for more.
Vice of great fouls alone ! O thirst of fame!
The muse admires it, while she strives to blame
Thy toils be now to chase the bounding deer,
Or view the coursers stretch in wild career;
This lovely scene shall footh thy soul to rest,
And wear each dreadful image from thy breaft }
With pleasure, by thy conquests shalt thou see
Thy Queen triumphant, and all Europe free;
No cares henceforth fhall thy repose destroy,
But what thou giv'ft the world, thyself enjoy.

Sweet solitude ! when life's gay hours are past,
Howe'er we range, in thee we fix at last ;
Toss'd through tempestuous seas (the voyage o'er)
Pale we look back, and bless the friendly fhore,
Our own strict judges, our past life we fcan,
And ask if glory hath enlarg'd the span ;
If bright the prospect, we the grave defy,
Trust future ages, and contented die.

When strangers from far-diftant climes shall come;
To view the pomp of this triumphant dome;
Where rear'd aloft diffembled trophies ftand,
And breathing labours of the sculptor's hand,


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