When strangers from far diftant climes shall come,
To view the pomp of this triumphant dome,
Where rear'd aloft dissembled trophies stand,
And breathing labours of the sculptor's hand,
Where Kneller's art shall paint the flying Gaul,
And Bourbon's woes shall fill the story'd wall;
Heirs of thy blood shall o'er their bounteous board
Fix Europe's guard, thy monumental sword,
Banners that oft have way'd on conquer'd walls,
And trumps, that drown'd the groans of gafping Gauls.
Fair dames fhall oft, with curious eye, explore
The coftly robes that flaughter'd generals`wore,
Rich trappings from the Danube's whirlpools brought,
(Hefperian nuns the gorgeous broidery wrought)
Belts ftiff with gold, the Boian horse-man's pride,
And Gaul's fair flowers, in human crimson dy'd.
Of Churchill's race perhaps fome lovely boy
Shall mark the burnish'd steel that hangs on high,
Shall gaze tranfported on its glittering charms,
And reach it ftruggling with unequal arms,
By figns the drum's tumultuous found request,
Then feek, in starts, the hushing mother's breast.
So, in the painter's animated frame,

Where Mars embraces the foft Paphian dame,
The little Loves in fport his fauchion wield,
Or join their strength to heave his ponderous shield :
One ftrokes the plume in Tityon's gore embrued,
And one the spear, that reeks with Typhon's blood:
Another's infant brows the helm sustain,

He nods his creft, and frights the fhrieking train.

Thus

Thus, the rude tempeft of the field o'er-blown, Shall whiter rounds of smiling years roll on, Our victors, bleft in peace, forget their wars, Enjoy past dangers, and abfolve the stars. But, oh! what forrows fhall bedew your urns, Ye honour'd fhades, whom widow'd Albion mourns! thin forms yet discontented moan,

If

your

And haunt the mangled manfions, once your own ;
Behold what flowers the pious Muses itrow,
And tears, which in the midst of triumph flow;
Cyprefs and bays your envy'd brows furround,
Your names the tender matron's heart fhall wound,
And the foft maid grow penfive at the found.
Accept, great Anne, the tears their memory draws,
Who nobly perish'd in their fovereign's cause :
For thou in pity bid'ft the war give o`er,
Mourn'ft thy flain heroes, nor wilt venture more.
Vaft price of blood on each victorious day!
(But Europe's freedom doth that price repay.)
Lamented triumphs! when one breath must tell
That Marlborough conquer'd, and that Dormer fell.
Great Queen! whose name strikes haughty monarchs
pale,

On whofe juft fceptre hangs Europa's fcale,
Whofe arm like mercy wounds, decides like fate,
On whofe decree the nations anxious wait:
From Albion's cliffs thy wide-extended hand
Shall o'er the main to far Peru command;
So vaft a tract whofe wide domain fhall run,
Its circling skies shall see no fetting fun.

Thee,

Thee, thee an hundred languages shall claim,
And favage Indians fwear by Anna's name;
The line and poles shall own thy rightful sway,
And thy commands the sever'd globe obey.

Round the vast ball thy new dominions chain
The watery kingdoms, and control the main ;
Magellan's ftraits to Gibraltar they join,
Acrofs the feas a formidable line;

The fight of adverse Gaul we fear no more,
But pleas'd fee Dunkirk, now a guiltless shore;
In vain great Neptune tore the narrow ground,
And meant his waters for Britannia's bound;
Her giant genius takes a mighty ftride,
And fets his foot beyond th' incroaching tide;
On either bank the land its mafter knows,
And in the midst the subject ocean flows.

So near proud Rhodes, acrofs the raging flood,
Stupendous form! the vaft Coloffus ftood,
(While at one foot their thronging gallies ride,
A whole hour's fail scarce reach'd the further fide)
Betwixt his brazen thighs, in loose array,
Ten thousand ftreamers on the billows play.
By Harley's counfels Dunkirk now restor'd
To Britain's empire, owns her ancient lord.
In him transfus'd his godlike father reigns,
Rich in the blood which swell'd that patriot's veins,
Who boldly faithful met his fovereign's frown,
And fcorn'd for gold to yield th' important town.
His fon was born the ravish'd prey to claim,
And France ftill trembles at an Harley's name.

A fort

A fort fo dreadful to our English shore,
Our fleets fcarce fear'd the fands or tempefts more,
Whose vaft expences to fuch fums amount,

That the tax'd Gaul fcarce furnish'd out th' account,
Whofe walls fuch bulwarks, fuch vaft towers restrain,
Its weakest ramparts are the rocks and main,

His boaft great Louis yields, and cheaply buys
Thy friendship, Anna, with the mighty prize.
Holland repining, and in grief cast down,
Sees the new glories of the British crown :
Ah! may they ne'er provoke thee to the fight,
Nor foes, more dreadful than the Gaul, invite.
Soon may they hold the olive, foon afswage
Their fecret murmurs, nor call forth thy rage
To rend their banks, and pour, at one command,
Thy realm, the fea, o'er their precarious land.

Henceforth be thine, vice-gerent of the skies,
Scorn'd worth to raife, and vice in robes chastife,
To dry the orphan's tears, and from the bar
Chace the brib'd judge, and hush the wordy war,
Deny the curft blasphemer's tongue to rage,
And turn God's fury from an impious age.
Bleft change! the foldier's late destroying hand
Shall rear new temples in his native land;
Mistaken zealots fhall with fear behold,
And beg admittance in our facred fold;
On her own works the pious queen shall smile,
And turn her cares upon her favourite ifle.

So the keen bolt a warrior angel aims,

Array'd in clouds, and wrapt in mantling flames;

Ho

He bears a tempeft on his founding wings,
And his red arm the forky vengeance flings;
At length, heaven's wrath appeas'd, he quits the war,
To roll his orb, and guide his destin’d star,
To fhed kind fate, and lucky hours bestow,
And fimile propitious on the world below.

Around thy throne shall faithful nobles wait,
These guard the church, and those direct the state.
To Bristol, graceful in maternal tears,

The church her towery forehead gently rears;
She begs her pious fon t' affert her cause,
Defend her rights, and reinforce her laws,
With holy zeal the facred work begin,

To bend the ftubborn, and the meek to win.

Our Oxford's earl in careful thought shall stand,
To raise his queen, and fave a finking land.
The wealthiest glebe to ravenous Spaniards known
He marks, and makes the golden world our own,
Content with hands unfoil'd to guard the prize,
And keep the store with undefiring eyes.

So round the tree, that bore Hefperian gold,
The facred watch lay curl'd in many a fold,
His eyes up-rearing to th' untafted prey,
The fleepless guardian wafted life away.
Beneath the peaceful olives, rais'd by you,
Her ancient pride shall every art renew,
(The arts with you fam'd Harcourt fhall defend,
And courtly Bolingbroke the Mufe's friend.)
With piercing eye fome fearch where nature plays,
And trace the wanton through her darksome maze,

Whence