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Heaven to our vows may future kingdoms owe,
But skill and courage win the crowns below.

Ere to thy cause, and thee, my heart inclin'd,
Or love to party had seduc'd my mind,
In female joys I took a dull delight,
Slept all the morn, and punted half the night:
But now, with fears and public cares poffeft,
The church, the church, for ever breaks


The postboy on my pillow I explore,
And sift the news of every foreign fhore,
Studious to find new friends, and new allies;
What armies march from Sweden in disguise ;
How Spain prepares her banners to unfold,
And Rome deals out her blessings, and her gold:
Then o'er the map my finger, taught to stray,
Cross many a region marks the winding way;
From sea to sea, from realm to realm I rove,
And grow a meer geographer by love :
But still Avignon, and the pleasing coast
That holds thee banith'd, claims my care the most :
Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes,
And span the distance that between us lies.

Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair,
Whilft on his side he reckons half the fair :
In Britain's lovely ifle a shining throng
War in his cause, a thousand beauties strong.
Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their powers ;
Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours.
We reason with such Auency and fire,
The beaux we baffle, and the learned tire,


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 sacred brows may boast;
Heaven seems through us thy empire to decree;
Those who win hearts, have given their hearts to theco

Hast thou not heard that when, profusely gay,
Our well-drest rivals grac'd their sovereign's day,
We stubborn damsels met the public view
In lothsome wormwood, and repenting rue ?
What Whig but trembled, when our spotless 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 swords betray'd
The youth of Kent beneath its wandering fhade?

Those who the succours of the fair despise,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
Thy female bards, O prince by fortune crost,
At least more courage than thy men can boast :
Our sex 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 screams of triumph, to their side
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 stripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
The tuneful fifters still pursue 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 cause,
His sword for James no brother sovereign draws.
The Pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms,
And though he hears his darling son's complaint,
Can hardly spare one tutelary saint,
But lists them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready, money coins his gods.
The dauptless Swede, pursued by vengeful foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary fnows;
Nor mult the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feasts regale our garter'd youth again.
Safe, Bar-le-Duc, within thy silent grove
The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove:
The knight, who aims unerring from afar,
Th’adventurous knight, now quits the sylvan war
Thy brinded boars may sumber undismay'd,
Or grunt secure beneath the chesnut shade.
Inconstant Orleans (still we mourn the day
That trusted Orleans with imperial sway,)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,
Far from the call of his desponding friends,


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

Was it for this the sun's whole lustre fail'd,
And sudden midnight o'er the moon prevaild!
For this did heaven display to mortal eyes
Aërial knights and combats in the skies !
Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red!
And Thames driv'n backward show'd his secret bed t
False auguries ! th' insulting victor's scorn!
Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn!
O portents construed on our fide in vain !
Let never Tory trust 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 suppliant at the papal toe?
His life in sloth inglorious must he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in prayer?
His niind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease,
The proffer'd purple and the hat may please.
Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race
To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace,
In solemn conclave fit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trusty vote!
Be summon'd to his ftall in time of need,
And with his casting suffrage 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




Forbid it, heaven! my soul, to fury wrought,
Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought.

From James and Rome I feel my heart decline,
And fear, o Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine ;
Yet ftill his share thy rival will contest,
And still the double claim divides


The fate of James with pitying eyes I view,
And with my homage were not Brunswick's due:
Tó James my passion and my weakness guide,
But reason fways me to the victor's side.
Though griev'd I speak it, let the truth appear !
You know my language, and my heart, fincere.
In vain did falsehood his fair frame disgrace;
What force had falsehood, when he show'd his face!
In vain to war our boastful clans were led;
Heaps driv'n on heaps, in the dire shock they fled:
France shuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame
A second 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 sees fifty churches rise :
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And fits more firmly on his lhaken throne.

fad thought no beam of hope appears.
Through the long prospect of succeeding years.
The son, aspiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his fire : another and the fame.
He, blest in lovely Carolina's arms,
To future ages propagates her charms :

To my

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