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Was it for this the sun's whole luftre faild,
And sudden midnight o'er the noon prevaild!
For this did heav'n 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!
False auguries ! th’ insulting victors scorn!
Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn!
O portents constru'd on our side 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 wand'rer go,
And fall a suppliant at the papal toe?
His life in sloth inglorious must he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in pray’r?'
His mind 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 sit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trusty vote !
Be summon’d to his stall 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 shall he with pray’rs invoke,
And beg that Smithfield piles once more may smoak !
Forbid it heav'n! 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 still his share thy rival will contest,
And still the double claim divides my breast:
The fate of James with pitying eyes I view,
And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due;
To James my passions 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, sincere.)
In vain did falfhood his fair fame disgrace;
What force had fallhood, when he show'd his face !
In vain to war our boastful clans were led ;
Heaps driven 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 Aows :
Spite of feign’d fears, and artificial cries,
The pious town sees fifty churches rise :
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And sits more firmly on his shaken throne.
To my sad thought no beam of hope appears
Through the long prospect of succeeding years ;
The fon, aspiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his fire: another and the same.
He blest 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 sick’ning at the sight, too well I spie
The father's spirit through the mother's eye:
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And strive to hate their innocence in vain.
O princess ! happy by thy foes confess’d!
Blest in thy husband! in thy children bleft!
As they from thee, from them new beauties born,
While Europe lafts, shall Europe's thrones adorn.
Transplanted to each court, in times to come,
Thy smile celestial and un-fading bloom
Great Austria's fons with softer lines ihall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race.
The fair descendents of thy facred bed
Wide-branching o'er the western world shall spread,
Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose 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 these mournful lines I fend,
My promis'd husband, and my dearest friend;
Since heav'n appoints this favour'd race to reign,
And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain;
Must I be wretched, and thy flight partake?
Or wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's Take,
Tir'd out at length, submit to Fate's decree?
If not to Brunswick, O return to me!
Prostrate before the victor's mercy bend :
Wnat spares whole thousands, may to thee extend.
Should blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blame,
Great Brunswick's virtues will secure thy fame:
Say, these invite thee to approach his throne,
And own the monarch heav'n vouchsafes to own.
The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve;
Say this to Them; but swear to Me 'twas love.
HAT can the British fenate give,
To make the name of Anna live,
By future people to be sung,
The labour of each grateful tongue ?
Can faithful registers, or rhyme,
In charming eloquence, or sprightly wit,
The wonders of her reign transmit
To th' unborn children of succeeding time?
Can painters' oil, or statuaries' art,
Eternity to her impart?
No! titled statues are but empty things,
Inscrib'd to royal vanity,