In types of regal power was feen :
With fair pre-eminence confeft
It triumph'd in a private breast,
And made the Princefs more than Queen,
O Phœbus! would thy godhead not refuse
This humble incenfe, on thy altar laid;
Would thy propitious ear attend the Mufe,
That fuppliant now invokes thy certain aid;
With Mantuan force I'd mount a ftronger gale,
And fing the parent of her land, who strove
T'exceed the transports of her people's zeal,
With acts of mercy, and majestic love;
By fate, to fix Britannia's empire, given
The guardian power of earth, and public care of heaven.
Then, Churchill, fhould the Muse record
The conquefts by thy sword atchiev'd ;
Quiet to Belgian states restor'd,
And Auftrian crowns by thee retriev'd.
Imperious Leopold confefs'd
His hoary majesty distress'd;
To arms, to arms, Bavaria calls,
Nor with lefs terror fhook his throne
Than when the rifing crefcent fhone
Malignant o'er his fhatter'd walls.
The warrior led the Britons forth On foreign fields to dare their fate Diftinguifh'd fouls of fhining worth, In war unknowing to retreat :
Thou, Phœbus, faw'ft the hero's face,
When Mars had breath'd a purple grace,
And mighty fury fill'd his breast :
How like tayfelf, when to destroy
The Greeks thou didst thy darts employ,
Fierce with thy golden quiver drest !
Sudden, whilft banish'd from his native land, Red with difhoneft wounds Bavaria mourn'd, The Chief, at Gloriana's high command, Like a rouz'd lion to the Maes return'd; With vengeful speed the British fword he drew, Unus'd to grieve his hoft with long delay ; Whilft wing'd with fear the force of Gallia flew ; As when the morning ftar reftores the day, The wandering ghofts of twenty thousand flain Fleet fullen to the shades from Blenheim's mournful plain.
Britannia, wipe thy dusty brow,
And put the Bourbon laurels on;
To thee deliver'd nations bow,
And blefs the fpoils thy wars have won.
For thee Bellona points her fpear,
And whilst lamenting mothers fear,
On high her fignal torch difplays;
But when thy fword is fheath'd, again
Obfequious fhe receives thy chain,
And fmooths her violence of face.
Parent of arms! for ever stand
With large increase of fame rever'd,
Whilft arches to thy faving hand
On Danube's grateful banks are rear’d.
Eugene, infpir'd to war by thee,
Aufonia's weeping ftates to free,
Swift on th' imperial eagle flies;
Whilft, bleeding, from his azure bed
Th' afferted Iber lifts his head,
And fafe his Auftrian lord enjoys.
I Britannia! fix'd on foreign wars,
Guiltlefs of civil rage extend thy name :
The waves of utmoft ocean, and the ftars,
Are bounds but equal to thy fovereign's fame.
With deeper wrath thy victor lion roars,
Wide o'er the fubject world diffufing fear,
Whilft Gallia weeps her guilt, and peace implores;
So Earth, transfix'd by fierce Minerva's spear,
A gentler birth obedient did disclose;
And fudden from the wound eternal olives rofe.
When with establish'd freedom blefs'd,
The globe to great Alcides bow'd,
Whofe happy power reliev'd th' opprefs'd
From lawless chains, and check'd the proud;
Mature in fame, the grateful gods
Receiv'd him to their bright abodes :
Where Hebe crown'd his blooming joys;
Garlands the willing Mufes wove,
And each with emulation ftrove
T'adorn the Churchill of the skies.
For Albion's Chief, ye facred Nine!
Your harps with generous ardour string,
With Fame's immortal trumpet join,
And fafe beneath his laurel fing:
When clad in vines the Seine fhall glide,
And duteous in a smoother tide
To British Seas her tribute yield;
Wakeful at Honour's fhrine attend,
And long with living beams defend
From night, the warrior's votive shield.
And, Woodstock, let his dome exalt thy fame,
Great o'er thy Norman ruins be restor❜d;
Thou that with pride doft Edward's cradle claim,
Receive an equal hero for thy lord :
Whilft every column to record their toils
Eternal monuments of conqueft wears,
And all thy walls are dress'd with mingled spoils,
Gather'd on fam'd Ramillia and Poitiers,
High on thy tower the grateful flag display,
Due to thy Queen's reward, and Blenheim's glorious day.
Lamenting the Death of the late
SK not the cause why all the tuneful swains,
Who us'd to fill the vales with tender strains,
In deep despair neglect the warbling reed,
And all their bleating flocks refufe to feed.
Afk not why greens and flowers fo late
appear
To cloath the glebe, and deck the fpringing year;
Why founds the lawn with loud laments and cries,
And fwoln with tears to floods the rivulets rife :
The fair Florelio now has left the plain,
And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British swain.
For thee, lov'd youth! on every vale and lawn,
The nymphs and all thy fellow-flepherds mean.
The little birds now ceafe to fing and love,
Silent they fit, and droop on every grove :
No mounting lark now warbles on the wing,
Nor linnets chirp to chear the fullen spring:
Only the melancholy turtles coo,
And Philomel by night repeats her woe.
O, charmer of the fhades! the tale prolong,
Nor let the morning interrupt thy fong:
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