Let the fteel'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;
O'er wafted kingdoms spread his wide command,
The favage lord of an unpeopled land.
Her guiltless glory juft Britannia draws
From pure religion, and impartial laws,
To Europe's wounds a mother's aid fhe brings,
And holds in equal fcales the rival kings:
Her gen'rous fons in choiceft gifts abound,
Alike in arms, alike in arts renown'd.
As when sweet Venus (so the fable fings)
Awak'd by Nereids, from the Ocean springs;
With fmiles fhe fees the threat'ning billows rise,
Spreads fmooth the furge, and clears the louring skies;
Light, o'er the deep, with flutt'ring Cupids crown'd,
The pearly couch and filver turtles bound;
Her treffes fhed ambrofial odours round,
Amidft the world of waves so stands ferene
Britannia's ifle, the Ocean's stately queen;
In vain the nations have conspir'd her fall,
Her trench the fea, and fleets her floating wall;
Defenceless barks, her pow'rful navy near,
Have only waves and hurricanes to fear.
What bold invader, or what land opprefs'd
Hath not her anger quell'd, her aid redress'd?
Say, where have e'er her union-croffes fail'd,
But much her arms, her juftice more prevail'd ?
Her labours are to plead th' Almighty's cause,
Her pride to teach th' untam'd barbarian laws :
Who conquers, wins by brutal ftrength the prize;
But 'tis a godlike work to civilize.
Have we forgot how from great Ruffia's throne,
The king, whose pow'r half Europe's regions own,
Whose scepter waving, with one shout rush forth
In fwarms the harness'd millions of the north;
Through realms of ice purfu'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 fpread the learned ftore,
{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 Cafpian gulphs unusual navies bear;
With Runic lays Smolensko's forests ring,
And wond'ring Volga hears the muses fing.
Did not the painted kings of India greet
Our Queen, and lay their scepters at her feet?
Chiefs who full bowls of hoftile blood had quaff'd,
Fam'd for the javelin, and invenom'd shaft;
Whose haughty brows made favages adore,
Nor bow'd to lefs than stars, or fun before:
Her pitying smile accepts their fuppliant claim,
And adds four monarchs to the Christian name.
Bleft ufe of pow'r! O virtuous pride in kings!
And like his bounty, whence dominion fprings!
Which o'er new worlds make 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 fecurely o'er the boundless main.
Now o'er his head the polar bear he fpies,
And freezing fpangles of the Lapland fkies;
Now fwells his canvas to the fultry line,
With glitt'ring spoils where Indian grottoes shine;
Where fumes of incenfe glad the southern feas,
And wafted citron fcents the balmy breeze.
Here nearer funs prepare the rip'ning gem,
To grace great ANNE's imperial diadem ;
And here the ore, whose melted mafs fhall yield
On faithful coins each memorable field;
Which, mix'd with medals of immortal Rome,
May clear difputes, and teach the times to come.
In circling beams fhall godlike ANna glow,
And Churchill's fword hang o'er the proftrate foe;
In comely wounds fhall bleeding worthies ftand,
Webb's firm plattoon, and Lumly's faithful band!
Bold Mordaunt in Iberian trophies drefs'd,
And Campbell's dragon on his dauntless breaft;
Great Ormond's deeds on Vigo's spoils enroll'd,
And Guifcard's knife on Harley's Chili gold.
And if the mufe, O Bristol, might decree,
Here Granville noted by the lyre fhould be,
The lyre for Granville, and the cross for thee.
Such are the honours grateful Britain pays,
So patriots merit, and fo monarchs praise.
O'er distant times fuch records fhall prevail,
When English numbers, antiquated, fail:
A trifling fong the mufe can only yield,
And footh her foldiers panting from the field;
To sweet retirements fee 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 mufe, and softly touch the string:
Here Henry lov'd; and Chaucer learn'd to fing.
Hail fabled grotto! hail Elyfian foil!
Thou fairest spot of fair Britannia's isle!
Where kings of old conceal'd forgot the throne,
And beauty was content to fhine 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 foft alcoves,
The nobleft boaft of thy romantick groves.
Oft, if the mufe 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 fav'rite found.
Here, here at least thy love for arms give o'er,
Nor, one world conquer'd, fondly wish for more.
Vice of great fouls alone! O thirst of fame!
The mufe admires it, while fhe ftrives to blame;
Thy toils be now to chace the bounding deer,
Or view the courfers ftretch in wild career;
This lovely scene fhall footh thy foul to reft,
And wear each dreadful image from thy breast ;
With pleasure, by thy conquefts fhalt thou fee
Thy Queen triumphant, and all Europe free;
No cares henceforth fhall thy repofe destroy,
But what thou giv'ft the world, thy felf enjoy.
Sweet folitude! when life's gay hours are past,
Howe'er we range, in thee we fix at laft;
Tofs'd through tempeftuous feas (the voyage o'er)
Pale we look back, and bless the friendly fhore.
Our own ftrict judges, our past life we scan,
And ask if glory hath enlarg'd the span;
If bright the profpect, we the grave defy,
Truft future ages, and contented die.
When strangers from far-diftant climes fhall come,
To view the pomp of this triumphant dome;
Where rear'd aloft diffembled trophies stand,
And breathing labours of the fculptor's hand,
Where Kneller's art fhall paint the flying Gaul,
And Bourbon's woes fhall fill the story'd wall;
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