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Whose cause the audience with applause will crown, And make his triumphs or his tears their own :

Throw by the bolå design; and paint no more Imagin'd chiefs, and monarchs of an hour; From sabled worthies, call thy Muse to sing Of real wonders, and Britannia's king.

Oh! hadst thou seen him, when the gathering trair Fill’d up proud Sarum's wide-extended plain! Then, when he stoop'd from awful majesty, Put on the man, and laid the sovereign by; When the glad nations saw their king appear, Begirt with armies, and the pride of war; More pleas’d his people's longing eyes to bless, He look'd, and breath'd benevolence and peace : When in his hand Britannia's awful Lord, Held forth the olive, while he grasp'd the sword. So Jove, though arm’d to blast the Titan's pride, With all his burning thunders at his side, Fram'd, while he terrify'd the distant foe, His scheme of blessings for the world below. This hadst thou seen, thy willing Muse would raise Her strongest wing, to reach her sovereign's praise. To what bold heights our daring hopes may climb ? The theme so great! the Poet so sublime ! I saw him, Young, and to these ravih'd eyes, Ev’n now his godlike figure seems to rise : Mild, yet inajestic, was the monarch's mein, Lovely though great, and awful though terene. (More than a coin or picture can unfold; Too faint the colours, and too base the gold !)



At the bleft fight, transported and amaz'd,
One universal shout the thousands rais'd,
And crowds on crowds grew loyal as they gaz'd.
His foes (if any) own'd the monarch's cause,
And chang’d their groundless clamours to applause;
Ev’n giddy Faction baild the glorious day,
And won

ring Envy look'd her rage away.
As Ceres o'er the globe her chariot drew,
And harvests ripen’d where the goddess fiew;
So, where his gracious footsteps he inclinod,
Peace flew before, and plenty march'd behind.
Where wild affliction rages, he

To wipe the widow's and the orphan's tears :
The sons of misery before hiin bow,
And for their merit only plead their woe.
So well lie loves the public liberty,
His mercy fets the private captive free.
Soon as our royal angel came in view,
The prisons burst, the starting hinges few;
The dungeons open’d, and resign'd their prey,
To joy, to life, to freedom, and the day :
The chains drop off; the grateful captives rear
Their hands unmanacled in praise and prayer.
Had thus vi&torious Cæfar fought to please,
And rul't the vanquish'd world with arts like these ;
The generous Brutus had not scorn'd to bend,
But funk the rigid patriot in the friend ;
Nor to that bold excess of virtue ran,
To stab the monarch, where he lov'd the man.


And Cato, reconcil'd, had ne'er disdain'd
To live a subject, where a Brunswick reign'd.
But I detain your nobler Muse too long,
From the great theme, that mocks my humble song,
A theme that alks a Virgil, or a Young.


On the approaching Delivery of Her Royal

Highness, in the Year 1721.



E angels, come without delay ;

Britannia's genius, come away.
Descend, ye fpirits of the sky;
Stand, all ye winged guardians, by ;
Your golden pinions kindly spread,
And watch round Carolina's bed:
Here fix your residence on earth,
To hasten on the glorious birth ;
Her fainting spirits to supply,
Catch all the Zephyrs as they fly.
Oh! succour nature in the strife,
And gently hold her up in life;
Nor let her hence too soon remove,
To join your sacred choirs above :
But live, Britannia to adorn
With kings and princes yet unborn.

Ye angels, come without delay ;
Britannia’s genius, cone away.


Assuage her pains, and Albion's fears,
For Albion's life depends on her's.
Oh then! to save her from despair,
Lean down, and listen to her prayer.
Crown all her tortures with delight,
And call th’auspicious babe to light.
We hope from your propitious care,
All that is brave, or all that's fair.
A youth, to match his fire in arms;
Or nymph, to match her mother's charms :
A youth, who over kings shall reign,
Or nymph, whoin kings shall court in vain.
From far the royal llaves shall come,
And wait from him or her their doom ;
To each their different suits shall move,
And pay their homage, or their love.

Ye angels, come without delay;

Britannia's genius, come away.
When the soft powers of fleep subdue
Those eyes, that shine as bright as you ;
With scenes of bliss, transporting themes !
Prompt and inspire her golden dreams :
Let visionary blessings rife,
And swim before her closing eyes.
The sense of torture to subdue,
Set Britain's happiness to view ;
That tight her fpirits will sustain,
And give her pleasure froin her pain.

Ye angels, come without delay ;
Britannia's genius, come away.


feature run,

Come, and rejoice; th' important hour
Is past, and all our fears are o'er :
See! every trace of anguish flies,
While in her lap the infant lies,
Her pain by sudden joy beguil'd,
She hangs in rapture o'er the child,

The father's beauties and her own.
There, pleas'd her image to survey,
She melts in tenderness away;
Smiles o'er the babe, nor smiles in vain,
The babe returns th' auspicious smile again.

Ye angels, come without delay ;

Britannia's genius, come away.
Turn heaven's eternal volume o'er,
And look for this distinguish'd hour ;
Consult the page of Britain's state,
Before you close the books of fate :
Then tell us what you there have seen,
What æra's from this birth begin.

from this blest hour must run,
As bright and lasting as the sun.
Far from the ken of mortal fight,
These secrets are involv'd in night:
The blessings which this birth pursue,
Are only known to heaven and you.


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