With joyful pride, Britannia's blameless boast.
Ah! who is he, that with a fonder eye
Meets thine enraptur'd?-Tis the best of sons !
The beft of friends !-Too foon is realiz'd
That hope, which once forbad thy tears to flow!
Meanwhile the kindred fouls of every land,
(Howe'er divided in the fretful days
Of prejudice and error) mingled now,
In one felected never-jarring ftate,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, fuch the fense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,
And for our lofs, they drop a pitying tear.
But ceafe, prefumptuous Mufe, nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy fphere that binds thee down:
'Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes,
Scenes, that our grofs ideas groveling cast
Behind, and strike our boldeft language dumb.
Forgive, immortal fhade! if aught from earth,
From duft low-warbled, to thofe groves can rife,
Where flows celeftial harmony, forgive
This fond fuperfluous verfe. With deep-felt voice,
On every heart impress'd, thy deeds themselves
Atteft thy praife. Thy praise the widow's fighs,
And orphan's tears embalm. The good, the bad,
The fons of justice and the sons of strife,
All who or freedom or who interest prize,
A deep-divided nation's parties all,
Confpire to fwell thy fpotlefs praise to heaven.
Glad heaven receives it, and feraphic lyres
With fongs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires.
The Mufe, befides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestess, gives it her, to hymn,
Whatever good and excellent she forms.
POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
THE PRINCE OF WALES.
WHILE fecret-leaguing nations frown around,
Ready to pour the long-expected storm;
While She, who wont the reftlefs Gaul to bound,
Britannia, drooping, grows an empty form;
While on our vitals selfish parties prey,
And deep corruption eats our foul away :
Yet in the Goddess of the Main appears
A gleam of joy gay-flushing every grace,
As fhe the cordial voice of millions hears,
Rejoicing, zealous, o'er thy rifing race: Strait her rekindling eyes refume their fire, The Virtues fmile, the Mufes tune the lyre.
But more enchanting than the Mufe's song,
United Britons thy dear Offspring hail :
The city triumphs through her glowing throng;
The shepherd tells his transport to the dale;
The fons of roughest toil forget their pain,
And the glad failor chears the midnight main.
Can aught from fair Augufta's gentle blood,
And thine, thou friend of liberty! be born
Can aught fave what is lovely, generous, good;
What will, at once, defend us, and adorn?
From thence prophetic joy new Edwards eyes,
New Henrys, Annas, and Elizas rife.
May fate my fond devoted days extend,
To fing the promis'd glories of thy reign! What though, by years depress'd, my Muse might bend; My heart will teach her still a nobler ftrain : How, with recover'd Britain, will fhe foar, When France infults, and Spain shall rob no more.
VERSES occafioned by the Death of Mr. AIKMAN, a particular Friend of the Author's.
S those we love decay, we die in part,
String after ftring is fever'd from the heart;
Till loofen'd life, at last, but breathing clay,
Without one pang is glad to fall away.
Unhappy he, who latest feels the blow,
Whofe eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low,
Dragg'd lingering on from partial death to death,
Till, dying, all he can refign is breath.
ELL me, thou foul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?
Or doft thou, free, at pleasure, roam,
And fometimes share thy lover's woe;
Where, void of thee, his chearless home
alas! no comfort know?
Oh! if thou hover'ft round
While, under every well-known tree,
I to thy fancy'd shadow talk,
And every tear is full of thee;
Should then the weary eye of grief,
Befide fome fympathetic stream,
In flumber find a short relief,
Oh, vifit thou my foothing dream!
EPITAPH on MISS STANLEY, *
In Holyrood Church, Southampton.
Once a lively image of human nature,
Such as GOD made it
When he pronounced every work of his to be good.
To the memory of Elizabeth Stanley,
Daughter of George and Sarah Stanley;
Who, to all the beauty, modefty,
And gentleness of nature,
That ever adorned the most amiable woman,
Joined all the fortitude, elevation,
And vigour of mind,
That ever exalted the most heroical man;
Who having lived the pride and delight of her parents,
The joy, the confolation, and pattern of her friends,
A mistress not only of the English and French,
But in a high degree of the Greek and Roman learning,
Without vanity or pedantry,
At the age of eighteen,
After a tedious, painful, defperate illness,
Which, with a Roman fpirit,
And a Chriftian refignation,
She endured fo calmly, that the feemed infenfible To all pain and fuffering, except that of her friends, Gave up her innocent foul to her Creator, And left to her mother, who erected this monument,
* See what is faid of this lady in "Summer.”
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