TO THE LORD PRIVY SEAL. CONTENDING kings and fields of death too long And warring powers in friendly leagues combin'd, Well sends our queen her mitred Bristol forth, For early councils fam'd and long-tried worth, Who thirty rolling years had oft withheld The Swede and Saxon from the dusty field, Completely form'd to heal the Christian wounds, To name the kings, and give each kingdom bounds, The face of ravag'd Nature to repair, By leagues to soften earth, and Heav'n by pray'r; To gain by love where rage and slaughter fail, And make the crosier o'er the sword prevail. So when great Moses with Jehovah's wand Had scatter'd plagues o'er stubborn Pharoah's land, Now spread an host of locusts round the shore, Now turn'd Nile's fattening streams to putrid gore, Plenty and gladness mark'd the priest of God, And sudden almonds shot from Aaron's rod. O Thou! from whom these bounteous blessings flow, To whom, as chief, the hopes of Peace we owe, Completely form'd to heal the Christian wounds, To name the kings, and give each kingdom bounds, The face of ravag'd Nature to repair, By leagues to soften earth, and Heav'n by pray'r ; To gain by love where rage and slaughter fail, And make the crosier o'er the sword prevail. So when great Moses with Jehovah's wand Had scatter'd plagues o'er stubborn Pharoah's land, Now spread an host of locusts round the shore, Now turn'd Nile's fattening streams to putrid gore, Plenty and gladness mark'd the priest of God, And sudden almonds shot from Aaron's rod. O Thou! from whom these bounteous blessings flow, To whom, as chief, the hopes of Peace we owe, ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE. THE haughty Gaul in ten campaigns o'erthrown Now ceas'd to think the western world his own. Oft had he mourn'd his boasting leaders bound, And his proud bulwarks smoking on the ground. In vain with powers renew'd he fill'd the plain, Made timorous vows, and brib'd the saints in vain; As oft his legions did the fight decline, Lurk'd in the trench, and skulk'd behind the line. Before his eyes the fancied javelin gleams, At feasts he starts, and seems dethron'd in dreams; On glory past reflects with secret pain, On mines exhausted, and on millions slain. To Britain's queen the sceptred suppliant bends, At her decree the war suspended stands, |