Rejoic'd the metal to refine,

And ripen'd the Peruvian mine.

Thou, Kneller! Iong with noble pride,
The foremost of thy art, haft vy'd
With Nature in a gen'rous ftrife,
And touch'd the canvafs into life:

Thy pencil has, by monarchs fought,
From reign to reign in ermine wrought,
And, in the robes of state array'd,

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The kings of half an age difplay'd.

40

Here fwarthy Charles appears, and there

His brother with dejected air:
Triumphant Naffau here we find,
And with him bright Maria join'd:
There Anna, great as when she fent
Her armies thro' the Continent,
Ere yet her hero was difgrac'd:

O may fam'd Brunswick be the last,

(Tho' Heav'n fhould with my wifh agree,
And long preferve thy art in thee)
The last, the happiest, British king,
Whom thou shalt paint or I fhall fing!
Wife Phidias thus, his fkill to prove,

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Great Pan, who wont to chase the fair,
And lov'd the spreading oak, was there;
Old Saturn, too, with up-caft eyes
Beheld his abdicated skies;

And mighty Mars, for war renown'd,

In adamantine armour frown'd;

By him the childless goddess rofe,
Minerva, ftudious to compofe

Her twisted threads; the web she strung,
And o'er a loom of marble hung:

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Thetis, the troubled ocean's queen,

Match'd with a mortal, next was feen

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Reclining on a fun'ral urn,

Her fhort-liv'd darling fon to mourn:

The last was he whose thunder flew
The Titan race, a rebel crew,

That from a hundred hills ally'd

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In impious leagues their king defy'd.
This wonder of the sculptor's hand
Produc'd, his art was at a stand;

For who would hope new fame to raise,
Or risk his well-establish'd praise,
That, his high genius to approve,

Had drawn a George or carv'd a Jove?

2

To her Royal Highness

THE PRINCESS OF WALES,

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO. NÓV. 1714.

THE Mufe that oft', with facred raptures fir'd,
Has gen'rous thoughts of liberty inspir'd,
And, boldly rifing for Britannia's laws,
Engag'd great Cato in her country's cause,
On you fubmiffive waits, with hopes affur'd,
By whom the mighty blessing stands secur'd,
And all the glories that our age adorn
Are promis'd to a people yet unborn.

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ΙΟ

No longer fhall the widow'd land bemoan A broken lineage and a doubtful throne, But boast her royal progeny's increase, And count the pledges of her future peace. O born to strengthen and to grace our isle! While you, fair Princess! in your offspring smile, Supplying charms to the fucceeding age, Each heav'nly daughter's triumph we prefage, Already see th' illuftrious youths complain, And pity monarchs doom'd to figh in vain. Thou, too, the darling of our fond defires, Whom Albion, opening wide her arms, requires, 20 With manly valour and attractive air

Shalt quell the fierce and captivate the fair.

E

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O England's younger hope! in whom confpire
The mother's sweetness and the father's fire!
For thee perhaps, even now, of kingly race,
Some dawning beauty blooms in every grace,
Some Carolina, to Heav'n's dictates true,
Who, while the fceptred rivals vainly fuc,
Thy inborn worth with conscious eyes shall fee,
And flight th' imperial diadem for thee.

Pleas'd with the profpect of fucceffive reigns,
The tuneful tribe no more in daring strains
Shall vindicate, with pious fears opprefs'd,
Endanger'd rights, and liberty diftrefs'd:

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To milder founds each Muse shall tune the lyre, 35
And gratitude and faith to kings inspire,

And filial love; bid impious discord cease,
And footh the madding factions into peace;
Or rife ambitious in more lofty lays,

And teach the nation their new monarch's praise, 40
Defcribe his awful look and godlike mind,

And Cæfar's power with Cato's virtue join'd.
Mean-while, bright Princess! who with graceful cafe
And native majesty are form'd to please,
Behold thofe arts with a propitious eye,
That fuppliant to their great protectress fly;
Then shall they triumph, and the British stage
Improve her manners and refine her rage,

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More noble characters expofe to view,

And draw her finish'd heroines from you.

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Nor you the kind indulgence will refuse,
Skill'd in the labours of the deathlefs Muse:
The deathlefs Muse with undiminish'd rays
Thro' distant time the lovely dame conveys.
To Gloriana Waller's harp was strung;
The queen still shines, because the poet fung.
Ev'n all those graces in your frame combin'd,
The common fate of mortal charms may find,
(Content our fhort-liv'd praises to engage,
The joy and wonder of a single age)
Unless fome poet in a lasting song

To late pofterity their fame prolong,

Inftruct our fons the radiant form to prize,
And fee your beauty with their fathers' eyes.

A SONG

FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY AT OXFORD.

I.

CECILIA! whofe exalted hymns

With joy and wonder fill the blest,
In choirs of warbling seraphims

Known and distinguish'd from the rest,

Attend, harmonious Saint! and fee

Thy vocal fons of Harmony;

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Attend, harmonious Saint! and hear our pray'rs ;

Enliven all our earthly airs,

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And as thou fing'st thy God, teach us to sing of thee: