Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes,

And span the diftance that between us lies.

Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair,
Whilft on his fide he reckons half the fair:
In Britain's lovely ifle a fhining throng
War in his cause, a thousand beauties ftrong.
Th' unthinking victors vainly boaft their pow'rs;
Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours.
We reason with such fluency and fire,

The beaux we baffle, and the learned tire,
Against her prelates plead the church's cause,
And from our judges vindicate the laws.

Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms loft,
A crown, though late, thy facred brow may boast;
Heav'n feems through us thy empire to decree,
Those who win hearts, have giv'n their hearts to thee.
Haft thou not heard that, when profufely gay,
Our well-drefs'd rivals grace their fov'reign's day,
We stubborn damfels met the public view

In loathfome wormwood, and repenting rue?
What whig but trembled, when our spotless band
In virgin roses whiten'd half the land!

Who can forget what fears the foe poffefs'd,
When oaken boughs mark'd every loyal breast!

Lefs

Lefs fcar'd near Medway's stream the Norman ftood,
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
’Till, near at hand, a gleam of swords betray'd
The youth of Kent beneath its wand'ring shade.

Thofe, who the fuccours of the fair despise,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
The female bands, O prince by Fortune crofs'd,
At least more courage than thy men may boaft;
Our fex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet,
And purchase fame in many a well-fought street.
From Drury-lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the town,
Fair patriots fallying oft have put to flight
With all their poles the guardians of the night,
And borne, with fcreams of triumph, to their side
The leader's staff in all its painted pride.

Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note

To vend the discontented statesman's thought..

Though red with ftripes, and recent from the thong
Sore fmitten for the love of facred fong,
The tuneful fifters ftill pursue their trade,
Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
And hums in concert o'er his empty chair.

Mean

.

Mean while, regardless of the royal caufe,

His fword for James no brother fovereign draws.
The Pope himself, furrounded with alarms,

To France his bulls, to Corfu fends his arms,

And though he hears his darling fon's complaint,
Can hardly spare one tutelary saint ;

t;

But lifts them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready money coins his gods.
The dauntless Swede, purfu'd by vengeful foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary fnows;
Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feasts regale our garter'd youth again:
Safe, Bar-le-duc, within thy filent grove

The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove;
The knight, who aims unerring from afar,
Th' advent'rous knight, now quits the fylvan war;
The brinded boars may flumber un-difmay'd,
Or grunt fecure beneath the chefnut fhade.
Inconftant Orleans (ftill we mourn the day
That trusted Orleans with imperial fway)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,

Far from the call of his defponding friends.
Such are the terms to gain Britannia's grace!
And fuch the terrors of the Brunswick race!

Was

Was it for this the fun's whole luftre fail'd, And fudden midnight o'er the noon prevail'd! For this did heav'n display to mortal eyes

Aërial knights and combats in the skies!

Was it for this Northumbrian ftreams look'd red,
And Thames driv'n backward fhow'd his fecret bed!
Falfe auguries! th' infulting victors scorn!
Ev❜n our own prodigies against us turn!
O portents conftru'd on our fide in vain!
Let never Tory truft eclipse again!

Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye fkies!

And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rife !
To Rome then must the royal wand'rer go,
And fall a fuppliant at the papal toe?

His life in floth inglorious must he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in pray'r?

His mind perhaps at length, debauch'd with ease,
The proffer'd purple and the hat may please.
Shall he, whofe ancient patriarchal race
To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace,
In folemn conclave fit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trusty vote!
Be fummon'd to his ftall in time of need,
And with his cafting fuffrage fix a creed !

Shall he in robes on stated days appear,

And English heretics curfe once a year!
Garnet and Faux fhall he with pray'rs invoke,

And beg that Smithfield piles once more may fmoak!
Forbid it heav'n! my foul, to fury wrought,

Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought.

From James and Rome I feel my heart decline,
And fear, O Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine;
Yet ftill his share thy rival will conteft,

And ftill the double claim divides my breast:
The fate of James with pitying eyes I vicw,
And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due;
To James my paffions and my weakness guide,
But reafon sways me to the victor's fide.
Though griev'd I fpeak it, let the truth appear;
(You know my language, and my heart, fincere.)
In vain did falfhood his fair fame difgrace;
What force had falfhood, when he fhow'd his face!
In vain to war our boaftful clans were led ;

Heaps driven on heaps, in the dire fhock they fled:
France fhuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame
A fecond Dunkirk in another name:

In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows: