Spite of feign'd fears, and artificial cries,
The pious town fees fifty churches rise :
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And fits more firmly on his fhaken throne.

To my fad thought no beam of hope appears
Through the long profpect of fucceeding years,
The fon, aspiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his fire: another and the fame.
He bleft in lovely Carolina's arms,

To future ages propagates her charms :
With pain and joy at ftrife, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face;
Half fick❜ning at the fight, too well I spie
The father's fpirit through the mother's eye:
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,

And ftrive to hate their innocence in vain.

O princefs! happy by thy foes confefs'd!
Bleft in thy husband! in thy children bleft!
As they from thee, from them new beauties born,
While Europe lasts, shall Europe's thrones adorn.
Transplanted to each court, in times to come,
Thy fmile celeftial and un-fading bloom

Great Auftria's fons with fofter lines fhall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race.

VOL. I.

F

The

The fair defcendents of thy facred bed.
Wide-branching o'er the western world shall spread,
Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot
To earthward bending of itself takes root,

'Till like their mother plant, ten thousand stand
In verdant arches on the fertile land;

Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove,

Or hunt at large through the wide echoing grove.

O thou, to whom these mournful lines I fend,
My promis'd hufband, and my dearest friend;
Since heav'n appoints this favour'd race to reign,
And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain;
Muft I be wretched, and thy flight partake?
Or wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's fake,
Tir'd out at length, fubmit to Fate's decree?
If not to Brunswick, O return to me!
Proftrate before the victor's mercy bend':

What spares whole thousands, may to thee extend.
Should blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blame,
Great Brunswick's virtues will fecure thy fame:
Say, these invite thee to approach his throne,
And own the monarch heav'n vouchfafes to own.
The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve;
Say this to Them; but fwear to Me 'twas love.

THE

WHE

To make the name of ANNA livé,

By future people to be fung,

The labour of each grateful tongue?
Can faithful registers, or rhyme,

In charming eloquence, or fprightly wit,
The wonders of her reign tranfmit

To th' unborn children of fucceeding time?
Can painters' oil, or ftatuaries' art,

Eternity to her impart?

No! titled ftatues are but empty things,

Inscrib'd to royal vanity,

The facrifice of flattery

To lawless Neros, or Bourbonian kings.
True virtue to her kindred stars afpires,

Does all our pomp of stone and verse surpass,
And mingling with etherial fires,

No useless ornament requires

From fpeaking colours, or from breathing brass.

II.

Greatest of princes! where the wand'ring fun
Does o'er earth's habitable regions roll,

From th' eastern barriers to the western goal,
And fees thy race of glory run

With swiftness equal to his own:

Thee on the banks of Flandrian Scaldis fings
The jocund fwain, releas'd from Gallic fear:

The English voice unus'd to hear,

Thee the repeating banks, thee every valley rings.
III.

The sword of heav'n how pious ANNA wields,

And heav'nly vengeance on the guilty deals,

Let the twice fugitive Bavarian tell;

Who, from his airy hope of better ftate,

By luft of sway irregularly great,

Like an apoftate angel fell:

Who,

Who, by imperial favour rais'd,
I' th' highest rank of glory blaz'd:
And had 'till now unrivall'd fhone,

More than a king, contented with his own
But Lucifer's bold steps he trod,

Who durft affault the throne of GOD;

And for contented realms of blissful light,

Gain'd the fad privilege to be

The first in folid misery,

Monarch of hell, and woes, and everlasting night.

Corruption of the beft is always worst;

And foul ambition, like an evil wind,

Blights the fair bloffoms of a noble mind;

And if a feraph fall, he's doubly curst.

IV.

Had guile, and pride, and envy grown

In the black groves of Styx alone,
Nor ever had on earth the baleful crop been fown;
The swain without amaze, had till'd

The Flandrian glebe, a guiltless field:
Nor had he wonder'd, when he found

The bones of heroes in the ground:

No crimson streams had lately fwell'd
The Dyle, the Danube, and the Scheld.