Means moft infallible to make
The world an infidel;

And, with inftructions most divine,
To pave a path to hell;

O for a clean and ardent heart,
O for a foul on fire,

Thy praise, begun on earth, to found
Where angels ftring the lyre;

How cold is man? to him how hard
(Hard, what most easy seems)
"To set a just esteem on that,

"Which yet he-most esteems."

What shall we fay, when boundless blifs
Is offer'd to mankind,

And, to that offer when a race

Of rationals is blind?

Of human nature ne'er too high
Are our ideas wrought;

Of human merit ne'er too low
Deprefs'd the daring thought.

ON THE LATE QUEEN'S DEATH,

AND

HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE.

IR, I have long, and with impatience, fought,
To ease the fullness of my grateful thought,
My fame at once, and duty to pursue,
And please the public, by respect to you.

Though you, long fince beyond Britannia known, Have spread your country's glory with your own; To me you never did more lovely shine,

Than when fo late the kindled wrath divine
Quench'd our ambition, in great Anna's fate,
And darken'd all the pomp of human state.
Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay,
Though rais'd in life, and greatness fade away,
Your luftre brightens: virtue cuts the gloom
With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb.

Know, fir, the great esteem and honour due,
I chose that moment to profefs to you,
When fadness reign'd, when fortune, fo fevere,
Had warm'd our bofoms to be moft fincere.
And when no motives could have force to raise

A ferious value, and provoke my praise,
But fuch as rife above, and far tranfcend
Whatever glories with this world fhall end,
L 3

Then

Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot
The fun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot.

I fing-but ah! my theme I need not tell,
See every eye with conscious forrow swell :
Who now to verse would raise his humble voice,
Can only shew his duty, not his choice.
How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain !
We languish, and to speak is to complain.

Let us look back, (for who too oft can view
That most illuftrious fcene, for ever New!)
See all the feafsons shine on Anna's throne,
And pay a conftant tribute, not their own.
Her fummer's heats nor fruits alone bestow,
They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe;
And when black ftorms confefs the diftant fun,
Her winters wear the wreaths, her fummers won.
Revolving pleasures in their turns appear,
And triumphs are the product of the year.
To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease,
And glorious victory is loft in peace.

Whence this profufion on our favour'd isle ?
Did partial fortune on our virtue smile?
Or did the fceptre, in great Anna's hand,
Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land?
Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim,
Thy queen and thy good fortune are the fame.

Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky; 'Tis Anna reigns! the Gallic fquadrons fly. We fpread our canvass to the fouthern shore ; 'Tis Anna reigns! the fouth refigns her store.

Her