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195

Whose fceptre waving with one thout rush forih
In fwarms the harnefs'd millions of the north,
Thro' realms of ice pursu'd his tedious way 170
To court oar friendship and our fame furvey!
Hence the rich prize of useful arts he bore,
And round his empire spread the learned store:
(T'adorn old realms is more than new to raise;
His country's parent is a monarch’s praise.)
His bands now march in jaft array to war,
And Caspian gulfs unufoal navies bear;
With Kunick lays Smolenko's forests ring,
And wond'ring Volga hears the Mufes fing.
Did not the painted kings of India greet 180
Our Queen, and lay their fceptres at her feet?
Chiefs who full bowls of hostile blood had quaffe,
Fam'd for the jav'lin andenvenom'd shaft,
Whose haughty' brows made favages adore,
Nor bow'd do less than stars or fun before. 185
Her pitying smile accepts their fuppliant claim,
Amadds four monarchs to the Chritian name.

Bleft use of pow'r! O virtuous pride in kings!
And like his bounty whence dominion springs! 189
Which o'er new worlds makes Heav'n's indulgence
And ranges myriads under laws divine! [fhine,
Well bought with all that those sweet regions bold,
With groves of spices and with mines of gold.

Fearless our merchant now pursues his gain,
And roams securely o'er the boundless main. 195

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Now o'er his head the polar Bear he fpies,
And freezing spangles of the Lapland skies;
Now swells his canvass to the sultry line,
With glitt'ring spoils where Indian grottoes shine,
Where fumes of incense glad the fouthern seas, zoo
And wafted citron scents the balmy breeze.
Here nearer suns

prepare

the rip'ning gem To grace great Anne's imperial diadem; And here the ore whose melted mass shall yield On faithful coins each memorable field, 205 Which mix'd with medals of immortal Rome May clear disputes and teach the times to come.

In circling beams shall godlike Anna glow,
And Churchill's sword hang o'er the proftrate foe;
In comely wounds shall bleeding worthies stand, 213
Webb’s firm platoon and Lumley's faithful band;
Bold Mordaunt in Iberian trophies drest,
And Campbell's Dragon on his dauntless breast;
Great Ormond's deeds on Vigo's spoils enrollid,
And Guiscard's knife on Harley's Chili gold: 215
And if the Muse, O Bristol! might decree,
Here Granville noted by the lyre should be,
The lyre for Granville and the cross for thee.

Such are the honours grateful Britain pays,
So patriots merit, and so monarchs praise :
O'er distant times such records shall prevail
When English numbers antiquated fail:
A trifling song the Muse can only yield,
And sooth her soldiers panting from the field;

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220

To sweet retirements see them safe convey'd, 225
And raise their battles in the rural shade.
From fields of death to Woodstock’s peaceful glooms,
(The poet's haunt) Britannia's hero comes
Begin, my Muse! and softly touch the string;
Here Henry lov’d and Chaucer learnt to fing. 230

Hail, fabled Grotto! hail, Elysian Soil!
Thou fairest spot of fair Britannia's ide!
Where kings of old conceal'd forgot the throne,
And beauty was content to shine unknown,
Where Love and War by turns pavilions rear, 235
And Henry's bow'rs near Blenheim's dome appear,
The weary'd champion lull in soft alcoves,
The noblest boast of thy romantick groves.
Oft' if the Muse presage shall he be feen
By Rosamonda fleeting o'er the green,

240 In dreams be hail'd by heroes' mighty shades, And hear old Chaucer warble thro' the glades; O’er the fam'd echoing vaults his name shall bound, And hill to hill reflect the fav’rite found.

Here, here at least thy love for arms give o'er, 245 Nor one world conquer'd fondly wish for more; Vice of great fouls alone! O thirst of fame! The Mufe admires it while she strives to blame. Thy toils be now to chase the bounding deer, Or view the coursers ítretch in wild career. 250 This lovely scene shall footh thy soul to rest, And wear each dreadful image from thy breast;

With pleasure by thy conquests fhalt thou fee
Thy queen triunıphant and all Europe free:
No cares henceforth fhall thy repose destroy,

255 But what thou giv'st the world thyself enjoy.

Sweet Solitude! when life's gay hours are past Howe'er we range in thee we fix at last : Tolt thro' tempest'ous seas (the voyage o'er) Pale we look back and bless thy friendly fhore: 260 Our own strict judges our past life we scan, And ask if glory hath enlarg'd the span? If bright the prospect we the grave defy, Trust future ages, and contented die.

When strangers from far diftant climes shall come To view the pomp of this triumphant dome, 266 Where rear'd aloft difsembled trophies stand, And breathing labours of the sculptor's hand, Where Kneller's art fall paint the flying Gaul, And Bourbon's woes shall fill the story'd wall, 270 Heirs of thy blood fall o'er their bounteous board Fix Europe's guard, thy monumental sword, Banners that oft' have wav'd on conquer'd walls, And trumps that drown’d the groans of gasping Fair dames shall oft with curious eye explore (Gauls; The costly robes that Naughter'd gen'rals worc, 276 Rich trappingsfrom the Danube'swhirlpoolsbrought, (Hesperian nuns the gorgeous broid'ry wrought) Belts stiff with gold, the Boian horseman's pride, And Gaul's fair flow'ss in human crimson dy'd. 28

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Of Churchill's race perhaps some lovely hoy
Shall mark the burvíth'd steel that hangs on high,
Shall gaze transported on its glitt'ring charms,
And reach it struggling with unequal arms,
By signs the drum’s tumult’ous sound request, 285
Then seek in starts the hufhing mother's breast.

So in the painter's animated frame,
Where Mars embraces the foft Paphian dame,
The little Loves in sport his falchion wield,
Or join their strength to heave his pond'rous fhicld;
One strokes the plume in Tityon'sgore imbru’d, 297
And one the spear that reeks with Typhon’s blood,
Another's infant brows the helm sustain,
He nods his crest, and frights the shrieking train.

Thus the rude tempest of the field o'erblown 295
Shall whiter rounds of smiling years roll on,
Our victors bleft in peace forget their wars,
Enjoy past dangers and absolve the stars.
But, oh! what sorrows shall bedew your urns,
Ye honour'd Shades! whom widow'd Albion mourns?
If your thin forms yet discontented moan, 91
And haunt the mangled manfions once your own,
Behold what flow'rs the pious Muses iirow,
And tears which in the midst of triumph flow;
Cypressand bays your envy'd browssurround, 305
Yournames the tender matron's heart shallwoand,
And the soft maid grow pensive at the sound!

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