Hence the rich prize of useful arts he bore,
And round his empire spread the learned ftore,
(T' adorn old realms is more than new to raise,
His country's parent is a monarch's praife.)
His bands now march in just array to war,
And Cafpian gulfs unusual navies bear;
With Runic lays Smolensko's forests ring,
And wond'ring Volga hears the Muses fing.
Did not the painted kings h of India greet
Our Queen, and lay their fceptres at her feet?
Chiefs who full bowls of hoftile blood had quaff'd,
Fam'd for the javelin, and invenom'd fhaft;
Whofe haughty brows made favages adore,
Nor bow'd to lefs than stars, or fun before:
Her pitying smile accepts their fuppliant claim,
And adds four monarchs to the Chriftian name.

Bleft ufe of pow'r! O virtuous pride in kings!
And like his bounty, whence dominion fprings!
Which o'er new worlds makes heaven's indulgence shine,
And ranges myriads under laws divine !

Well bought with all that thofe fweet regions hold,
With groves of spices, and with mines of gold.

h Four Indian kings or chiefs, of the fix nations lying between New England and Canada, arrived in England in the year 1710, and had a public audience of the queen on the 19th of April. They continued here about two or three weeks, and were entertained during that time by feveral perfons of quality. Mention is made of them in the Tatler, No, 171, and the Spectator No. 50.

Fearlefa

Fearless our merchant now purfues his gain, And roams fecurely o'er the boundless main. Now o'er his head the polar Bear he spies, And freezing fpangles of the Lapland skies; Now fwells his canvass to the fultry Line, With glitt'ring spoils where Indian grottoes fhine; Where fumes of incenfe glad the southern feas, And wafted citron fcents the balmy breeze. Here nearer funs prepare the rip'ning gem, To grace great ANNE's imperial diadem; And here the ore, whofe melted mass shall yield On faithful coins each memorable field; Which, mix'd with medals of immortal Rome, May clear difputes, and teach the time to come. In circling beams fhall godlike ANNA glow, And Churchill's fword hang o'er the proftrate foe; In comely wounds fhall bleeding worthies ftand, Webb's i firm platoon, and Lumley's faithful band!

k

Bold Mordaunt' in Iberian trophies drefs'd,

And Campbell's m dragon on his dauntless breaft;

n

Great Ormond's " deeds on Vigo's spoils enroll'd,
And Guifcard's knife on Harley's Chili gold.

i General Webb.

* General Lumley, brother to the earl of Scarborough.

1 Charles Mordaunt, earl of Peterborough, commander in chief in

Spain.

John Campbell, Duke of Argyle.

The duke of Ormond was commander of the land forces at the taking of Vigo, October 12, 1702.

And

And if the Mufe, 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 fo monarchs praise.
O'er diftant times fuch records fhall prevail,
When English numbers, antiquated, fail:
A trifling fong the Mufe can only yield,
And footh her foldiers panting from the field;
To sweet retirements fee them fafe convey'd,
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 foftly touch the string:

Here Henry lov'd; and Chaucer learn'd to fing.
Hail fabled grotto! hail Elyfian foil!

Thou fairest spot of fair Britannia's isle!
Where kings of old conceal'd forgot the throne,
And beauty was content to shine unknown;
Where love and war by turns pavilions rear,
And Henry's bow'rs near Blenheim's dome appear ;
The weary'd champion lull in foft alcoves,
The noblest boast of thy romantic groves.

• George Granville, Efq; afterwards Lord Landfdowne.

? Henry II.

}

Chaucer is faid to have written feveral of his poems at Woodflock.

Oft,

Oft, if the Mufe prefage, fhall he be feen
By Rofamonda fleeting o'er the green,

In dreams be hail'd by heroes' mighty fhades,
And hear old Chaucer warble through the glades:
O'er the fam'd echoing vaults his name fhall bound,
And hill to hill reflect the favourite found.

Here, here at least thy love for arms give o'er,
Nor, one world conquer'd, fondly with for more.
Vice of great fouls alone! O thirst of fame!
The Muse admires it, while she strives to blame ;
Thy toils be now to chase the bounding deer,
Or view the courfers ftretch in wild career;
This lovely scene fhall footh thy foul to reft,
And wear each dreadful image from thy breast ;
With pleasure, by thy conquefts fhalt thou fee
Thy Queen triumphant, and all Europe free;
No cares henceforth fhall thy repose destroy,
But what thou giv'ft the world, thyself enjoy.
Sweet folitude! when life's gay hours are past,
Howe'er we range,
in thee we fix at last;
Tofs'd through tempeftuous feas (the voyage o'er)
Pale we look back, and blefs the friendly fhore.
Our own ftrict judges, our past life we scan,
And ask if glory hath enlarg'd the fpan ?
If bright the profpect, we the grave defy,
Truft future ages, and contented die.

When ftrangers from far-diftant climes fhall come,
To view the pomp of this triumphant dome!

Where

Where rear'd aloft diffembled trophies ftand,
And breathing labours of the sculptor's hand,
Where Kneller's art fhall paint the flying Gaul,
And Bourbon's woes shall fill the story'd wall;
Heirs of thy blood shall o'er their bounteous board
Fix Europe's guard, thy monumental fword;
Banners, that oft have wav'd on conquer'd walls,
And trumps, that drown'd the groans of gasping Gauls.
Fair dames shall oft, with curious eye, explore
The coftly robes that flaughter'd gen'rals wore,
Rich trappings from the Danube's whirlpools brought,
(Hefperian nuns the gorgeous broid'ry wrought)
Belts ftiff with gold, the Boian horfeman's pride,
And Gaul's fair flow'rs, in human crimson dy'd.
Of Churchill's race perhaps fome lovely boy
Shall mark the burnish'd fteel that hangs on high;
Shall gaze transported on its glitt'ring charms,
And reach it struggling with unequal arms;
By figns the drum's tumultuous found request,
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 fport the faulchion wield,

Or join their ftrength to heave his pond'rous fhield;
One ftrokes the plume in Tityon's gore embru'd,
And one the spear that reeks in Typhon's blood;
Another's infant brows the helm fuftain,
He nods his creft, and frights the shrieking train.
VOL. I.

B

Thus,