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With pain and joy at ftrife, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face ;
Half fickening at the sight, too well I spy
The father's Spirit through the mother's eye :
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And strive to hate their innocence in vain,
O princess! happy by thy foes confeft!
Bleft in thy husband ! in thy children blest !
As they from thee, from them new beauties born,
While Europe lafts, shall Europe's thrones-adorn.
Transplanted to each court, in times to come,
Thy smile celestial and unfading bloom,
Great Austria's sons with fofter lines shall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race.
The fair descendants of thy sacred 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 send, My promis'd husband, and my dearest friend; Since heaven appoints this favour'd race to reign, And blood has drench'd the cottish fields in vain ; Must I be wretched, and thy flight partake? Or wilt not thou, for thy lov’d Chloe's fake, Tir'd out at length, submit 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 shall secure thy fame: Say these invite thee to approach his throne, And own the inonarch, heaven vouchsafes to own : The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve ; Say this to them ; but swear to me 'twas love.
OCCASIONED BY HIS EXCELLENCY THE EARL OF
STANHOPE'S VOYAGE TO FRANCE, 1718.
" Pacis eras mediufque belli.” HOR.
"AIR daughter once of Windsor's woods !
Britannia's boast and darling care,
Big with the fate of Europe, bear.
May winds propitious on his way
The minister of peace convey ;
Nor rebel wave, nor rising storm,
Great George's liquid realms deform.
Our vows are heard. Thy crowded fails
Already swell with western gales;
Already Albion's coast retires,
And Calais multiplies her spires :
At length has royal Orleans preft,
With open arms, the well-known guest ;
Before in facred friendship join’d,
And now in counsels for mankind :
Whilst his clear schemes our patriot shows,
And plans the threaten'd world's repose,
They fix each haughty monarch's doom,
And bless whole ages.yet to come.
Henceforth great Brunswick shall decree
What flag must awe the Tyrrhene sea;
From whom the Tuscan grape shall glow,
And fruitful Arethusa flow,
See in firm leagues with Thames combine
The Seine, the Maese, and distant Rhine !
Nor, Ebro, let thy single rage
With half the warring world engage.
Oh! call to mind thy thousands llain,
And Almanara's fatal plain;
While yet the Gallic terrors fleep,
Nor Britain thunders from the deep.
HAT kings henceforth shall reign, what states
Is fix'd at length by Anna's just decree :
Whose brows the Muse's sacred wreath fhall fit,
Is left to you the arbiters of wit.
With beating hearts the rival poets wait,
Till you, Athenians, fhall decide their fate;
Secure, when to these learned seats they come,
Of equal judgment, and impartial doom.
Poor is the player's fame, whose whole renown-
Is but the praise of a capricious town ;
While, with mock-majesty, and fancy'd power,
He struts in robes, the monarch of an hour.
Oft wide of nature must he act a part,
Make love in tropes, in bombast break his heart :
In turn and simile resign his breath,
And rhyme and quibble in the pangs of death.
We blush, when plays like these receive applause;
And laugh, in secret, at the tears we cause;
With honest scorn our own success disdain,
A worthless honour, and inglorious gain.
No trifling scenes at Oxford shall appear ;
Well, what we blush to act, may you to hear.
To you our fam’d, our standard plays we bring,
The work of poets, whom you taught to fing:
Though crown'd with fame, they dare not think it due,
Nor take the laurel till bestow'd by you.
Great Cato's self the glory of the stage,
Who charms, corrects, exalts, and fires the age,
Begs here he may be try'd by Roman laws;
To you, O fathers, he submits his cause ;
He rests not in the people's general voice,
the senate, have confirm'd his choice.
Fine is the secret, delicate the art,
To wind the passions, and command the heart ;
For fancy'd ills to force our tears to flow,
And make the generous foul in love with woe;
To raise the shades of heroes to our view;
Rebuild fall’n empires, and old time renew.
How hard the talk! how rare the godlike rage !
None should presume to dictate for the Stage,
But such as boast a great extensive mind,
Enrich'd by Nature, and by Art refin'd;
Who from the ancient stores their knowledge bring,
And tasted early of the Muses’ spring.
May none pretend upon her throne to fit,
But such as, sprung from you, are born to wit:
Chosen by the mob, their lawless claim we night:.
Yours is the old hereditary right.