Then fhining 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 confcious forrow fwell :
Who now to verfe would raise his humble voice,
Can only fhew 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 feafons fhine on Anna's throne,
And pay a conftant tribute, not their own.
Her fummer's heats nor fruits alone beftow,
They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe;
And when black storms confefs the distant 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 profusion on our favour'd ifle?
Did partial fortune on our virtue fmile?
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 spread our canvass to the southern fhore; 'Tis Anna reigns! the fouth refigns her store.

Her

Her virtue fmooths the tumult of the main,
And fwells the field with mountains of the flain.
Argyll and Churchill but the glory share,
While millions lie fubdued by Anna's prayer.
How great her zeal ! how fervent her defire!
How did her foul in holy warmth expire!
Conftant devotion did her time divide,
Not fet returns of pleasure or of pride.
Not want of reft, or the fun's parting ray,
But finish'd duty, limited the day.

How fweet fucceeding fleep! what lovely themes
Smil'd in her thoughts, and soften'd all her dreams!
Her royal couch defcending angels spread,

And join'd their wings a fhelter o'er her head.
Though Europe's wealth and glory claim'd a part,
Religion's caufe reign'd mistress of her heart:
She faw, and griev'd to fee, the mean eftate
Of those who round the hallow'd altar wait;
She shed her bounty, piously profuse,
And thought it more her own in facred use.
Thus on his furrow fee the tiller stand,
And fill with genial feed his lavish hand;
He trufts the kindness of the fruitful plain,
And providently fcatters all his grain.

What strikes my fight? does proud Auguftá rife

New to behold, and awfully furprize!
Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown,
And facred domes on palaces look down:

A noble pride of piety is shown,

And temples cast a luftre on the throne.

How would this work another's glory raise !
But Anna's greatness robs her of the praise.
Drown'd in a brighter blaze it disappears,
Who dry'd the widow's, and the orphan's tears?
Who stoop'd from high to fuccour the distrest,
And reconcile the wounded heart to reft ?
Great in her goodnefs, well could we perceive,
Whoever fought, it was a queen that gave.
Misfortune loft her name, her guiltless frown
But made another debtor to the crown;
And each unfriendly stroke, from fate we bore,
Became our title to the regal ftore.

Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot,
And their wounds bloffom with a fairer fruit.

Ye numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd,
When first the dreadful blaft of fame arriv'd,
Say what a fhock, what agonies you felt,

How did your fouls with tender anguish melt!
That grief which living Anna's love supprest,
Shook like a tempeft every grateful breast.
A fecond fate our finking fortunes try'd!
A fecond time our tender parents dy'd!
Heroes returning from the field we crown,
And deify the haughty victor's frown.
His fplendid wealth too rashly we admire,
Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire:
Wifely to fpend, is the great art of gain;
And one reliev'd tranfcends a million flain.
When time shall ask, where once Ramillia lay,
Or Danube flow'd that swept whole troops away,

One

One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry,
Shall rife a fountain of eternal joy.

But ah! to that unknown and distant date,
Is virtue's great reward push'd off by fate;
Here random fhafts in every breast are found,
Virtue and merit but provoke the wound.
August in native worth and regal state,
Anna fate arbitress of Europe's fate;
To distant realms did every accent fly,
And nations watch'd each motion of her eye.
Silent, nor longer awful to be seen,

How fmall a fpot contains the mighty queen!
No throng of fuppliant princes mark the place,
Where Britain's greatness is compos'd in peace :
The broken earth is fcarce difcern'd to rife,
And a stone tells us where the monarch lies.
Thus end matureft honours of a crown!
This is the laft conclufion of renown!

So when with idle skill the wanton boy
Breathes through his tube; he fees, with eager joy,
The trembling bubble, in its rising fmall;
And by degrees expands the glittering ball.
But when, to full perfection blown, it flies
High in the air, and shines in various dyes,
The little monarch, with a falling tear,
Sees his world burst at once, and disappear.
"Tis not in forrow to reverse our doom,
No groans unlock th' inexorable tomb!
Why then this fond indulgence of our woe!
What fruit can rife, or what advantage flow!

Yes,

Yes, this advantage; from our deep diftrefs

We learn how much in George the Gods can bless,
Had a lefs glorious princefs left the throne,
But half the hero had at first been fhown:
An Anna falling all the king employs,
To vindicate from guilt our rifing joys:
Our joys arise, and innocently shine,
Aufpicious monarch! what a praise is thine!
Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne !
Nor let thy country think thee all her own.
Of thy delay how oft did we complain !

Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main.
With prayer we fmooth the billows for thy fleet;
With ardent wifhes fill thy fwelling sheet;

And when thy foot took place on Albion's fhore,
We bending blefs'd the Gods, and ask'd no more.
What hand but thine fhould conquer and compose,
Join those whom intereft joins, and chace our foes?
Repel the daring youth's prefumptuous aim,
And by his rival's greatness give him fame ?
Now in fome foreign court he may fit down,
And quit without a blush the British crown.
Secure his honour, though he lose his store,
And take a lucky moment to be poor.

Nor think, great fir, now first, at this late hour,
In Britain's favour, you exert your power;
To us, far back in time, I joy to trace
The numerous tokens of your princely grace.
Whether you chofe to thunder on the Rhine,
Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine;