From conflicts pafs'd each other's worth we find,'.
And thence in ftricter friendship now are join'd;
Each wound receiv'd, now pleads the cause of love,
And former injuries endearments prove.

What Briton-but muft prize th' illuftrious fword,
That caufe of fear to Churchill could afford?

Who fworn to Bourbon's fceptre, but must frame
Vaft thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard tame ?
Thus generous hatred in affection ends,

And war, which rais'd the foes, compleats the friends.
A thousand happy confequences flow

(The dazzling prospect makes my bofom glow); ·
Commerce fhall lift her fwelling fails, and roll-
Her wealthy fleets fecure from pole to pole;
The British merchant, who with care and pain.
For many moons fees only skies and main;
When now in view of his lov'd native shore,
The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er,
Caufe to regret his wealth no more shall find,
Nor curfe the mercy of the fea and wind;
By hardest fate condemn'd to ferve a foe,
And give him ftrength to strike a deeper blow.
Sweet Philomela providently flies

To diftant woods and streams, for such supplies,
To feed her young, and make them try the wing,
And with their tender notes attempt to fing:
Mean while, the fowler fpreads his fecret fnare,
And renders vain the tuneful mother's care.
Britannia's bold adventurer of late,

The foaming ocean plow'd with equal fate.

Goodness

Goodness is greatness in its utmost height,
And power a curse, if not a friend to right:
To conquer is to make diffention cease,

That man may ferve the King of kings in peace.
Religion now shall all her rays dispense,
And shine abroad in perfect excellence;
Elfe we may dread fome greater curse at hand,
To fcourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land:
Now war is weary, and retir❜d to rest;
The meagre famine, and the spotted pest,
Deputed in her stead, may blast the day,
And fweep the relicks of the fword away.
When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne,
Jove in the fulness of his glory fhone;
Wife Solomon, a ftranger to the fword
Was born to raise a temple to the Lord.
Anne too fhall build, and every facred pile
Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle.
Those mighty fouls, whom military care
Diverted from their only great affair,
Shall bend their full united force, to bless
Th' almighty Author of their late success.
And what is all the world fubdued to this?
The grave fets bounds to fublunary bliss;
But there are conquests to great Anna known,
Above the splendour of an earthly throne;
Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within
The fcanty bounds of matter to begin;
Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run
Beyond this darkness of the stars and fun,
And shall whole ages past be still, ftill but begun.

Heroic,

Heroic fhades! whom war has swept away, Look down, and fmile on this aufpicious day: Now boast your deaths; to thofe your glory tell, Who or at Agincourt or Creffy fell;

Then deep into eternity retire,

Of greater things than peace or war enquire;
Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know
What farther paffes in the world below.

The bravest of mankind fhall now have leave
To die but once, nor piece-meal feek the grave:
On gain or pleasure bent, we fhall not meet
Sad melancholy numbers in each street
(Owners of bones difpers'd on Flandria's plain,
Or wasting in the bottom of the main);

To turn us back from joy, in tender fear,
Left it an infult of their woes appear,

And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their blood
Perhaps preferv'd, who starve, or beg for food.

Devotion fhall run pure, and difengage

From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage.
On heaven without a fin we now may call,
And guiltless to our Maker proftrate fall;
Be Chriftians while we pray, nor in one breath
Afk Mercy for ourfelves, for others Death.
But O! I view with transport arts restor'd,
Which double ufe to Britain shall afford;
Secure her glory purchas'd in the field,
And yet for future peace fweet motives yield:
While we contemplate on the painted wall,
The preffing Briton, and the flying Gaul,

In fuch bright images, fuch living grace,
As leave great Raphael but the fecond place;
Our cheeks fhall glow, our heaving bofoms rife,
And martial ardors sparkle in our eyes;
Much we shall triumph in our battles past,
And yet confent those battles prove our last;
Left, while in arms for brighter fame we strive,
We lose the means to keep that fame alive.
In filent groves the birds delight to sing,
Or near the margin of a secret spring :
Now all is calm, fweet mufic fhall improve,
Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.

But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string,
Or breathing canvass, when the Mufes fing?
The Mufe, my Lord, your care above the reft,
With rifing joy dilates my partial breast;
The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar,
Ere Greece her godlike Poets taught to foar;
Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead,
And all her warlike neighbours round her bled;
For Janus fhut, her lö Paans rung,

Before an Ovid or a Virgil fung.

A thousand various forms the Mufe may wear
(A thousand various forms become the fair);
But fhines in none with more majestic mien,
Than when in state she draws the purple scene
Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage,
And mourning beauty melt the crouded stage;
Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use
The noblest virtues time did e'er produce;

Leaves

ADE

Leaves fam'd hiftorians' boafted art behind;

They keep the foul alone, and that 's confin'd,
Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks:
The hero's prefence deep impreffion makes;
The scenes his foul and body reunite,
Furnish a voice, produce him to the fight;
Make our contemporary him that stood
High in renown, perhaps before the flood;
Make Neftor to this age advice afford,
And Hector for our fervice draw his fword.

More glory to an Author what can bring,
Whence nobler fervice to his country spring,
Than from thofe labours, which, in man's defpight,
Poffefs him with a paffion for the right ?
With honeft magic make the knave inclin'd
To pay devotion to the virtuous mind;
Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove,
And with her wants and anguish fall in love?
Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan,
And does not wish the glorious pain his own?
Lend but your understanding, and their skill
Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will:
Nor is the fhort-liv'd conqueft quickly past ;
Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast.
How often have I feen the generous bowl
With pleafing force unlock a secret soul,
And steal a truth, which every fober hour
(The profe of life) had kept within her power?
The grape victorious often has prevail'd,

When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, fail'd: