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From conflicts pass'd each other's worth we find,': And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd; Each wound receiv'd, now pleads the cause of love, And former injuries endearments prove. What Briton but must prize th' illustrious sword, That cause of fear to Churchill could afford ? Who sworn to Bourbon's fceptre, but must frame Vast 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 consequences flow (The dazzling profpect makes my bosom glow); Commerce shall lift her swelling 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 fore, The perils of the dreadful ocean o’er, Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find, Nor curse the mercy of the sea and wind; By hardest fate condemn'd to serve a foe, And give him strength to strike a deeper blow. Sweet Philomela providently flies To distant woods and streams, for such supplies, To feed her young, and make them try the wing, And with their tender notes attempt to sing : · Mean while, the fowler spreads his secret snare, And renders vain the tuneful mother's care. Britannia's bold adventurer of late, The foaming ocean plow'd with equal fate.

Goodness

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Goodness is greatness in its utmost height,
And power a curse, if not a friend to right:
To conquer is to make dissention cease,
That man may serve the King of kings in peace.
Religion now shall all her rays dispense,
And shine abroad in perfect excellence;
Else we may dread some greater curse at hand,
To scourge 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 sweep the relicks of the sword away.

When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne,
Jove in the fulness of his glory shone ;
Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword
Was born to raise a temple to the Lord.
Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile
Speak peace eternal to Britannia's ille.
Those mighty souls, 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 subdued to this?
The
grave

sets bounds to sublunary bliss;
But there are conquests to great Anna known,
Above the splendour of an earthly throne;
Conquests ! whose triumph is too great, within
The scanty bounds of matter to begin ;
Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run
Beyond this darkness of the stars and sun,
And shall whole ages past be ftill, still but begun.

Heroic,

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Heroic shades ! whom war has swept away,
Look down, and fmile on this auspicious 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 passes in the world below.

The bravest of mankind shall now have leave
To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave :
On gain or pleafure bent, we fhall not meet
Sad melancholy numbers in each ftreet
(Owners of bones dispers’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 insult of their woes appear,
And make grudge ourselves that wealth, their blood
Perhaps preserv’d, who starve, or beg for food.
Devotion shall run pure, and disengage
From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage.
On heaven without a sin we now may call,
And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall;
Be Christians while we pray, nor in one breath
Ask Mercy for ourselves, for others Death.

But O! I view with transport arts restor’d,
Which double use to Britain fall affords
Secure her glory purchas'd in the field,
And yet for future peace sweet motives yield:
While we contemplate on the painted wall,
The pressing Briton, and the flying Gaul,

In such bright images, such living grace,
As leave great Raphael but the second place;
Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise,
And martial ardors sparkle in our eyes;
Much we shall triumph in our battles past,
And yet consent those battles prove our last;
Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive,
We lose the means to keep that fame alive.

In filent groves the birds delight to fing,
Or near the margin of a secret spring :
Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve,
Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.

But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string,
Or breathing canvass, when the Muses fing?
The Muse, my Lord, your care above the rest,
With rising 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, wa's dead,
And all her warlike neighbours round her bled
For Janus fhut, her Pæans rung,
Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung.

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

Leaves fam'd historians' boafted art behind;
They keep the soul alone, and that 's confin'd,
Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks :
The hero's presence deep impression makes ;
The scenes his soul and body reunite,
Furnith a voice, produce him to the fight;
Make our contemporary him that stood
High in renown, perhaps before the flood;
Make Nestor to this age advice afford,
And Hector for our service draw his sword.

More glory to an Author what can bring,
Whence nobler service to his country spring,
Than from those labours, which, in man's despight,
Posless him with a passion for the right?
With honest 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 short-liv'd conqueft quickly past ;
Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast.

How often have I seen the generous bowl
With pleasing force unlock a secret soul,
And steal a truth, which every sober hour
(The prose of life) had kept within her power ?
The grape victorious often has prevail'd,
When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, failid:

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