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The plunderer's hand consuming unrestrain d,
As jealons of her store, ev’n Nature drain'd;
Her surface wasted, deeper still engag'd,
And in the centre of her treasure rag'd.
Then timely, Carteret, rose thy peaceful star,
To calm the Dane, and check the fiercer Czar:
What hand soe'er shall fix the great design,
The first plantation of that Olive's thine.

Now in thy councils let thy country share ; She best deserves, and most will bless thy care : An age in faction and corruption lost, And only haunted by dead Virtue's ghost, Asks a Lycurgus to correct the times, And Draco's sentences for unmatch'd crimes. The shatter'd State, though fearful of her doom, Sees a new light break chearful through the gloom ; And still sécure the public vessel rides, While Carteret ministers, and George presides.

ON

SIR ROBERT WALPOLE'S

BIRTH-DAY,

Aje. the 26.n.

BY

THE HONORABLE

GEORGE DODDINGTON,

(Afterwards Lord Melcombe. ]

All hail, auspicious day, whose wish'd return
Bids every breast with grateful ardor burn;
While pleas‘d Britannia that great man surveys
The Prince may trust, and yet the People praise :
One-bearing greatest toils with greatest ease,
One born to serve us, and yet born to please ;
His soul capacious, yet his judgment clear',
His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere :
His counsels guide, fris temper chcers oor isle,
And smiling gives three kingdoms cause to smile.
August, how bright thy golden scenes appear,
Thou fairest daughter of the various year !
On thee the Sun with all his ardor glow's,
On thee in dowry all its fruits bestows;

The greatest Prince, the foremost son of Fame,
To thee bequeath'd the glories of his name ;
Nature and Fortune thee their darling chose,
Nor could they grace thee more, 'till Walpole ser
By steps to mighty things Fate makes her way,
The Sun and Caesar but prepar'd this day.

TO

HIS GRACE
THE DUKE OF ARGYLL,

PPON READING THE PREAMBLE TO THE PATENT,

Creating him
DUKE OF GREENWICH.

BY MR. POPE.

Mindless of fate, in these low vile abodes,
Tyrants have oft usurp'd the style of gods;
But that the mortal may be thought divine,
The herald straight new-modell’d all his line ;
And venal priest, with well-dissembled lie,
Preambled to the crowd the mimic Deity.
Not so great Saturn's son, imperial Jove,
He reigns unquestion'd in his realms above ;
Nɔ :itle from descent he need infer,
His red right arm proclaims the thunderer.
This, Campbell, be thy pride, illustrious peer,
Alike to shine distinguish'd in thy sphere.
All merit but thine own thou may'st disdain,
And kings have been thine ancestors in vain.

то

THE AUTHOR

OF A

PANEGYRIC

ON

MRS. GRACE BUTLER,

WHO DIED AGED LXXXVI.

SUPPOSED FROM HER SPIRIT.

By the Same.

Stript to the naked soul, escap'd from clay,
From doubts unfetter'd, and dissolv'd in day;
Unwarmd by vanity ; unreach'd by strife ;
And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life,
Why am I charm'd by Friendship’s fond essays,
And, tho' unbodied, conscious of thy praise ?
Has pride a portion in the parted soul ?
Dɔes passion still the formless mind control?
Can gratitude out-pant the silent breath?
Or a friend's sorrow pierce the glooms of death ?

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