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Heaven to our vows may future kingdoms owe,
But skill and courage win the crowns below.

Ere to thy caufe, and thee, my heart inclin'd,
Or love to party had feduc'd my mind,
In female joys I took a dull delight,
Slept all the morn, and punted half the night:
But now, with fears and public cares poffeft,
The church, the church, for ever breaks my rest.
The poftboy on my pillow I explore,

And fift the news of every foreign fhore,

Studious to find new friends, and new allies;
What armies march from Sweden in disguise;
How Spain prepares her banners to unfold,
And Rome deals out her blessings, and her gold:
Then o'er the map my finger, taught to stray,
Crofs many a region marks the winding way;
From fea to fea, from realm to realm I rove,
And grow a meer geographer by love:

But ftill Avignon, and the pleafing coast

That holds thee banifh'd, claims my care the most: Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes,

And fpan the distance that between us lies.

Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair, Whilft on his fide he reckons half the fair: In Britain's lovely ifle a fhining throng War in his caufe, a thousand beauties strong. Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their powers; Be theirs the mufket, while the tongue is ours. We reason with fuch fluency and fire, The beaux we baffle, and the learned tire,

Against

Against her prelates plead the church's caufe,
And from our judges vindicate the laws.

Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms loft;
A crown, though late, thy facred brows may boaft;
Heaven feems through us thy empire to decree;
Those who win hearts, have given their hearts to thee
Haft thou not heard that when, profufely gay,
-Our well-dreft rivals grac'd their fovereign's day,
We ftubborn damfels met the public view
In lothfome wormwood, and repenting rue?
What Whig but trembled, when our spotlefs band
In virgin roses whiten'd half the land!
Who can forget what fears the foe poffeft,

When oaken-boughs mark'd every loyal breast!
Lefs fcar'd than Medway's stream the Norman ftood,
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
Till, near at hand, a gleam of fwords betray'd
The youth of Kent beneath its wandering shade?
Those who the fuccours of the fair despise,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
Thy female bards, O prince by fortune croft,
At least more courage than thy men can boast:
Our fex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet,
And purchas'd fame in many a well-fought street.
From Drury-Lane, the region of renown,
The land of love, the Paphos of the town,
Fair patriots fallying oft have put to flight

With all their poles the guardians of the night,
And bore, with fcreams of triumph, to their fide
The leader's ftaff in all its painted pride.

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Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
To vend the difcontented statesman's thought,
Though red with stripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore fmitten for the love of facred fong,
The tuneful fifters ftill pursue their tradę,
Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.
Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause,

His fword for James no brother fovereign draws.

The Pope himself, furrounded with alarms,

To France his bulls, to Corfu fends his arms,
And though he hears his darling fon's complaint,
Can hardly fpare one tutelary faint,

But lifts them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready money coins his gods.
The dauptlefs Swede, purfued by vengeful foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary fnows;
Nor muft the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feafts regale our garter'd youth again.
Safe, Bar-le-Duc, within thy filent grove
The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove:
The knight, who aims unerring from afar,
Th' adventurous knight, now quits the sylvan war
Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd,
Or grunt fecure beneath the chefnut shade.
Inconftant Orleans (ftill we mourn the day
That trufted Orleans with imperial fway,)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch fends,
Far from the call of his defponding friends,

Such

Such are the terms, to gain Britannia's grace!
And fuch the terrors of the Brunswick race!

Was it for this the fun's whole luftre fail'd,
And fudden midnight o'er the moon prevail'd!
For this did heaven difplay to mortal eyes

Aërial knights and combats in the skies!

Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red!
And Thames driv'n backward fhow'd his fecret bed
Falfe auguries th' infulting victor's fcorn!
Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn!
O portents conftrued on our fide in vain!
Let never Tory trust eclipse again!

Run clear, ye fountains be at peace, ye skies!
And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise!
To Rome then must the royal wanderer go,
And fall a fuppliant at the papal toe?
His life in floth inglorious muft he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in prayer?
His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease,
The proffer'd purple and the hat may please.
Shall he, whofe ancient patriarchal race
To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace,
In folemn conclave fit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trusty vote!
Be fummon'd to his ftall in time of need,
And with his cafting fuffrage fix a creed!
Shall he in robes on ftated days appear,
And English heretics curfe once a year!
Garnet and Faux thall he with prayers invoke,
And beg that Smithfield piles once more may

fmoke!

K 2

Forbid

Forbid it, heaven! my foul, to fury wrought,
Turns almoft Hanoverian at the thought.

From James and Rome I feel my heart decline,
And fear, O Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine;
Yet ftill his fhare thy rival will contest,

And still the double claim divides my breast.
The fate of James with pitying eyes I view,
And with my homage were not Brunswick's due::
To James my paffion and my weakness guide,
But reafon fways me to the victor's fide.
Though griev'd I speak it, let the truth appear!
You know my language, and my heart, fincere.
In vain did falfehood his fair frame disgrace;
What force had falfehood, when he fhow'd his face!
In vain to war our boastful clans were led ;

Heaps driv'n on heaps, in the dire fhock they fled.:
France fhuns his wrath, nor raises to our fhame
A fecond Dunkirk in another name :

In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows:
Spite of feign'd fears and artificial cries,

The pious town fees fifty churches rise :
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And fits more firmly on his thaken throne.

Το my fad thought no beam of hope appears.
Through the long profpect of fucceeding years.
The fon, afpiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his fire: another and the fame.
He, bleft in lovely Carolina's arms,
To future ages propagates her charms :

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