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But should the Sun again adorn the sky,
Glasses, twice-convex, to the chasm apply,
And strait a wonderous landscape charms the view :
Such lights ! such shades not Poussin ever drew :
Gay Nature's paint ! such image, beauteous,

falls, And trees, erect, wave green along the whiten'd


So when great BRUNSWICK yielded to his fate, O'er-cast, and chearless was Britannia's state, Her cheeks to lose their bloomy hue begun, And all her roses vanish'd with the Sun : 'Till a new BRUNSWICK, with an equal ray, Recall'd at once her beauties, and the day : Firm and unchanged, the spires and turrets,


Religion, join’d with Liberty's fair hand,
In triumph walk, and bless, with wonted smiles,

the land!

Hail, mighty Monarch! whose desert alone Would, without birth-right, raise Thee to a Throne! Thy Virtues shine peculiarly nice, Ungloom'd with a confinity to vice What strains shall equal to thy glories rise, First to the world, and borderer on the skies !

How exquisitely great, who cans't inspire
Such joys, that Albion mourns no more thy Sire!
Thy Sire! a Prince, she loved to that degree,
She almost trespass’d on the Deity!
Imperial weight he bore with so much ease !
Who but thyself, would not despair to please ?
A dull, fat, thoughtless Heir, unheeded springs
From a long slothful line of restive kings;
And thrones, innur’d to a tyrannick race,
Think a new tyrant not a new disgrace;
Tho' by the change the State no bliss receives,
And Nero dies in vain, if Otho lives :
But when a stem, with fruitful branches crown'd,
Has flourish'd, in each various branch renown'd,
Still ever seen, (if they survive, or fall,)
All heroes, and their country's fathers all ;
His great fore-runners when the last out-shone,
Who could a brighter, hope, or ev'n as bright, a

Son ?
Old Rome with tears the younger Scipio view'd,
Who not in fame her African renewid.
Avaunt, degenerate grafts, or spurious breed !
'Tis a GEORGE only can a GEORGE succeed!
The shafts of Death the Pelian Art have found,
They bring at once the balm, that give the wound.


Shelton, Staffordshire, 1730.

A Poet Minorite, whose productions are more characterised

by indecency than wit. He is said to have been a moral man. What must have been the morality of an age wher a moral man could write such poems, and Walter Harte, who certainly was a religious man, could present them to a young Lady, with commendatory verses in which the most obscene tales are recommended as “ stories quaintto charm the hours away!"

To the Right Honourable John Lord Gower.

Written in the Spring, 1716.

O'er winter's long inclement sway,
At length the lusty spring prevails ;
And, swift to meet the smiling May,
Is wafted by the western gales.

Around him dance the rosy hours, .
And damasking the ground with flowers,
With ambient sweets perfume the morn:
With shadowy verdure flourish'd high,
A sudden youth the groves enjoy,
While Philomel laments forlorn.

By her awaked, the woodland choir
To hail the coming God prepares ;
And tempts me to resume the lyre,
Soft warbling to the vernal afrs.
Yet once more, Oye Muses ! deign,
For me the meanest of your frain,
Unblamed to approach your blest retreat,
Where Horace wantons at your spring,
And Pindar sweeps a bolder string,
Whose notes th' Aonian hills repeat.

Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides
Slow through the vales in silver volumes play;
Now your own Phæbus o'er the month presides,
Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day.

Thither indulgent to my prayer,
Ye bright harmonious nymphs repair,

To swell the notes I feebly raise :
So with inspiring ardours warm’d,
May Gower's propitious ear be charm'd,

To listen to my lays.

Beneath the pole on hills of snow,
Like Thracian May, th' undaunted Swede
To dint of sword defies the foe;
In fight unknowing to recede :
From Volga's banks, the imperious Czar
Leads forth his fury troops to war :
Fond of the softer southern sky:
The Soldan galls th’ Illyrian coast;
But soon the miscreant moony host
Before the victor-cross shall fly.

But here no clarion's shrilling note
The Muse's green retreat can pierce;
The grove, from noisy camps remote,
Is only vocal with my versé :
Here wing'd with innocence and joy,
Let the soft hours that o'er me fly
Drop freedom, health, and gay desires :
While the bright Seine t exalt the soul,
With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl,
And wit and social mirth inspires.

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