Then burfting fresh into a flood of tears,
Fierce, refolute, delirious with his fears;
His fears for her alone: he beat his breast,
And thus the fervour of his foul expreft:

"Oh! let thy thought o'er our past converse rove,
"And fhew one moment uninflam'd with love!
"Oh! if thy kindness can no longer last,

"In pity to thyfelf, forget the past!

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"Elfe wilt thou never, void of shame and fear, "Pronounce his doom whom thou haft held fo dear: Thou, who hast took me to thy arms, and swore "Empires were vile, and Fate could give no more; "That to continue was its utmost power, "And make the future like the present hour: "Now call a ruffian, bid his cruel fword

Lay wide the bofom of thy worthless lord?

"Transfix his heart (fince you its love disclaim) "And ftain his honour with a traitor's name.

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"This might perhaps be borne without remorfe, 190 "But fure a father's pangs will have their force! "Shall his good age, fo near its journey's end, "Through cruel torment to the grave descend? "His fhallow blood all iffue at a wound, "Wash a flave's feet, and smoke upon the ground? "But he to you has ever been severe ; "Then take your vengeance."-Suffolk Bending beneath the burden of his care, His robes neglected, and his head was bare: Decrepit Winter, in the yearly ring,

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now drew near,

Thus flowly creeps to meet the blooming spring:
Downward he caft a melancholy look,

Thrice turn'd to hide his grief, then faintly spoke.
"Now deep in years, and forward in decay,
"That axe can only rob me of a day :
"For thee, my foul's defire! I can't refrain;
"And fhall my tears, my laft tears, flow in vain?
"When you fhall know a mother's tender name,
"My heart's distress no longer will you blame.”
At this, afar his burfting groans were heard;
The tears ran trickling down his filver beard:

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He fnatch'd her hand, which to his lips he prefs'd,
And bid her plant a dagger in his breaft;
Then, finking, call'd her piety unjust,
And foil'd his hoary temples in the dust.
Hard-hearted men! will you no mercy know?
Has the queen brib'd you to diftrefs her foe?
O weak deferters to Misfortune's part,
By false affection thus to pierce her heart!
When fhe had foar'd, to let your arrows fly,
And fetch her bleeding from the middle sky.
And can her virtue, fpringing from the ground,
Her flight recover, and difdain the wound,
When cleaving love, and human int'reft, bind
The broken force of her afpiring mind!
As round the gen'rous eagle, which in vain
Exerts her ftrength, the ferpent wreaths his train,
Her ftruggling wings entangles, curling plies
His pois'nous tail, and ftings her as the flies.

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While yet the blow's first dreadful weight the feels, And with its force her refolution reels,

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Large doors, unfolding with a mournful found,

To view discover, welt'ring on the ground,

Three headlefs trunks of those whofe arms maintain'd, And in her wars immortal glory gain'd:

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The lifted axe affur'd her ready doom,

And filent mourners fadden'd all the room,
Shall I proceed, or here break off my tale,
Nor truths to ftagger human faith reveal?
She met this utmoft malice of her fate
With Chriftian dignity and pious itate;
The beating storm's propitious rage she bless'd,

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And all the martyr triumph'd in her breast.

Her lord and father, for a moment's space,

She ftrictly folded in her soft embrace!

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Then thus fhe spoke, while angels heard on high,
And fudden gladnefs fmil'd along the sky.

"Your over-fondness has not mov'd my hate : "I am well pleas'd you make my death so great : joy I cannot fave you; and have giv'n "Two lives much dearer than my own to heaven,

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"If fo the queen decrees*.—But I have cause "To hope my blood will fatisfy the laws; "And there is mercy ftill for you in store: "With me the bitterness of death is o'er ; "He fhot his fting in that farewel embrace, "And all that is to come is joy and peace. "Then let mistaken forrow be fuppreft, "Nor feem to envy my approaching reft." E Then, turning to the minifters of fate,

She, fmiling, fays, "My victory's complete;
"And tell your queen I thank her for the blow,
"And grieve my gratitude I cannot show.
"A poor return I leave in England's crown,
"For everlasting pleasure and renown:
"Her guilt alone allays this happy hour;
"Her guilt, the only vengeance in her power."

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Not Rome, untouch'd with forrow, heard her fate,

And fierce Maria pity'd her too late.

Here the embraces them,

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Aa3

ON THE

DEATH OF QUEEN ANNE,

AND THE

ACCESSION OF KING GEORGE.

INSCRIBED TO

JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ.

Secretary to their Excellencies the Lords Justices.

IR! I have long, and with impatience, fought
To care the fullness of my grateful thought,

My fame at once and duty to pursue,
And please the public by refpect to you.

Tho' you, long fince beyond Britannia known,
Have fpread your country's glory with your own,
To me you never did more lovely fhine,
Than when fo late the kindled wrath divine
Quench'd our ambition in great Anna's fate,
And darken'd all the pomp of human state.
Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay,
Though rais'd in life, and greatness fade away,
Your luftre brightens; virtue cuts the gloom
With purer rays, and fparkles near a tomb.

Know, Sir! the great esteem and honour due
I chofe, that moment, to profefs to you,
When sadness reign'd, when Fortune fo fevere
Had warm'd our bofoms to be most fincere,
And when no motive could have force to raise
A ferious value, and provoke my praise,
But fuch as rife above, and far tranfcend,
Whatever glories with this world fhall end,
Then fhining forth, when deepest shades shall blot
The fun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot.

I fing!-but, ah! my theme I need not tell!
See ev'ry eye with confcious forrow fwell :
Who now to verfe would raise his humble voice,
Can only shew his duty, not his choice.

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How great
the weight of grief our hearts sustain !
We languish, and to speak is to complain.
Let us look back, (for who too oft can view
That moft illuftrious fcene, for ever new!)
See all the feafon's fhine on Anna's throne,
And pay a constant tribute not their own.
Her fummer's heats nor fruits alone bestow,
They reap the harvests and fubdue the foe;
And when blackstorms confefs the distant fun,
Her winters wear the wreaths her fummers won:
Revolving pleafures in their turns appear,
And triumphs are the product of the year.

To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease,
And glorious victory is loft in peace.

Whence this profufion on our favour'd isle
Did partial Fortune on our virtue smile?
Or did the fceptre, in great Anna's hand.
Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land?
Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim;
The queen and thy good fortune are the fame.

Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky; 'Tis Anna reigns; the Gallic fquadrons fly. We fpread our canvafs to the fouthern fhore;

Tis Anna reigns! the South refigns her store.
Her virtue fooths the tumult of the main,
And fwells the field with mountains of the flain;]
Argyle and Churchill but the glory share,
While millions lie fubdu'd by Anna's prayer.
How great her zeal! how fervent her defire!

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How did her foul in holy warmth expire!
Conftant devotion did her time divide,
Nor fet returns of pleasure or of pride;
Not want of reft, or the fun's parting ray,

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But finish'd duty, limited the day.

How fweet fucceeding fleep! what lovely themes
Smil'd in her thoughts, and soften'd all her dreams!
Her royal couch defcending angels fpread,

And join their wings, a fhelter o'er her head.
Tho' Europe's wealth and glory claim'd a part,
Religion's caufe reign'd mistress of her heart;

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