She faw, and griev'd, to see the mean eftate
Of those who round the hallow'd altar wait;
She shed her bounty piously profufe,
And thought it more her own in facred use.
Thus on his furrow fee the tiller ftand,
And fill with genial feed his lavish hand;
He trufts the kindness of the fruitful plain,
And providently scatters all his grain.
What strikes my fight! does proud Augusta rise
New to behold, and awfully furprise!
Her lofty brow more num'rous turrets crown,
And facred domes on palaces look down;
A noble pride of piety is fhewn,
And temples cait a luftre on the throne.
How would this work another's glory raife;
But Anna's greatnefs robs her of the praife:
Drown'd in a greater blaze it disappears.
Who dry'd the widow's and the orphan's tears?
Who foop'd from high to fuccour the diftrefs'd,
And reconcile the wounded heart to reft?
Great in her goodnefs, well could we perceive,
Whoever fought, it was a Queen that gave.
Misfortune loft her name; her guiltlefs frown
But made another debtor to the crown,
And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore,
Became our title to the regal ftore.
Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot,
And their wounds bloffom with a fairer fruit.
Ye Numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd,
When firft the dreadful blaft of Fame arriv'd,
Say, what a fhock, what agonies you felt,
How did your fouls with tender anguish melt!
That grief which living Anna's love fupprefs'd,
Shook like a tempeft ev'ry grateful breast.
A fecond fate our finking fortunes try'd ;
A fecond time our tender parents dy'd!
Heroes returning from the field we crown,
And deify the haughty victor's frown;
His fplendid wealth too rafhly we admire,
Catch the difeafe, and burn with equal fire.
Wifely to spend is the great art of gain ;
And one reliev'd tranfcends a million slain.
When time shall afk where once Ramillia lay,
Or Danube flow'd that fwept whole troops away,
One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry,
Shall raife a fountain of eternal joy.
But ah! to that unknown and distant date
Is Virte's great reward push'd off by Fate;
Here random shafts in ev'ry breast are found,
Virtue and merit but provoke the wound.
August in native worth and regal state,
Anna fat arbitrefs of Europe's fate
To distant realms did ev'ry accent fly,
And, nations watch'd each motion of her eye.
Silent, nor longer awful to be feen,
How fmall a fpot contains the mighty Queen!
No throng of fuppliant princes mark the place,
Where Britain's greatnefs is compos'd in peace:
The broken earth is fcarce difcern'd to rife,
And a ftone tells us where the monarch lies.
Thus end matureft honours of the crown!
This is the laft conclufion of renown!
So when, with idle fkill, the wanton boy
Breathes thro' his tube, he fees, with eager joy,
The trembling bubble, in its rifing finall,
And, by degrees, expands the glittering ball ;
But when, to full perfection blown, it flies
High in the air, and fhines in various dyes,
The little monarch, with a falling tear,
Sees his world burst at once, and disappear.
'Tis not in forrow to reverse our doom;
No groans unlock th' inexorable tomb;
Why then this fond indulgence of our woe!
What fruit can rife, or what advantage flow!
Yes, this advantage from our deep diftrefs,
We learn how much in George the gods can blefs.
Had a lefs glorious princefs left the throne,
But half the hero had at first been fhewn;
And Anna falling all the King employs,
To vindicate from guilt our rifing joys:
Our joys arife, and innocently fhine,
Aufpicious monarch! what a praise is thine !
Welcome, great Stranger! to Britannia's throne!
Nor let thy country think thee all her own.
Of thy delay how oft did we complain !
Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main.
With pray'r we smooth'd the billows for thy fleet,
With ardent wifhes filled thy fwelling fheet
And when thy foot took place on Albion's fhore,
We bending blefs'd the gods, and afk'd no more.
What hand but thine fhould conquer and compofe,
Join thofe whom int'reft joins, and chase our foes?
Repel the daring youth's prefumptuous aim,
And by his rival's greatness give him fame !
Now in fome foreign court he may fit down,
An quit, without a blufh, the British crown,
Secure his honour, tho' he lose his store,
And take a lucky moment to be poor.
Nor think, great Sir! now firft, at this late hour, In Britain's favour you exert your pow'r: Το us, far back in time, I joy to trace The num'rous tokens of your princely grace. Whether you chufe to thunder on the Rhine, Infpire grave councils, or in courts to shine: In the more fcenes your genius was display'd, The greater debt was on Britannia laid : They all confpir'd this mighty man to raise, And your new fubjects proudly share the praife.
All share: but may not we have leave to boast,
That we contemplate and enjoy it most ?
This ancient nurfe of arts, indulg'd by Fate
On gentle Ifis' bank, a calm retreat,
For many rolling ages juttly fam'd,
Has thro' the world her loyalty proclaim'd;
And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!)
Her blood and treafure to fupport the throne;
For England's church her lateft accent ftrain'd,
And freedom with her dying hand retain'd;
No wonder then her various ranks agree
In all the fervencies of zeal for thee.
What tho' thy birth a diftant kingdom boast, And feas divide thee from the British coaft? The crown's impatient to enclose thy head; Why stay thy feet? the cloth of gold is spread. Our ftrict obedience thro' the world fhall tell, That king's a Briton who can govern
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