Untouch'd with guilt, he knows no fears, Thus Somers, for great service done, Thus our great founder William rose, By opposition of his foes, To his immortal glory: Thus our brave George advanc'd to fame, George thus address'd his brother Gods, Assembled in their blest abodes, And Britain's fate debating: 'Long have the Stuarts ceas'd to reign, 'Since James's Priests and foreign Queen • Drove on his abdicating. 'Soon as he from the Church withdrew 'His grace, by solemn promise due, 'And broke all limitation; 'His forfeit crown, by just decree, 'Was doom'd to William and to me, 'To save a sinking nation. 'The Bigot King shall now no more 'Hold Commerce with Rome's scarlet Whore, • And back her superstition; 'No more shall Stuart's perjur'd house • Britain's credulity abuse, While plotting her perdition. 'But foes, subdued, my pity meet, 'My coward Cousin now I own, Since Scotland proves him James's son, "Whoever was his mother. Nay, frauds forgotten, I'm content 'He should be rank'd in right descent: Still roar between his sons and mine, • Where they can find promotion. 'Since Tyranny has met its fate, Now triumphs o'er its ruin; Britain shall stand most truly great, 'Her fleets shall all around proclaim Cross from the Old World to the New, Nor shall she seek for golden mines, No bounds shall check her conqu❜ring arms, ' And wrongs are to be righted: But these great things that I relate • Can only be her glorious fate, 'On this express condition: That with false zeal no more she burns, 'No more to Stuart's race returns, And papal imposition. To raise again that hated line, 'Should e'er a factious people join, 'Grown mad with too much freedom; 'Again my Powers shall take the field, 'Again the coward Chiefs shall yield, And sword or axe shall bleed 'em. 'Thrice should Rebellion rear her head, 'With front of brass, but heart of lead, Still bent upon restoring; 'Before my sons thrice shall she fly, 'Thrice at their feet in vain shall lie, Wives for their lords imploring.' But whither would my Muse aspire? To themes past thy attaining: At best is but profaning. ODE III. THE COUNTRY GIRL. BY SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS, K. B. THE Country Girl that's well inclin'd Now will, and now will not comply, To raptures now her pulse beats high, But when the lover, with his pray'rs, She quite forgets her fear and shame, So virtuous Pulteney, who had long, |