Amidst the world of waves fo ftands ferene
Britannia's ifle, the Ocean's ftately queen;
In vain the nations have conspir'd her fall,
Her trench the fea, and fleets her floating wall;
Defenceless barks, her powerful navy near,
Have only waves and hurricanes to fear.
What bold invader, or what land opprefs'd,
Hath not her anger quell'd, her aid redrefs'd?
Say, where have e'er her union-croffes fail'd,
But much her arms, her juftice more prevail'd?
Her labours are to plead th' Almighty's cause,
Her pride to teach th' untam'd barbarian laws :
Who conquers, wins by brutal ftrength the prize;
But 'tis a god-like work to civilize.

Have we forgot, how from great Ruffia's throne
The king, whofe pow'r half Europe's regions own,
Whose scepter waving, with one shout rush forth
In fwarms the harness'd millions of the north;
Through realms of ice purfu'd his tedious way,
To court our friendship, and our fame furvey!
Hence the rich prize of useful arts he bore,

And round his empire spread the learned ftore,
(T' adorn old realms is more than new to raise,
His country's parent is a monarch's praise.)

His bands now march in juft array to war,
And Cafpian gulphs unusual navies bear;
With Runic lays Smolensko's forests ring,
And wond'ring Volga hears the Mufes fing.
Did not the painted kings of India greet
Our,Queen, and lay their scepters at her feet?
Chiefs who full bowls of hoftile blood had quaff'd,
Fam'd for the javelin, and invenom'd shaft;
Whose haughty brows made favages adore,
Nor bow'd to lefs than ftars, or fun before:
Her pitying smile accepts their suppliant claim,
And adds four monarchs to the Chriftian name.

Blest use of pow'r! O virtuous pride in kings!
And like his bounty, whence dominion springs!
Which o'er new worlds makes heaven's indulgence shine,
And ranges myriads under laws divine!

Well bought with all that thofe fweet regions hold,
With groves of fpices, and with mines of gold.
Fearless our merchant now pursues his gain,
And roams fecurely o'er the boundless main.
Now o'er his head the polar bear he spies,
And freezing fpangles of the Lapland skies;
Now fwells his canvas to the fultry line,
With glitt'ring spoils where Indian grottoes shine;
VOL. I.

B

Where

Where fumes of incense glad the southern feas,
And wafted citron scents the balmy breeze.
Here nearer funs prepare
the rip'ning gem,
Το grace great ANNE's imperial diadem;
And here the ore, whose melted mass shall yield
On faithful coins each memorable field;
Which, mix'd with medals of immortal Rome,
May clear difputes, and teach the times to come.

In circling beams fhall godlike ANNA glow,
And Churchill's fword hang o'er the proftrate foe;
In comely wounds fhall bleeding worthies stand,
Webb's firm platoon, and Lumly's faithful band!
Bold Mordaunt in Iberian trophies dress'd,
And Campbell's dragon on his dauntless breast;
Great Ormond's deeds on Vigo's spoils enroll'd,
And Guifcard's knife on Harley's Chili gold.
And if the Muse, O BRISTOL, might decree,
Here Granville noted by the lyre fhould be,
The lyre for Granville, and the cross for thee.
Such are the honours grateful Britain pays,
So patriots merit, and fo monarchs praise.
O'er diftant times fuch records fhall prevail,
When English numbers, antiquated, fail:

A trifling

A trifling fong the Mufe can only yield,
And footh her foldiers panting from the field;
To sweet retirements see them fafe convey'd,
And raise their battles in the rural fhade.
From fields of death to Woodstock's peaceful glooms
(The poet's haunt) Britannia's hero comes――
Begin, my Mufe, and foftly touch the string:
Here Henry lov'd; and Chaucer learn'd to fing.
Hail fabled grotto! hail Elysian soil!
Thou faireft fpot of fair Britannia's isle!
Where kings of old conceal'd forgot the throne,
And beauty was content to fhine unknown;
Where love and war by turns pavilions rear,
And Henry's bow'rs near Blenheim's dome appear;
The weary'd champion lull in foft alcoves,
The noblest boaft of thy romantic groves,
Oft, if the Mufe prefage, fhall he be seen
By Rofamonda fleeting o'er the green,

In dreams be hail'd by heroes' mighty fhades,
And hear old Chaucer warble through the glades :
O'er the fam'd echoing vaults his name fhall bound,
And hill to hill reflect the fav'rite found.

Here, here at leaft thy love for arms give o'er, Nor, one world conquer'd, fondly wish for more.

B 2

Vice

Vice of great fouls alone! O thirst of fame!
The Mufe admires it, while fhe ftrives to blame;
Thy toils be now to chase the bounding deer,
Or view the courfers ftretch in wild career;
This lovely scene shall footh thy foul to rest,
And wear each dreadful image from thy breaft;
With pleasure, by thy conquests shalt thou fee
Thy Queen triumphant, and all Europe free
No cares henceforth fhall thy repose destroy,
But what thou giv'st the world, thyself enjoy.

Sweet folitude! when life's gay hours are past,
Howe'er we range, in thee we fix at last;
Tofs'd through tempeftuous feas (the voyage o'er)
Pale we look back, and bless the friendly shore.
Our own ftrict judges, our past life we scan,
And ask if glory hath enlarg'd the fpan;

If bright the prospect, we the grave defy,
Truft future ages, and contented die..

When strangers from far-diftant climes fhall come,
To view the pomp of this triumphant dome;
Where rear'd aloft diffembled trophies ftand,
And breathing labours of the sculptor's hand,
Where Kneller's art fhall paint the flying Gaul,
And Bourbon's woes fhall fill the ftory'd wall;