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I ask and wifh, not to appear
More beauteous, rich, or gay;
Lord, make me wiler ev'ry year,
And better ev'ry day.

Thro' all time's long protracted tour,
From Adam to the prefent hour;
Still thort the fum; nor can it vie
With the more num'rous years that lie
Embofom'd in Eternity.

Was there a belt that could contain

§ 54. A Moral Reflection. Written on the firft In its vaft orb the earth and main;

Day of the Year 1782.

SEVENTEEN Hundred Eighty-one

Is now for ever past; Seventeen Hundred Eighty-two Will fly away as fast.

But whether life's uncertain fcene
. Shall hold an equal pace;"

Or whether death fhall come between,
And end my mortal race:

Or whether sickness, pain, or health,
My future lot fhall be;
Or whether poverty or wealth,

Is all unknown to me.

One thing I know, that needful 'tis
To watch with careful eye;
Since ev'ry season spent amifs

Is register'd on high.

Too well I know what precious hours
My wayward paffions wafte;
And oh I find my mortal pow'rs
To duft and darkness haste.
Earth rolls her rapid feafons round,
To meet her final fire;
But virtue is with glory crown'd,

Tho' funs and ftars expire.

What awful thoughts! what truth sublime
What useful leffon this!

O! let me well improve my time!
Oh! let me die in peace!

$55. On Eternity. GIBBONS. WHAT is eternity? can aught

Paint its duration to the thought? Tell ev'ry beam the fun emits, When in fublimeft noon he fits; Tell ev'ry light wing'd mote that ftrays Within its ample round of rays; Tell all the leaves, and all the buds, That crown the garden, fields, and woods; Tell all the fpires of grafs the meads Produce, when fpring propitious leads The new-born year; tell all the drops That night, upon their bended tops, Sheds in foft filence, to difplay Their beauties with the rifing day; Tell all the fand the ocean laves, Tell all its changes, all its waves; Or tell with more laborious pains, The drops its mighty mafs contains; Be this aftonishing account Augmented with the full amount Of all the drops the clouds have fhed, Where'er their wat`ry fleeces fpread,

With figures was it cluster'd o'er,
Without one cypher in the fcore;
And would your lab'ring thought affign
The total of the crowded line;

How fcant th' amount! th' attempt how vain!
To reach Duration's endless chain !

For when as many years are run,
Unbounded age is but begun!

Attend, O man, with awe divine,
For this eternity is thine!

§ 56. The Triumph of Ifis, occafioned by Ifs, an Elegy. T. WARTON.

Quid mihi nefcio quam, proprio cum Tybride, Rømam
Semper in ore geris? Referunt fi vera parentes,
Hanc Urbem infano Nullus qui Marte petivit,
Laetatus violaffe redit. Nec Numina Sedem

Deftituunt.----

CLAUDIAN,

ON clofing flow'rs when genial gales diffuse
The fragrant tribute of refreshing dews;
When chants the milk-maid at her balmy pail,
And weary reapers whiftle o'er the vale;
Charm'd by the murmurs of the quiv'ring fhade,
O'er Ifis' willow-fringed banks I ftray'd:
And calmly mufing through the twilight way,
In penfive mood I fram'd the Doric lay.
When lo! from op'ning clouds a golden gleam
Pour'd fudden fplendors o'er the fhadowy ftrean;
And from the wave arofe its guardian queen,
Known by her fweeping ftole of gloffy green;
While in the coral crown that bound her brow
Was wove the Delphic laurel's verdant bough.
As the fmooth furface of the dimply flood
The filver-flipper'd virgin lightly trod;
From her loofe hair the dropping dew the prefs'd,
And thus mine ear in acccents mild addrefs'd:

No more, my fon, the rural reed employ,
Nor trill the tinkling ftrain of empty joy;
No more thy love-refounding fonnets fuit
To notes of paft'ral pipe, or oaten flute.
For hark! high-thron'd on yon majestic walls,
To the dear Mufe afflicted Freedom calls:
When freedom calls, and Oxford bids thee fing,
Why ftays thy hand to ftrike the founding ftring?
While thus, in Freedom's and in Phoebus' fpite,
The venal fons of flavish Cam unite;

To fhake yon towers when malice rears her creft, Shall all my fons in filence idly reft?

Still fing, O Cam, your fav'rite freedom's caufe, Still boaft of freedom, while you break her laws; To Pow'r your fongs of gratulation pay; To courts addrefs foft flattery's fervile lay. What though your gentle Mafon's plaintive verfe Has hung with sweeteft wreaths Mufcus' herfe; What though your vaunted bard's ingenuous woc, Soft as my stream, in tuneful nuinbers flow;

Cc 3

Yer

Yet ftrove his Mufe, by fame or envy led,
To tear the laurels from a fifter's head?
Mifguided youth with rude unclaffic rage
To blot the beauties of thy whiter page;
A rage that fullies e'en thy guiltlefs lays,
And blafts the vernal bloom of half thy bays.
Let boast the patrons of her name,
Each fplendid fool of fortune and of fame:
Still of preferment let her fhine the queen,
Prolific parent of each bowing dean:
Be hers each prelate of the pamper'd cheek,
Each courtly chaplain, fanétify'd and fleek:
Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive
On rich pluralities fupinely thrive:
Still let her fenates titled flaves revere,
Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer;
No longer charm'd by virtue's lofty fong,
Once heard fage Milton's manly tones among,
Where Cam, meand'ring thro' the matted reeds,
With loit'ring wave his groves of laurel feeds.
'Tis ours, my fon, to deal the facred bay,
Where honour calls, and juftice points the way;
To wear the well-carn'd wreath that merit brings,
And fnatch a gift beyond the reach of kings.
Scorning and fcorn'd by courts, yon Mufe's bow'r
Still nor enjoys nor fecks the fmile of pow'r.
Though wakeful vengeance watch my crystal
fpring,

Though perfecution wave her iron wing,
And o'er yon fpiry temples as the flies,
"Thefe deftin'd feats be mine," exulting cries;
Fortune's fair fmiles on Ifis ftill attend:
And, as the dews of gracious heaven defcend
Unaik'd, unfeen, in ftill but copious fhow'rs,
Her fores on me spontaneous bounty pours.
See, fcience waiks with recent chaplets crown'd;
With fancy's ftrain my fairy fhades refound;
My Mufe divine ftill keeps her custom'd state,
The mien erect, and high majeftic gait :
Green as of old each oliv'd portal fmiles,
And ftill the graces build my Grecian piles :
My gothic fpires in ancient glory rife,
And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies.
E'en late when Radcliffe's delegated train
Aufpicious fhone in Ifis' happy plain; [fhrine,
When yon proud dome, fair learning's ampleft
Bencath its attic roofs receiv'd the Nine;
Was rapture mute, or ceas'd the glad acclaim,
To Radcliffe duc, and Ifis' honour'd name?
What free-born crowds adorn'd the feftive day,
Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay!
How each brave breaft with honeft ardours heav'd,
When Sheldon's fane the patriot band receiv'd;
While, as we loudly hail'd the chofen few,
Rome's awful fenate ruth'd upon the view.

O may the day in latest annals fhine,
That made a Beaufort and an Harley mine:
That bade them leave the loftier fcene awhile,
The pomp of guiltlefs ftate, the patriot toil,
For bleeding Albion's aid the fage defign,
To hold fhort dalliance with the tuneful Nine.
Then mufic left her filver fphere on high,
And bore each ftrain of triumph from the sky;

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Swell'd the loud fong, and to my chiefs around
Pour'd the full peans of mellifluous found.
My Naiads blythe the dying accents caught,
And liftening danced beneath their pearly grot:
In gentler eddies play'd my confcious wave,
And all my reeds their fofteft whispers gave;
Each lay with brighter green adorn'd ray bow'rs,
And breath'd a fresher fragrance on my flow'rs.

But lo! at once the pealing concerts ceafe,
And crowded theatres are hufh'd in peace.
See, on yon fage how all attentive stand,
To catch his parting eye, and waving hand.
Hark! he begins, with all a Tully's art,
To pour the dictates of a Cato's heart.
Skill'd to pronounce what nobleft thoughts infpire,
He blends the fpeaker's with the patriot's fire;
Bold to conceive, nor tim'rous to conceal,
What Britons dare to think he dares to tell.
'Tis his alike the ear and eye to charm,
To win with action, and with fenfe to warm.
Untaught in flow'ry periods to difpenfe
The lulling founds of fweet impertinence:
In frowns or smiles he gains an equal prize,
Nor meanly fears to fall, nor creeps to rife;
Bids happier days to Albion be restor'd,
Bids ancient juftice rear her radiant fword;
From me, as from my country, claims applause,
And makes an Oxford's a Britannia's caufe.

While arms like thefe my ftedfaft fages wield, While mine is Truth's impenetrable shield; Say, fhall the puny champion fondly dare Το wage with force like this fcholaftic war? Still vainly fcribble on with pert pretence, With all the rage of pedant impotence? Say, fhall I fofter this domeftic pest, This parricide, that wounds a mother's breaft?

Thus in fome gallant ship, that long has bore Britain's victorious crofs from fhore to fhore, By chance, beneath her clofe fequefter'd cells Some low-born worm, a lurking mischief dwells; Eats his blind way, and faps with fecret guile The deep foundations of the floating pile. In vain the foreft lent its statelieft pride, Rear'd her tall maft, and fram'd her knotty fide; The martial thunder's rage in vain she stood, With ev'ry conflict of the ftormy flood; More fure the reptile's little arts devour Than wars, or waves, or Eurus' wint'ry pow'r. Ye fretted pinnacles, ye fanes fublime, Ye tow'rs that wear the mofly veft of time! Ye maffy piles of old munificence, At once the pride of learning and defence; Ye cloifters pale, that length ning to the fight To contemplation, ftep by step, invite;

Ye high-arch'd walks, where oft the whispers clear

Of harps unfeen have swept the poet's car;
Ye temples dim, where pious duty pays
Her holy hymns of ever-echoing praite;
Lo! your lov'd Ifis, from the bord'ring vale,
With all a mother's fondness bids you hail!-
Hail, Oxford, hail! of all that's good and great,
Of all that's fair, the guardian and the feat;

The Radcliffe Library.

Nurfe

Nurfe of each brave purfuit, cach gen'rous aim,
By truth exalted to the throne of fame!
Like Greece in fcience and in liberty,
As Athens learn'd, as Lacedemon free!
Ey'n now, confefs'd to my adoring cycs,
In awful ranks thy gifted fons arife.
Tuning to knightly tale his British reeds,
Thy genuine bards immortal Chaucer leads:
His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing quire,
And beams on all around celeftial fire.
With graceful ftep fee Addifon advance,
The sweetest child of Attic elegance :
See Chillingworth the depths of doubt explore,
And Selden ope the rolls of ancient lore:
To all but his belov'd embrace deny'd,
See Locke lead Reason, his majestic bride:
See Hammond pierce religion's golden mine,
And fpread the treafur'd ftores of Truth divine.
All who to Albion gave the arts of peace,
And beft the labours plann'd of letter'd cafe;
Who taught with truth, or with perfuafion mov'd,
Who footh'd with numbers, or with fenfe improv'd;
Who rang'd the pow'rs of reafon, or refin'd
All that adorn'd or humaniz'd the mind;
Each priest of health, that mix'd the balmy bowl,
To rear frail man, and ftay the fleeting foul;
All crowd around, and, echoing to the sky,
Hail, Oxford, hail! with filial transport cry.
And fee yon fapient train! with lib'ral aim,
"Twas theirs new plans of liberty to frame;
And on the gothic gloom of flavifh fway
To fhed the dawn of intellectual day.
With mild debate each mufing feature glows,
And well-weigh'd counfels mark their meaning

brows,

"Lo! these the leaders of thy patriot line,"
A Raleigh, Hamden, and a Somers fhine.
Thefe from thy fource the bold contagion caught,
Their future fons the great example taught:
While in cach youth th' hereditary flame
Still blazes, unextinguish'd, and the fame !
Nor all the talks of thoughtful peace engage,
'Tis thine to form the hero as the fage.
I fee the fable-fuited prince advance
With lilies crown'd, the poils of bleeding
France,

Edward. The Mufes in yon cloifter's fhade
Bound on his maiden thigh the martial blade:
Bade him the fteel for British freedom draw;
And Oxford taught the deeds that Creffy faw.
And fee, great father of the facred band,
The Patriot King before me feems to ftand.
He by the bloom of this gay vale beguil'd,
That cheer'd with lively green the thaggy wild,
Hither of yore, forlorn forgotten maid,
The Mufe in prattling infancy convey'd;
From Vandal rage the helplefs virgin bore,
And fix'd her cradle on my friendly fhore:
Soon grew the maid beneath his foft'ring hand,
Soon ftream'd her bleffings o'er the enlighten'd

land.

Though fimple was the dome, where firft to dwell
She deign'd, and rude her early Saxon cell,

Lo! now the holds her state in sculptur'd bow'rs,
And proudly lifts to heaven her hundred tow'rs.
'Twas Alfred firft, with letters and with laws,
Adorn'd, as he advanced, his country's caufe:
He bade relent the Briton's ftubborn ibul,
And footh'd to foft fociety's controul
A rough untutor'd age. With raptur'd cyc
Elate he views his laurel'd progeny:
Serene he finiles to find, that not in vain
He form'd the rudiments of learning's reign:
Himfelf he marks in each ingenuous breast,
With all the founder in the race exprefs'd;
Confcious he fecs fair Freedom still furvive
In yon bright domes, ill-fated fugitive!
(Glorious, as when the goddefs pour'd the beam
Unfully'd on his ancient diadem)

Well pleas'd, that at his own Pierian fprings
She refts her weary feet, and plumes her wings;
That here at laft the takes her deftin'd ftand,
Here deigns to linger ere the leave the land.

$57. Infcription in a Hermitage, at Anfley-Hall, in Warwickshire. T. WARTON.

ENEATH this ftony roof reclin'd,

BE

I footh to peace my penfive mind:
And while, to fhade my lowly cave,
Embow'ring elms their umbrage wave;
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unftain'd with wine;
I fcorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.
Within my limits lone and still,
The blackbird pipes in artlefs tril!;
Faft by my couch, congenial gueft,
The wren has wove her moffy neft;
From bufy fcenes and brighter skies,
To iurk with innocence, the flies;
Here hopes in fafe repofe to dwell,
Nor aught fufpects the fylvan cell.
At morn I take my cuftom'd round,
To mark how buds yon fhrubby mound;
And ev'ry op'ning primrose count
That trimly paints my blooming mount:
Or o'er the fculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy folitude,

I teach in winding wreaths to ftray
Fantaftic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon ftudious nook,
I ope my brafs-emboffed book,
Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed z
Pourtray'd with many a holy deed
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I fleep, my meafur'd hymn;
And, at the clofe, the gleams behold
Of parting wings bedropt with gold.
While fuch pure joys my blifs create,
Who but would fimile at guilty ftate ?
Who but would with his holy lot
In calm Oblivion's humble grot?

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Who but would caft his pomp away,
To take my ftaff and amice gray;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage!

858. Monody, written near Stratford upon

Auch. T. WARTON.

AVON, thy rural views, thy paftures wild,
The willows that o'erhang thy twilight edge,
Their boughs entangling with th' embattled
fedge;

Thy brink with wat'ry foliage quaintly fring'd,
Thy furface with reflected verdure ting'd,
Sooth me with many a penfive pleasure mild.
But while I mufe, that here the hard divine
Whofe facred duft yon high-arch'd aifles inclofe,
Where the tall windows rife in ftately rows
Above th' embow'ring fhade,

Here firit, at Fancy's fairy-circled fhrine,
Of daifies pied his infant off 'ring made;
Here playful yet, in ftripling years unripe,
Fram'd of thy reeds a fhrill and artlefs pipe:
Sudden thy beauties, Avon, all are fled,
As at the waving of fome magic wand;
An holy trance my charmed fpirit wings,
And awful thapes of warriors and of kings
People the bufy mead,

Like fpetres fwarming to the wizard's hall;
And flowly pace, and point with trembling hand
The wounds ill-cover'd by the purple pall.
Before me Pity feems to ftand

A weeping mourner, fmote with anguish fore,
To fee Misfortune rend in frantic micod
His robe with regal woes embroider'd o'er.
Pale Terror leads the vifionary band,
And fternly thakes his fceptre, dropping blood.

$59. On the Death of King George the Second. T. WARTON.

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ftream the forrows that embalm the brave,
The tears that Science theds on Glory's grave!
So pure the vows which claffic duty pays
To blefs another Brunfwick's rifing rays!

O Pitt, if chofen ftrains have power to steal
Thy watchful breast awhile from Britain's weal,
If votive verfe, from facred Isis fent,
Might hope to charm thy manly mind, intent
On patriot plans, which ancient freedom drew,
Awhile with fond attention deign to view
This ample wreath, which all th' affembled Nine
With skill united have confpir'd to twine.

Yes, guide and guardian of thy country's caufe!
Thy confcious heart fhall hail with juft applaufe
The duteous Mufe, whofe hafte officious brings
Her blameless off ring to the shrine of kings:
Thy tongue, well tutor'd in hiftoric lore,
Can fpeak her office and her ufe of yore:
For fuch the tribute of ingenuous praife
Her harp difpens'd in Grecia's golden days;
Such were the palms, in ifles of old renown,
She cull'd, to deck the guiltlefs monarch's crown;

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When virtuous Pindar told, with Tufcan gore
How fceptred Hiero ftain'd Sicilia's fhore,
Or to mild Theron's raptur'd eye difclos'd
Bright vales, where fpirits of the brave repos'd:
Yet ftill beneath the throne, unbrib'd, the fat
The decent handmaid, not the flave, of state;
To blend the luftre of her country's fame :
Pleas'd in the radiance of the regal name
For, taught like Ours, the dar'd with prudent pride
Obedience from dependence to divide :
Though princes claim'd her tributary lays,
With truth fevere the temper'd partial praise ;
Confcious the kept her native dignity,
Bold as her flights, and as her numbers free.

And fure, if e'er the mufe indulg'd her strains,
With just regard to grace heroic reigns,
Where could her glance a theine of triumph own
So dear to fame as George's trophy'd throne ?
At whofe firm bafe thy stedfaft foul afpires
To wake a mighty nation's ancient fires :
Afpires to baffle Faction's fpecious claim,
Roufe England's rage, and give her thunder aim:
Once more the main her conqu'ring banners fweep,
Again her Commerce darkens all the deep.
Thy fix'd refolve renews each firm decree
That made, that kept of yore, thy country free,
Call'd by thy voice, nor deaf to war's alarms,
Its willing youth the rural empire arms :
Again the lords of Albion's cultur'd plains
March the firm leaders of their faithful fwains;
As erft ftout archers, from the farm or fold,
Flam'd in the van of many a baron bold.

Nor thine the pomp of indolent debate,
The war of words, the fophiftries of state:
Nor frigid caution checks thy free defign,
Nor ftops thy ftream of cloquence divine:
For thine the privilege, on few bestow'd,
To feel, to think, to fpeak, for public good.
In vain Corruption calls her venal tribes;
One common caufe one common end prescribes:
Nor fear nor fraud or fpares or fcreens the foe,
But fpirit prompts, and valour ftrikes the blow,

O Pitt, while honour points thy lib'ral plan,
And o'er the Minifter exalts the Man,
Ifis congenial grects thy faithful fway,
Nor fcorns to hid a ftatefman grace her lay.
For 'tis not Hers, by falfe connections drawn,
Each native effort of the feeling breast
At fplendid Slavery's fordid thrine to fawn;
To friends, to foes, in equal fear, fuppreft:
"Tis not for her to purchase or purfue
The phantom favours of the cringing crew;
More ufeful toils her ftudious hours engage,
And fairer leffons fill her fpotlefs page:
Beneath ambition, but above difgrace,
With nobler arts the forms the rifing race:
With happier talks, and lefs refin'd pretence,
In elder times, fhe woo'd Munificence
To rear her arched roofs in regal guife,
And lift her temples nearer to the skics;
Princes and prelates ftretch'd the focial hand
To form, diffufe, and fix, her high command:
From kings the claim'd, yet frorn'd to feck, the
From kings, like George, benignant, juff, and
prize;
[wife!
Lo,

Lo, this her genuine lore.-Nor thou refufe
This humble prefent of no partial Mufe
From that calm Bow'r, which nurs'd thy
thoughtful youth

In the pure precepts of Athenian truth:
Where firft the form of British Liberty
Beam'd in full radiance on thy mufing eye;
That form, whose mien fublime, with equal awe,
In the fame fhade unblemish'd Somers faw:
Where once (for well the lov'd the friendly grove
Which ev'ry claffic Grace had learn'd to rove)
Her whifpers,wak'd fage Harrington to feign
The bleflings of her vifionary reign;
That reign, which now no more an empty theme,
Adorns Philofophy's ideal dream,

But crowns at laft, beneath a George's fmile,
In full reality this favour'd ifle.

§ 60. On the Marriage of the King, MDCCLXI, to her Majefty. T. WARTON.

WHE

HEN firft the kingdom to thy virtues due
Rofe from the billowy deep in diftant view;
When Albion's ifle, old Ocean's peerless pride,
Tow'r'd in imperial ftate above the tide;
What bright ideas of the new domain
Form'd the fair profpect of thy promis'd reign!
And well with confcious joy thy breast might
That Albion was ordain'd thy regal feat: [beat
Lo! this the land, where Freedom's facred rage
Has glow'd untam'd thro' many a martial age.
Here patriot Alfred, ftain'd with Danish blood,
Rear'd on one bafe the king's, the people's good:
Here Henry's archers fram'd the ftubborn bow
That laid Alanzon's haughty helmet low;
Here wak'd the flame, that ftill fuperior braves
The proudeft threats of Gaul's ambitious flaves:
Here Chivalry, stern school of valour old,
Her nobleft feats of knightly fame enroll'd;
Heroic champions caught the clarion's call,
And throng'd the feaft in Edward's banner'd hall;
While chiefs, like George, approv'd in worth
alone,

Unlock'd chafte Beauty's adamantine zone.
Lo! the fam'd ifle, which hails thy chofen fway,
What fertile fields her temp'rate funs difplay!
Where Property fecures the conscious swain,
And guards, while Plenty gives, the golden grain:
Hence with ripe ftores her villages abound,
Her airy downs with scatter'd sheep refound;
Fresh are her pastures with unceasing rills,
And future navies crown her darkfome hills.
To bear her formidable glory far,
Behold her opulence of hoarded war!
See, from her ports a thoufand banners stream;
On ev'ry coaft her vengeful lightnings gleam!
Meantime, remote from Ruin's armed hand,
In peaceful majefty her cities ftand;
Whofe fplendid domes and busy streets declare
Their firmeft fort, a king's parental care.

And oh bleft Queen, if e'er the magic pow'rs Of warbled truth have won thy mufing hours; Here Poofy, from awful days of yore, Has pour'd her genuine gifts of raptur'd lore. Mid oaken bow'rs, with holy verdure wreath'd, In Druid-fongs her folemn fpirit breath'd: While cunning Bards at ancient banquets fung Of paynim foes defied, and trophies hung. Here Spenfer tun'd his myftic minstrelfy, And drefs'd in fairy robes a Queen like Thee. Here, boldly mark d with ev'ry living hue, Nature's unbounded portrait Shakespeare drew: But chief the dreadful group of human woes The daring artift's tragic pencil chofe; Explor'd the pangs that rend the royal breaft, Thofe wounds that lurk beneath the tilfued veft! Lo! this the land, whence Milton's mufe of fire High foar'd to fteal from heaven a feraph's lyre; And told the golden ties of wedded love In facred Eden's amaranthine grove.

Thine too, majestic Bride, the favour'd clime, Where Science fits enfhrin'd in roofs fublime. O mark, how green her wood of ancient bays O'er Ifis' marge in many a chaplet firays! Thither, if haply fome diftinguifh'd flow'r Of thefe mix'd blooms from that ambrofial bow'r, Might catch thy glance, and, rich in Nature's hue, Entwine thy diadem with honour due; If feemly gifts the train of Phoebus pay, To deck imperial Hymen's feftive day; Thither thyfelf fhall hafte, and mildly deign To tread with nymph-like ftep the confcious plain; Pleas'd in the mule's nook, with decent pride, To throw the fceptred pall of ftate afide. Nor from the fhade fhall George be long away, Which claims Charlotta's love, and courts her stay.

These are Britannia's praifes. Deign to trace
With rapt reflection Freedom's fav'rite race!
But though the gen'rous ifle, in arts and arms,
Thus ftand fupreme in Nature's choiceft charms;
Tho' George and Conqueft guard her fea-girt
throne,

One happier bleffing ftill the calls her own;
And. proud to cull the faircft wreath of Fame,
Crowns her chief honours with a Charlotte's

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* Trinity College, Oxford; in which alfo Lord Somers, and Sir James Harrington, author of the Oceana, were educated.

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