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You too, ye British dames, may share
If not the toils, and dangers of the war,
At least its glory. From the Baltic shore,
From Runic virtue's native shore,
Fraught with the tales of ancient lore,
Behold a fair instructress come!
When the fierce female tyrant of the north'
Claim'd every realm her conquering arms could
gain,

When discord, red with slaughter, issuing forth,
Saw Albert struggling with the victor's chain;
The storm beat high, and shook the coast,
Th' exhausted treasures of the land
Could scarce supply th' embattled host,

Or pay th' insulting foe's demand.
What then could beauty do? She gave
Her treasur'd tribute to the brave,

■ Margaret de Waldemar, called the Semiramis

of the north.

In the year 1995, the ladies of Mecklenburgh, to support their duke Albert's pretensions to the crown of Sweden, and to redeem him when he was taken prisoner, gave up ali their jewels to the public; for which they afterwards received great emoluments and privileges, particularly the right of succession in fiefs, which had before been appropriated to males only.

To her own softness join'd the manly heart,
Sustain'd the soldier's drooping arms,
Confided in her genuine charms,
And yielded every ornament of art.
-We want them not. Yet, O ye fair,
Should Gallia, obstinately vain,

To her own ruin urge despair,

And brave th' acknowledg'd masters of the main: Should she through ling'ring years protract her fall, Through seas of blood to her destruction wade, Say, could ye feel the generous call,

And own the fair example here portray'd?

Doubtless ye could. The royal dame Would plead her dear adopted country's cause, And each indignant breast unite its flame, To save the land of liberty and laws.

ODE VIII.

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1762. "Go, Flora," (said th' impatient queen Who shares great Jove's eternal reign) "Go breathe on yonder thorn; Wake into bloom th' emerging rose, And let the fairest flower that blows The fairest month adorn. Sacred to me that month shall rise, Whatever contests' shake the skies To give that month a name: Her April buds let Venus boast, Let Maia range her painted host; But June is Juno's claim.

"And goddess, know, in after times
(I name not days, I name not climes)
From Nature's noblest throes

A human flower shall glad the Earth,
And the same month disclose his birth,
Which bears the blushing rose.
Nations shall bless his mild command,
And fragrance fill th' exulting land,
Where'er I fix his throne."
Britannia listen'd as she spoke,
And from her lips prophetic broke,
"The flower shall be my own!”

O goddess of connubial love,
Thou sister, and thou wife of Jove,
To thee the suppliant voice we raise !
We name not months, we name not days,
For where thy smiles propitious shine,
The whole prolific year is thine.
Accordant to the trembling strings,
Hark, the general chorus swells,
From every heart it springs,

On every tongue it dwells.
Sister thou, and wife of Jove,
Goddess of connubial love,
On ether's all-pervading tide,
Bid the genial powers that glide

Or from the fount of life that stream
Mingling with the solar beam,

Alluding to the contention between the goddesses in Ovid's Fasti, about naming the month of June.

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Ar length th' imperions lord of war
Yields to the Fates their ebon car,

And frowning quits his toil:
Dash'd from his hand the bleeding spear
Now deigns a happier form to wear,
And peaceful turns the soil.
Th' insatiate Furies of his train,
Revenge, and Hate, and fell Disdain,

With heart of steel, and eyes of fire,
Who stain the sword which honour draws,
Who sully virtue's sacred cause,

To Stygian depths retire.

Unholy shapes, and shadows drear,

The pallid family of Fear,

And Rapine, still with shrieks pursued,
And meagre Famine's squalid brood,

Close the dire crew.-Ye eternal gates, display Your adamantine folds, and shut them from the day!

For lo, in yonder pregnant skies
On billowy clouds the goddess lies,

Whose presence breathes delight,
Whose power th' obsequious seasons own,
And winter loses half his frown,

And half her shades the night,
Soft-smiling Peace! whom Venus bore,
When tutor'd by th' enchanting lore
Of Maia's blooming son,
She sooth'd the synod of the gods,
Drove Discord from the blest abodes,
And Jove resum'd his throne.

Th' attendant Graces gird her round, And sportive Ease, with locks unbound, And every Muse to leisure born,

And Plenty, with her twisted horn,

ODE X.

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1763. COMMON births, like common things,

Pass unheeded, or unknown:

Time but spreads, or waves his wings,

The phantom swells, the phantom's gone! Born for millions, monarchs rise

Heirs of infamy or fame.

When the virtuous, brave, or wise,

Demand our praise, with loud acclaim,

We twine the festive wreath, the shrines adorn, 'Tis not our king's alone, 't is Britain's natal morn. Bright examples plac'd on high

Shine with more distinguish'd blaze;
Thither nations turn their eye,

And grow virtuous as they gaze.
Thoughtless ease, and sportive leisure,
Dwell in life's contracted sphere;
Public is the monarch's pleasure,

Public is the monarch's care:

If Titus smiles, the observant world is gay;
If Titus frowns, or sighs, we sigh and lose a day!
Around their couch, around their board
A thousand ears attentive wait,

A thousand busy tongues record
The smallest whispers of the great.
Happy those whom truth sincere
And conscious virtue join to guide!
Can they have a foe to fear,

Can they have a thought to hide?
Nobly they soar above th' admiring throng,
Superior to the power, the will of acting wrong.
Such may Britain find her king!-
Such the Muse of rapid wing

Wafts to some sublimer sphere:

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Blow as ye list, ye winds, the reign of Peace pre-Ev'n Malice learns to blush, and hides her stings.

And lo, to grace that milder reign,
And add fresh lustre to the year,
Sweet Innocence adorns the train,
In form, and features, Albion's heir!
A future George !-Propitious powers,
Ye delegates of Heaven's high king,
Who guide the years, the days, the hours
That float on Time's progressive wing,
Exert your influence, bid us know
From parent worth what virtues flow!
Be to less happy realms resign'd

The warrior's unrelenting rage,
We ask not kings of hero-kind,

The storms and earthquakes of their age. To us be nobler blessings given:

O teach us, delegates of Heaven,
What mightier bliss from union springs!

Future subjects, future kings,

Shall bless the fair example shown,

And from our character transcribe their own: VOL. XVII.

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On woven wings,

To where, in orient clime, the grey dawn springs,
To where soft evening's ray

Sheds its last blush, their course they steer,
Meet, or o'ertake, the circling year,

Led by the lord of day.

Whate'er the frozen poles provide,
Whate'er the torrid regions hide,
From Sirius' fiercer flames,

Of herb, or root, or gem, or ore,
They grasp them all from shore to shore,

And waft them all to Thames.

When Spain's proud pendants wav'd in western skies,
When Gama's fleet on Indian billows hung,
In either sea did Ocean's genius rise,
And the same truths in the same numbers sung.
"Daring mortals, whither tend
These vain pursuits? Forbear, forbear!

These sacred waves no keel shall rend,
No streamers float on this sequester'd air!
-Yes, yes, proceed, and conquer too;
Success be yours: but, mortals, know,

"Know, ye rash adventurous bands, To crush your high-blown pride, Not for yourselves, or native lands,

And won the cherub Health to crown

A nation's prayer, and ease that breast
Which feels all sorrows but its own,
And seeks by blessing to be blest.
Fled are all the ghastly train,
Writhing pain, and pale disease;
Joy resumes his wonted reign,

The Sun-beams mingle with the breeze,

And his own month, which Health's gay livery wears, On the sweet prospect smiles of long succeeding years.

ODE XIII

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1766. HAIL to the man, so sings the Hebrew bard, Whose numerous offspring grace his genial board: Heaven's fairest gift, Heaven's best reward,

To those who honour, who obey his word. What shall he fear, though drooping age

Unnerve his strength, and pointless sink his spear; In vain the proud, in vain the mad shall rage; He fears his God, and knows no other fear. Lo! at his call a duteous race

Spring eager from his lov'd embrace,

You brave the seasons, and you stem the tide. To shield the sire from whom their virtues rose;

Nor Betis', nor Iberus' stream,

Nor Tagus with his golden gleam,
Shall insolently call their own

The dear-bought treasures of these worlds unknown.
A chosen race to freedom dear,
Untaught to injure, as to fear,

By me conducted, shall exert their claims,
Shall glut my great revenge, and roll them all to
Thames."

ODE XII.

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, June 4, 1765.

HAIL to the rosy morn, whose ray
To lustre wakes th' auspicious day,
Which Britain holds so dear!
To this fair month of right belong
The festive dance, the choral song,
And pastimes of the year.
Whate'er the wintry colds prepar'd,
Whate'er the spring but faintly rear'd,

Now wears its brightest bloom;
A brighter blue enrobes the skies,
From laughing fields the zephyrs rise

On wings that breathe perfume. The lark in air that warbling floats, The wood-birds with their tuneful throats, The streams that murmur as they flow, The flocks that rove the mountain's brow, The herds that through the meadows play, Proclaim 't is Nature's holiday!

And shall the British lyre be mute,

Nor thrill through all its trembling strings, With oaten reed, and pastoral flute,

Whilst every vale responsive rings?
To him we pour the grateful lay,

Who makes the season doubly gay:
For whom, so late, our lifted eyes
With tears besought the pitying skies,

And fly at each rever'd command,
Like arrows from the giant's hand,

So Edward fought on Cressy's bleeding plain,
In vengeance on his foes.
A blooming hero, great beyond his years.
So William fought-but cease the strain,
A loss so recent bathes the Muse in tears.
So shall hereafter every son,—

Who now with prattling infancy relieves
Those anxious cares which wait upon a throne,
Where, ah! too oft, amidst the myrtles, weaves
The thorn its pointed anguish-So
Shall every youth his duty know,

To guard the monarch's right, and people's weal;
And thou, great George, with just regard
To Heaven, shalt own the Hebrew bard

But sung the truths you feel.

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At every step the breezes blew

Soft and more soft: the lengthen'd view

Did fairer scenes expand:

Unconscions of approaching foes,
The farm, the town, the city rose,
To tempt the spoiler's hand.

Not Britain so. For nobler ends
Her willing daring sons she sends,
Fraught like the fabled car of old,
Which scatter'd blessings as it roll'd.

From cultur'd fields, from fleecy downs, From vales that wear eternal bloom, From peopled farms, and busy towns, Where shines the ploughshare, and where sounds To sandy deserts, pathless woods, [the loom, Impending steeps, and headlong floods, She sends th' industrious swarm : To where self-strangled Nature lies, Till social art shall bid her rise From chaos into form.

Thus George and Britain bless mankind.→ And lest the parent realm should find Her numbers shrink, with flag unfurl'd She stands, th' asylum of the world.

From foreign strands new subjects come, New arts accede a thousand ways,

For here the wretched finds a home, And all her portals Charity displays. From each proud master's hard command, From tyrant Zeal's oppressive hand, What eager exiles fly!

"Give us," they cry, "'t is Nature's cause, O give us liberty and laws,

Beneath a harsher sky!"

Thus George and Britain bless mankind.-
Away, ye barks; the favouring wind
Springs from the east; ye prows, divide
The vast Atlantic's heaving tide!

Britannia from each rocky height
Pursues you with applauding hands:

Afar, impatient for the freight,

See! the whole western world expecting stands!
Already fancy paints each plain,
The deserts nod with golden grain,
The wond'ring vales look gay,

The woodman's stroke the forests feel,
The lakes admit the merchant's keel-
Away, ye barks, away!

ODE XV.

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, June 4, 1767.

FRIEND to the poor!-for sure, O king,
That godlike attribute is thine-
Friend to the poor! to thee we sing,
To thee our annual offerings bring,

And bend at Mercy's shrine.

In vain had Nature deign'd to smile
Propitious on our fav'rite isle

Emerging from the main :

In vain the genial source of day
Selected each indulgent ray

For Britain's fertile plain :
In vain yon bright surrounding skies
Bade all their clouds in volumes rise,

Their fost'ring dews distill'd:
In vain the wide and teeming Earth
Gave all her buried treasures birth,

And crown'd the laughing field:
For lo! some fiend, in evil hour,
Assuming Famine's horrid mien,
Diffus'd her petrifying power
O'er thoughtless Plenty's festive bower,
And blasted every green.

Strong panic terrours shook the land; Th' obdurate breast, the griping hand

Were almost taught to spare ;

For loud misrule, the scourge of crimes,
Mix'd with the madness of the times,
And rous'd a rustic war.

Whilst real Want, with sigh sincere,
At home, in silence, dropp'd a tear,
Or rais'd th' imploring eye,
Foul Riot's sons in torrents came,
And dar'd usurp thy`awful name,
Thrice sacred Misery!

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FOR THE NEW-YEAR. 1768.

LET the voice of Music breathe,
Hail with song the new-born year!
Though the frozen Earth beneath
Feels not yet his influence near,
Already from his southern goal
The genial god who rules the day
Has bid his glowing axle roll,

And promis'd the return of May. Yon ruffian blasts, whose pinions sweep Impetuous o'er our northern deep,

Shall cease their sounds of war:
And, gradual as his power prevails,
Shall mingle with the softer gales
That sport around his car.

Poets should be prophets too,-
Plenty in his train attends;
Fruits and flowers of various hue
Bloom where'er her step she bends.
Down the green hill's sloping side,
Winding to the vale below,
See, she pours her golden tide!
Whilst, upon its airy brow,

Amidst his flocks, whom Nature leads
To flowery feasts on mountains' heads,
Th' exulting shepherd lies:
And to th' horizon's utmost bound
Rolls his eye with transport round,
Then lifts it to the skies..

Let the voice of Music breathe!
Twine, ye swains, the festal wreath!
Britain shall no more complain
Of niggard harvests, and a failing year :
No more the miser hoard his grain,

Regardless of the peasant's tear,
Whose hand laborious till'd the earth,
And gave those very treasures birth.

No more shall George, whose parent breast
Feels every pang his subjects know,
Behold a faithful land distress'd,

Or hear one sigh of real woe:
But grateful mirth, whose decent bounds
No riot swells, no fear confounds,
And heartfelt ease, whose glow within
Exalts Contentment's modest mien,
In every face shall smile confess'd,

And in his people's joy, the monarch too be blest.

ODE XVII.

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1768.

PREPARE, prepare your songs of praise,
The genial month returns again,
Her annual rites when Britain pays

To her own monarch of the main.
Not on henicia's bending shore,

Whence Commerce first her wings essay'd,
And dar'd th' unfathom'd deep explore,
Sincerer vows the Tyrian paid

To that imaginary deity,

Who bade him boldly seize the empire of the sea.
What though no victim bull be led,

His front with snow-white fillets bound;
Nor fable chant the neighing steed;
That issued when he smote the ground;
Our fields a living incense breathe:

Nor Libanus, nor Carmel's brow,
To dress the bower, or form the wreath,
More liberal fragrance could bestow.

We too have herds, and steeds, beside the rills That feed and rove, protected, o'er a thousand hills.

Secure, while George the sceptre sways,

ODE XVIII.

FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1769.
PATRON of Arts, at length by thee
Their home is fix'd: thy kind decree
Has plac'd their empire here.
No more unheeded shall they waste
Their treasures on the fickle taste
Of each fantastic year.

Judgment shall frame each chaste design,
Nor e'er from Truth's unerring line

The sportive artist roam :

Whether the breathing bust he forms,
With Nature's tints the canvass warms,
Or swells, like Heaven's high arch, th' imperial dome,
Fancy, the wanderer, shall be taught

To own severer laws :
Spite of her wily wanton play,
Spite of her lovely errours, which betray
Th' enchanted soul to fond applause,
Ev'n she, the wanderer, shall be taught
That nothing truly great was ever wrought,
Where judgment was away.

Through osier twigs th' Acanthus rose:
Th' idea charms, the artist glows:

But 't was his skill to please,
Which bade the graceful foliage spread,
To crown the stately columns head
With dignity and ease.

When great Apelles, pride of Greece,
Frown'd on the almost finish'd piece,

Despairing to succeed,

What though the missile vengeance pass'd

From his rash hand, the random cast

Might dash the foam, but skill had form'd the steed. Nor less the Phidian arts approve

Labour, and patient care, Whate'er the skilful artists trace, Laccoon's pangs, or soft Antinous' face. By skill, with that diviner air

The Delian god does all but move;

'T was skill gave terrours to the front of Jove, To Venus every grace.

-And shall each sacred seat,

The vales of Arno, and the Tuscan stream,
No more be visited with pilgrim feet?

No more on sweet Hymettus' summits dream
The sons of Albion? or below,
Where Ilyssus' waters flow,

Trace with awe the dear remains

Of mould'ring urns, and mutilated fanes ?
Far be the thought. Each sacred seat,
Each monument of ancient fame,
Shall still be visited with pilgrim feet,

[flame.

(Whom will, whom int'rest, and whom duty And Albion gladly own from whence she caught the

draws

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Still shall her studious youth repair,
Beneath their king's protecting care,

To every clime which art has known;
And rich with spoils from every coast
Return, till Albion learn to boast
An Athens of her own.

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