Let grim Bellona haunt the lawless plain,
Where Tartar-clans, and grifly Coffacks reign;
Let the fteel'd Turk be deaf to matrons' cries,
See virgins ravish'd with relentless eyes;
To death grey heads and smiling infants doom,'
Nor fpare the promise of the pregnant womb;
O'er wafted kingdoms spread his wide command,
The favage lord of an unpeopled land.
Her guiltless glory juft Britannia draws
From pure religion, and impartial laws:
To Europe's wounds a mother's aid she brings,
And holds in equal fcales the rival kings:
Her gen'rous fons in choiceft gifts abound,
Alike in arms, alike in arts renown'd.
As when sweet Venus (fo the fable fings)
Awak'd by Nereids, from the Ocean springs;
With smiles fhe fees the threat'ning billows rife,
Spreads fmooth the furge, and clears the louring fkies;
Light, o'er the deep, with flutt'ring Cupids crown'd,
The pearly couch and filver turtles bound;
Her treffes fhed ambrofia! odours round.
Amidst the world of waves fo ftands ferene
Britannia's ifle, the Ocean's flately queen;
In vain the nations have confpir'd her fall,
Her trench the fea, and fleets her floating wall;
Defenceless barks, her pow'rful 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 redress'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 godlike work to civilize.
Have we forgot how from great Ruffia's throne,
The king, whose pow'r half Europe's regions own,
Whose scepter waving, with one shout rush forth
In fwarms the harnafs'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 fpread 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;
Whofe haughty brows made favages adore,
Nor bow'd to lefs than ftars, or fun before:
Her pitying fmile accepts their fuppliant claim,
And adds four monarchs to the Christian name.
Bleft 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 those sweet 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 glittring fpoils where Indian grottoes fhine;
Where fumes of incense glad the southern feas,
And wafted citron fcents the balmy breeze.
Here nearer funs prepare the rip'ning gem,
To 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 time 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 ftand,
Webb's firm platoon, and Lumly's faithful band!
Bold Mordaunt in Iberian trophies drefs'd,
And Campbell's dragon on his dauntless breaft;
Great Ormond's deeds on Vigo's fpoils enroll'd, And Guifcard's knife on Harley's Chili gold. And if the mufe, O BRISTOL, might decree, Here Granville noted by the lyre should 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 fong the mufe can only yield, And footh her foldiers panting from the field; To fweet retirements fee them safe 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 comesBegin, my mufe, and foftly touch the ftring: Here Henry lov'd; and Chaucer learn'd to fing. Hail fabled grotto! hail Elysian soil! Thou fairest spot 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 soft alcoves, The noblest boast 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 fain'd echoing vaults his name fhall bound,
And hill to hill reflect the favourite found.
Here, here at least thy love for arms give o'er,
Nor, one world conquer'd, fondly with for more.
Vice of great fouls alone! O thirst of fame!
The mufe admires it, while fhe ftrives to blame;
Thy toils be now to chace the bounding deer,
Or view the courfers ftretch in wild career;
This lovely scene fhall footh thy foul to reft,
And wear each dreadful image from thy breast;
With pleasure, by thy conquefts fhalt thou fee
Thy Queen triumphant, and all Europe free;
No cares henceforth fhall thy repofe deftroy,
But what thou giv'ft the world, thyfelf enjoy.
Sweet folitude! when life's gay hours are paft,
Howe'er we range, in thee we fix at last;
Tofs'd through tempeftuous feas (the voyage o'er)
Pale we look back, and blefs the friendly shore.
Our own ftrict judges, our paft life we scan,
And ask if glory hath enlarg'd the span;
If bright the profpect, we the grave defy,
Truft future ages, and contented die.
When ftrangers from far-diftant climes shall come,
To view the pomp of this triumphant dome;
Where rear'd aloft diffembled trophies ftand,
And breathing labours of the fculptor's hand,
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