The knight, who aims unerring from afar,
Th' advent'rous knight, now quits the fylvan war:
The brinded boars may flumber un-dismay'd,
Or grunt fecure beneath the chefnut shade.
Inconftant Orleans (ftill we mourn the day
That trufted Orleans with imperial fway)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch fends,
Far from the call of his defponding friends.
Such are the terms to gain Britannia's grace!
And fuch the terrors of the Brunswick race;

Was it for this the fun's whole luftre fail'd,
And fudden midnight o'er the noon prevail'd!
For this did heav'n display to mortal eyes
Aërial knights and combats in the skies?

Was it for this Northumbrian ftreams look'd red,
And Thames driv'n backward fhow'd his fecret bed?

Falfe auguries! th' infulting victors fcorn!
Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn!
O portents conftru'd on our fide in vain!
Let never Tory truft eclipse again!

Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye fkies!
And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise !
To Rome then muft the royal wand'rer go,
And fall a fuppliant at the papal toe?
His life in floth inglorious must he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in pray'r ?

His mind perhaps at length, debauch'd with eafe,
The proffer'd purple and the hat may please.
E

VOL. I.

Shall

Shall he, whofe ancient patriarchal race
To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace,
In folemn conclave fit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trusty vote!
Be fummon'd to his ftall in time of need,
And with his cafting fuffrage fix a creed!
Shall he in robes on ftated days appear,
And English hereticks curfe once a year!
Garnet and Faux fhall he with pray'rs invoke,
And beg that Smithheld piles once more may
Forbid it heav'n! my foul, to fury wrought,
Turns almoft Hanoverian at the thought.

fmoak!

From James and Rome I feel my heart decline,
And fear, O Brunfwick, 'twill be wholly thine;
Yet ftill his fhare thy rival will conteft,
And ftill the double claim divides my breaft,
The fate of James with pitying eyes I view,
And wish my homage were not Brunfwick's due ;
To James my paflions and my weakness guide,
But reafon fways me to the victor's fide.
Though griev'd I speak it, let the truth appear;
(You know my language, and my heart, fincere.)
In vain did falfhood his fair fame difgrace;
What force had falfhood, when he show'd his face!
In vain to war our boastful clans were led ;

Heaps driven on heaps, in the dire fhock they fled:
France fhuns his wrath, nor raises to our fhame
A fecond Dunkirk in another name:

In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,

up

And the Thames the world's abundance flows:
Spite of feign'd fears, and artificial cries,
The pious town fees fifty churches rife :
The hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And fits more firmly on his fhaken throne.

To my fad thought no beam of hope appears.
Through the long prospect of fucceeding years;
The fon afpiring to his father's fame,

Shows all his fire: another and the fame.
He bleft in lovely Carolina's arms,

To future ages propagates her charms :
With pain and joy at ftrife, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face;
Half fick'ning at the fight, too well I spie
The father's fpirit through the mother's eye:
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And ftrive to hate their innocence in vain.

O princess! happy by thy foes confefs'd!
Bleft in thy hufband! in thy children blest!
As they from thee, from them new beauties born,
While Europe lafts, fhall Europe's thrones adorn.
Tranfplanted to each court, in times to come,
Thy fmile celeftial and un-fading bloom
Great Auftria's fons with fofter lines fhall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race.
The fair defcendents of thy facred bed

Wide-branching o'er the western world shall spread,

Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot
To earthward bending of itself takes root,
Till like their mother plant, ten thousand stand
In verdant arches on the fertile land ;
Beneath her fhade the tawny Indians rove,
Or hunt at large through the wide echoing grove.
O thou, to whom these mournful lines I fend,
My promis'd husband, and my dearest friend;
Since heav'n appoints this favour'd race to reign,
And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain ;
Muft I be wretched, and thy flight partake?
Or wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's fake,
Tir'd out at length, fubmit to Fate's decree ?
If not to Brunswick, O return to me!
Proftrate before the victor's mercy bend:

What fpares whole thousands, may to thee extend.
Should blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blame,
Great Brunswick's virtues will fecure thy fame:
Say, thefe invite thee to approach his throne,
And own the monarch heav'n vouchfafes to own.
The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve;
Say this to Them; but fwear to Me 'twas love.

THE

WE

AN

D

By Mr. COB B.

I.

E.

HAT can the British fenate give,
To make the name of ANNA live,

By future people to be fung,

The labour of each grateful tongue ?
Can faithful registers, or rhyme,
In charming eloquence, or sprightly wit,
The wonders of her reign tranfmit
To th' unborn children of fucceeding time?
Can painters' oil, or ftatuaries' art,

Eternity to her impart ?

No! titled ftatues are but empty things,

Infcrib'd to royal vanity,

The facrifice of flattery

To lawless Neros, or Bourbonian kings.