On Conquest's cheek the vernal roses fail,

Whilst laureld Victory distressful bows! And Honour's fire etherial burns but pale, That late beam'd glorious on our George's


The Muses mourn-an ineffectual band !

Each sacred harp without an owner lies; The Arts, the Sciences dejected stand,

For, ah! their patron, their protector dies. Beauty no more the toy of fashion wears

(So late by Love's designful labour dress'd), But from her brow the glowing diamond tears,

And with the sable cypress veils her breast. Religion, lodged high on her pious pile,

Laments the fading state of crowns below; Whilst Melancholy fills the vaulted aisle

With the slow music of a nation's woe. The dreary paths of unrelenting fate

[try? Must monarchs, mix'd with common mortals, Is there no refuge?-are the good, the great,

The gracious, and the godlike, doom'd to die? Must the gay court be changed for Horror's cave?

Must mighty kings that kept the world in awe, Conquer'd by time, and the unpitying grave,

Submit their laurels to Death's rigorous law? If in the tent retired, or battle's

rage, [ear, Britannia's sighs shall reach great Frederick's! He'll drop the sword, or close the darling page, And pensive pay the tributary tear.

"King of Prussia.

Then shall the monarch weigh the moral thought

(As he laments the parent, friend, ally), The solemn truth by sage Reflection taught,

That, spite of glory, Frederick's self shall die! The parent's face a prudent painter hides 2,

While Death devours the darling of his age: Nature the stroke of pencil'd art derides,

When grief distracts with agonizing rage. So let the Muse her sablest curtain spread,

By sorrow taught her nerveless power to know: When nations cry, their king, their father's dead!

The rest is dumb, unutterable woe.
But see-a sacred radiance beams around,

And with returning hope a people cheers: Look at yon youth, with grace imperial crown'd:

How awful, yet how lovely in his tears! Mark how his breast expands the filial sigh,

He droops, distress'd, like a declining flower, Till Glory, from her radiant sphere on high,

Hails him, to hold the regal reigns of power. The sainted sire to realms of bliss removed; Like the famed phenix, from his pyre shall

spring Successive Georges, gracious and beloved,

And good and glorious as the parent king.

? In a picture representing the sacrifice of Iphigenia, Timanthes, despairing to represent the natural distraction of a parent on so affecting an occasion, drew the figure of Agamemnon with a veil thrown over bis face.



tibi, flores, plenis Ecce ferant nymphæ calathis.


O’ER Nature's fresh bosom, by verdure unbound,

'Bleak Winter blooms lovely as Spring : Rich flowerets (how fragrant!)rise wantonly round,

And Summer's wing’d choristers sing ! To greet the young monarch of Britain's bless'd


The groves


blossoms are graced! The primrose peeps forth with an innocent smile,

And cowslips crowd forward in haste! Dispatch, gentle Flora, the nymphs of your train

Through woodlands, to gather each sweet: Go: rob of young roses the dew-spangled plain,

And strew the gay spoils at his feet.
Two chaplets of laurel, in verdure the same,

For George, oh ye virgins, entwine!
From Conquest's own temples these evergreens

came, And those from the brows of the Nine! Whạt honours, ye Britons! (one emblem implies)

What glory to George shall belong! What Miltons (the other), what Addisons rise,

To make him immortal in song!

To a wreath of fresh oak, England's emblem of

power! Whose honours with time shall increase! Add a fair olive sprig, just unfolding its flower,

Rich token of concord and peace! Next give him young myrtles, by beauty's bright

Collected,--the pride of the grove! [queen How fragrant their odour! their foliage how green!

Sweet promise of conjugal love. Let Gaul's captive lilies, cropp'd close to the

As trophies of conquest be tied: [ground, The virgins all cry, 'There's not one to be found !

Out-bloom'd by his roses—they died.' Ye foes of Old England, such fate shall ye share

With George, as our glories advanceThrough envy you'll sicken,-you'll droop,

you'll despair, And die-like the lilies of France.


An Apologue.

Fabula narratur.

Jove and his senators, in sage

debate For man's felicity, were settling laws, When a rude roar that shook the sacred gate

Turn’d their attention to inquire the cause. A long-ear'd wretch, the loudest of his race,

In the rough garniture of grief array'd, Came brawling to the high imperial place,

• Let me have justice, Jupiter!-(he bray'd),

I am an ass, of innocence allow'd

The type, yet Fortune persecutes me still; While foxes, wolves, and all the murdering crowd

Beneath her patronage can rob and kill. • The pamper'd horse (he never toild so hard!)

Favour and friendship from his owner finds; For endless diligence,-(a rough reward!)

I'm cudgeld by a race of paltry hinds. On wretched provender compell’d to feed !

The rugged pavement every night my bed; For me dame Fortune never yet decreed

The gracious comforts of a well thatch'd shed. Rough and unseemly's my irreverent hide!

Where can I visit, thus uncouthly dress’d? That outside elegance the dame denied,

For which her favourites are too oft caress’d.

To suffering virtue, sacred Jove! be kind;

From Fortune's tyranny pronounce me free: She's a deceiver, if she says she's blind,

She sees, propitiously sees all—but me.' The plaintiff could articulate no more:

His bosom heaved a most tremendous groan! The race of long-ear'd wretches join'd the roar, Till Jove seem'd tottering on his high-built


The monarch, with an all-commanding sound (Deepen'd like thunder through the rounds of

space), Gaveorder_That dame Fortune should be found,

To answer, as she might, the plaintiff's case.

« VorigeDoorgaan »