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Means most infallible to make
The world an infidel;
To pave a path to hell;
O! for a clean and ardent heart,
O! for a soul on fire,
Where angels string the lyre;
How cold is man! to him how hard
(Hard, what most easy seems) “ To set a just esteem on that,
Which yet he-most esteems !"
What shall we say, when boundless bliss
Is offer'd to mankind,
Of rationals is blind ?
Of human nature ne'er too high
Are our ideas wrought;
Depress'd the daring thought.
ON THE LATE QUEEN'S DEATH, AND HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE,
INSCRIBED TO JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ. SECRETARY TO
THEIR EXCELLENCIES THE LORDS JUSTICES.
Sir, I have long, and with impatience, sought
Though you, long since beyond Britannia known
purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb. Know, sir, the great esteem and honour due, I chose that moment to profess to you, When sadness reign'd, when fortune, so severe Had warm'd our bosoms to be most sincere. And when no motives could have force to raise A serious value, and provoke my praise, But such as rise above, and far transcend Whatever glories with this world shall end,
Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot
Let us look back, (for who too oft can view
for ever new !) See all the seasons shine on Anna's throne, And pay a constant tribute, not their own. Her summer's heats nor fruits alone bestow, They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe; And when black storms confess the distant sun, Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won. Revolving pleasures in their turns appear, And triumphs are the product of the year. To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease, And glorious victory is lost in peace.
Whence this profusion on our favour'd isle? Did partial fortune on our virtue smile ? Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand, Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land? Ungrateful Britain ! quit thy groundless claim, Thy queen and thy good fortune are the same.
Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky; 'Tis Anna reigns! the Gallic squadrons fly. We spread our canvass to the southern shore ; Tis Anna reigns ! the south resigns her store. Her virtue smooths the tumult of the main, And swells the field with mountains of the slain.
Argyll and Churchill but the glory share,
How great her zeal! how fervent her desire !
Though Europe's wealth and glory claim'd a part, Religion's cause reign'd mistress of her heart: She saw, and griev'd to see, the mean estate Of those who round the hallow'd altar wait; She shed her bounty, piously profuse, And thought it more her own in sacred use.
Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand, And fill with genial seed his lavish hand; He trusts the kindness of the fruitful plain, And providently scatters all his grain.
What strikes my sight? does proud Augusta rise New to behold, and awfully surprise ! Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown, And sacred domes on palaces look down: A noble pride of piety is shown, And temples cast a lustre on the throne. How would this work another's glory raise ! But Anna's greatness robs her of the praise. Drown'd in a brighter blaze it disappears, Who dried the widow's and the orphan's tears ?
Who stoop'd from high to succour the distrest,
Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot,
Ye numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd, When first the dreadful blast of fame arriv'd, Say what a shock, what agonies you felt, How did your souls with tender anguish melt! That grief which living Anna's love suppress'd, Shook like a tempest every grateful breast. A second fate our sinking fortunes tried ! A second time our tender parents died!
Heroes returning from the field we crown, And deify the haughty victor's frown. His splendid wealth too rashly we admire, Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire : Wisely to spend, is the great art of gain; And one reliev'd transcends a million slain. When time shall ask, where once Ramillia lay, Or Danube flow'd that swept whole troops away, One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry, Shall rise a fountain of eternal joy.
But ah! to that unknown and distant date Is virtue's great reward push'd off by fate; Here random shafts in every breast are found, Virtue and merit but provoke the wound.