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No winter knows, though ruffling factions press;
By wisdom deeply rooted in success ;
One glory shed, a brighter is display'd ;'
And the charm'd muses shelter in his shade.

O how I long, enkindled by the theme,
In deep eternity to launch thy name !
Thy name in view, no rights of verse I plead,
But what chaste truth indites, old time shall read.

“ Behold! a man of ancient faith and blood, Which, soon, beat high for arts, and public good; Whose glory great, but natural appears, The genuine growth of services and years ; No sudden exhalation drawn on high, And fondly gilt by partial majesty : One bearing greatest toils with greatest ease, One born to serve us, and yet born to please : Whom, while our rights in equal scales he lays, The prince may trust, and yet the people praise ; His genius ardent, yet his judgment clear, His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere, His counsel guides, his temper cheers our isle, And, smiling, gives three kingdoms cause to smile."

Joy then to Britain, blest with such a son, To Walpole joy, by whom the prize is won; Who nobly conscious meets the smiles of fate; True greatness lies in daring to be great. Let dastard souls, or affectation, run To shades, nor wear bright honours fairly won; Such men prefer, misled by false applause, The pride of modesty to virtue's cause.

· Knight of the Bath, and then of the Garter.

Honours, which make the face of virtue fair,
'Tis great to merit, and 'tis wise to wear ;
"Tis holding up the prize to public view,
Confirms grown virtue, and inflames the new;
Heightens the lustre of our age and clime,
And sheds rich seeds of worth for future time.

Proud chiefs alone, in fields of slaughter fam'd,
Of old, this azure bloom of glory claim'd,
As when stern Ajax pour'd a purple flood,
The violet rose, fair daughter of his blood.
Now rival wisdom dares the wreath divide,
And both Minervas rise in equal pride ;
Proclaiming loud, a monarch fills the throne,
Who shines illustrious not in wars alone.

Let fame look lovely in Britannia's eyes ; They coldly court desert, who fame despise. For what's ambition, but fair virtue's sail ? And what applause, but her propitious gale? When swell'd with that, she fleets before the wind To glorious aims, as to the port design'd; When chain’d, without it, to the labouring oar, She toils ! she pants ! nor gains the flying shore, From her sublime pursuits, or turn'd aside By blasts of envy, or by fortune's tide : For one that has succeeded ten are lost, Of equal talents, ere they make the coast.

Then let renown to worth divine incite, With all her beams, but throw those beams aright. Then merit droops, and genius downward tends, When godlike glory, like our land, descends. Custom the garter long confin'd to few, And gave to birth, exalted virtue’s due :

Walpole has thrown the proud enclosure down;
And high desert embraces fair renown.
Though rival’d, let the peerage smiling see
(Smiling, in justice to their own degree,
This proud reward by majesty bestow'd
On worth like that whence first the


From frowns of fate Britannia’s bliss'd to guard,
Let subjects merit, and let kings reward.
Gods are most gods by giving to excel,
And kings most like them, by rewarding well.
Though strong the twanging nerve, and drawn

Short is the winged arrow's upward flight;
But if an eagle it transfix on high,
Lodg’d in the wound, it soars into the sky.

Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays,
And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise ;
Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame,
Not lifted by my genius, but my theme.

No more: for in this dread suspense of fate, Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate Weigh peace and war, now Europe's eyes are bent On mighty Brunswick, for the great event, Brunswick of kings the terror or defence! Who dares detain thee at a world's expense?





Parnassia laurus
Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra.


WHEN Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone,
And great Augustus rul'd the globe alone,
While suppliant kings in all their pomp

and state
Swarm’d in his courts, and throng'd his palace gate;
Horace did oft the mighty man detain,
And sooth’d his breast with no ignoble strain;
Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string;
And taught the Roman genius how to sing.

Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue, Who know no want of Cæsar, finding you; The muse's friend is pleas'd the muse should press Through circling crowds, and labour for access, That partial to his darling he may prove, And shining throngs for her reproach remove, To all the world industrious to proclaim His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame.

Long has the western world reclin'd her head, Pour'd forth her sorrow,

and bewail'd her dead; Fell discord through her borders fiercely rang'd, And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang'di By land and sea, its utmost rage employ'd; Nor heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd.

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In vain kind summers plentuous fields bestow'd, In vain the vintage liberally flow'd; Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chas'd, And robb’d the rich Burgundian grape of taste; The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring, The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring; Time was distinguish'd by the sword and

spear, Not by the various aspects of the year ; The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky, And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh.

But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen, When such as you are near her glorious queen!) Now peace, though long repuls'd, arrives at last, And bids us smile on all our labours past; Bids every nation cease her wonted moan, And every monarch call his crown his own: To valour gentler virtues now succeed; No longer is the great man born to bleed; Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle shall tell, Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell: Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame, And without trembling we resound his name.

No more the rising harvest whets the sword, No longer waves uncertain of its lord ; Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim, Nor chance of battle change the master's name. Each stream unstain’d with blood more smoothly The brighter sun a fuller day bestows; [flows; All nature seems to wear a cheerful face, And thank great Anna for returning peace.

The patient thus, when on his bed of pain, No longer he invokes the gods in vain,

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