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When to her house her father came,
And thus address'd the mournful dame :
• My child,' said he, enough of tears you've fhed;
Think of the living, and forget the dead. • Another spouse don't startle at the word, 'Tis but a second ; you may have a third !
• As soon as decency permits, • I have a husband to propose ; • Young, handsome, rich, just one of those
« That's form’d to cure a widow's fits.'
• Ah, Sir! is this a father's part,
• To wound afresh a bleeding heart?
« Shall I another husband wed ?
• Oh, no! my only love is dead :
• Nor will I other wedding have,
• Till I am bedded in his grave !'
The father left her to digest
The wife and prudent things he faid;
the husband in her head,
And Time, he knew, would do the rest.
The cares of mourning next took place,
To dress her grief, and suit her face :
'Twas Cupid's thought; for what exceeds
A pretty widow in her weeds!
And now each looking-glass could tell
That black became her vastly well.
The smiles and
graçes, that were scar'd
away, With all the band of little loves,
And Cytheræa's doves, Came dropping in each day. The father, if report says true,
Another visit made, ere mourning over ;
• I'm glad, my dear,' said he, so well to find you !!
But mention'd not a word of the new lover :
At which the blush'd. Must I then, Sir, remind you ?
• The thing's too serious to be made a joke of:
• Where is the husband, pray, that once you spoke of
Wide is the difference, as you see it here,
'Twixt widow of a day, and widow of a year.
All lenient Time expands his wings,
Away he flies with human cares ;
Then back, full fraught with joy, repairs,
And every balmy comfort brings.
Time checks the mourning husband's fighs ;
'Tis he congeals the falling tear,
To form the lovely lucid leer, Which sparkles in a widow's eyes.
DIEU, the horrors of destructive war,
And mad Bellona in her iron car!
But welcome to our smiling fields again,
Sweet Peace ! attended with thy jocund train,
Truth, Virtue, Freedom, that can never cloy,
And all the pleasing family of Joy.
Those schemes pursu'd, which Pitt fo wisely plann'd,
Conquest has shower'd her blessings on the land ;
And Britain's fons more laurels have obtain's,
Than all her Henry's, or her Edward's gain'd.
George saw with joy the peaceful period given,
And bow'd obedient to the will of Heaven :
Awful he rose to bid dissention cease,
And all the warring world was calm’d to peace ;
Thus did the roaring waves their rage compose,
When the great father of the floods arose.
Then came Astrea mild, our isle to bless,
Fair queen of virtue, and of happiness!
Then came our troops, in fighting fields renown'd,
And mark'd with many an honourable wound,
The tender fair one, long by fears oppress’d,
Now feels soft raptures rising in her breaft,
The blooming hero of her heart to view,
And hear him bid the dangerous camp adiep.,
The widow'd bride, that long on grief had fed,
And bath'd with weeping the deserted bed,
Glad that the tumults of the war are o'er,
That terror, rage, and rapine are no more,
Greets her rough lord, secure from hostile harms,
And hopes an age of pleasure in his arms :
While he, with pompous eloquence, recites
Dire scenes of castles storm'd, and desperate fights ;
Or tells how Wolfe the free-born Britons led,
How Granby conquer'd, and the Houshold feds
She, to the pleasing dreadful tale intent,
Now smiles, now trembles, for the great event.
O curs'd ambition, foe to human good,
Pregnant with woe, and prodigal of blood !
Thou fruitful source, whence streams of sorrow fiow,
What devastations to thy guilt we owe !
Where'er thy fury riots, all around
Confusion, havock, and dread deaths abound :
Where Ceres flourish'd, and gay Flora smild,
Behold a barren, folitary wild !
To stately cedars, thorns and briars succeed,
And in the garden spreads the noxious weed;
Where cattle pastur'd late, the purple plain,
Sad scene of horror! teems with herces slain ;
Where the proud palace rear'd it's haughty head,
Deep in the duft, fee crumbling columns spread;
See gallant Britons in the field expire,
Towns turn'd to ashes, fanes involv'd in fire !
These deeds the guilt of rash Ambition tell,
And bloody Discord, furious fiend of hell!
Ye baneful fisters, with your frantick crew,
Hence speed your flight, and take your last adieu,
Eternal wars in barbarous worlds to wage;
There vent your inextinguishable rage.
But come, fair Peace, and be the nation's bride,
And let thy fister Plenty grace thy fide ;
O come ! and with thy placid presence chear
Our drooping hearts, and stay for ever here.
Now be the shrill ftrife-stirring trumpet mute;
Now let us listen to the softer lute :
The shepherd now his numerous flocks shall feed,
Where war relentless doom'd the brave to bleed;
On ruin'd ramparts shall the hawthorn flower,
And mantling ivy clasp the nodding tower;
Unusual harvests wave along the dale,
And the bent fickle o'er the sword prevail.
No more shall states with rival rage contend,
But Arts their empire o'er the world extend ;
Ingenuous Arts, that humanize the mind,
And give the brightest polish to mankind !
Then shall our chiefs in breathing marble stand,
And life seem starting from the sculptor's hand j
Then lovely nymphs in living picture rise,
The faireit faces, and the brightest eyes :
There polish'd Lane * no loss of beauty fears ;
Her charms, ftill mellowing with revolving years,
Shall, e'en on canvas, youthful hearts engage,
And warm the cold indifference of age :
The Hon. Mrs. Lane, daughter of the Right Hon. Lord Chancellor Henley, and wife to the Hon. Mr. Lane.
Then the firm arch shall stem the roaring tide,
And join those countries which the streams divide !
Then villas rise of true Palladian proof,
And the proud palace rear it's ample roof;
Then statelier temples to the skies ascend,
Where mix'd with nobles mighty kings may bend,
Where Poverty may send her fighs to Heaven,
And Guilt return, repent, and be forgiven.
Such are the fruits which sacred Peace imparts,
Sweet nurse of liberty and learned arts !
There she restores-O! that she could restore
Life to those Britons who now breathe no more;
Who in th’ embattled field undaunted stood,
And greatly perifh'd for their country's good;
Or who, by rage of angry tempests tossd,
In whirlpools of the whelming main were loft.
Ye honour'd shades of chiefs untimely slain !
Whose bones lie scatter'd on some foreign plain ;
That now perchance by lonely hind are seen
In glittering armour gliding o’er the green ;
Ye! that beneath the cold cerulean wave
Have made the watery element your grave,
Whose wandering spirits haunt the winding More,
Or ride on whirlwinds while the billows roar,
With kind protection still our ifle defend,
(If souls unbodied can protection lend)
Still o'er the king your shadowy pinions spread,
And in the day of danger shield his head;
Your bright examples shall our pattern be,
To make us valiant, and to keep us free.