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The voice of wrath awak'd, the nations hear,
The vanquish'd hope, and the proud victors fear;
Those quit their chain, and these resign their palm,
While Britain's awful Aag commands a calm.
The curious sage, nor gain nor fame pursues,
With other eyes the boiling deep he views ;
Hangs o'er the cliff inquisitive to know
The secret causes of it's ebb and flow;
Whence breathe the winds that ruffle it's smooth face,
Or ranks in classes all the fishy race,
From those enormous monsters of the main,
Who in their world, like other tyrants, reign,
To the poor cockle-tribe, that humble band,
Who cleave to rocks, or loiter on the strand.
Yet even their shells the Forming Hand divine
Has, with distinguish'd luftre, taught to shine.
What bright enamel ! and what various dyes !
What lively tints delight our wondering eyes !
T'h' Almighty Painter glows in every line :
How mean, alas ! is Raphael's bold design,
And Titian's colouring, if compar’d to thine!
Juftly Supreme! let us thy power revere,
Thou fill’It all space ! all-beauteous every where !
T'hy rising fun with blushes paints the morn ;
Thy shining lamps the face of night adorn ;
Thy flowers the meads, thy nodding trees the hills ;
The vales thy pastures green, and bubblin; rills :
Thy coral groves, thy rocks that amber weep,
Deck all the gloomy mansions of the deep;
Thy yellow fands, distinct with golden ore,
And these thy variegated shells, the shore !
To all thy works such grandeur halt thou lent,
And such extravagance of ornament.
For the false traitor, man,
and show ? A scene so gay, for us poor worms below ?
No! for thy glory all these beauties rise ;
Yet may improve the good, instruct the wise.
You, Madam, sprung from Beaufort's royal line,
Who, lost to courts, can in your closet shine,
Best know to use each blessing he bestows,
Best know to praise the Power from whence it flows,
Shells in your hand the Parian rock defy,
Or agate, or Ægyptian porphyry ;
More glossy they, their veins of brighter dye.
See! where your riing pyramids aspire ;
Your guests, furpriz'd, the shining pile admire !
In future times, if some great Phidias rise,
Whose chiffel with his mistress Nature vies,
Who, with superior skill, can lightly trace,
In the hard marble block, the softest face;
To crown this piece, so elegantly neat,
Your well-wrought bufto fhall the whole compleat;
O'er your own work from age to age preside,
It's author once, and then it's greatest pride.
ULSE shook his head ; poor Damon lay a dying ;
And close by his bed-fide his wife fat crying: • O ftay!' she said ; ' and must we part !
• My soul, like thine, is on the wing: • Methinks, I feel Death's iron dart; • But, oh! 'tis that which wounds thy heart,
« That bears to mine the sting!! Her grief was great, so was her moan,
And much to die she seem'd inclin'd; Howe'er, she let him go alone,
And prudently remain'd behind. A week, or so, was past and gone, Still the continu'd weeping on,
When to her house her father came,
And thus address’d the mournful dame :
My child,' said he, · enough of tears you've shed ;
• Think of the living, and forget the dead.
• Another fpoufe-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 wise and prudent things he said ;
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
With all the band of little loves,
And Cytherea'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, • fo 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 is
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.
DIE U, 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’d,
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 foods arose.
Then came Astrea mild, our ille 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 adiey.,
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 hoftile 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 fled;
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 flow,
What devastations to thy guilt we owe !
Where'er thy fury riots, all around
Confufion, 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 ;