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On woven wings,
And won the cherub Health to crown
Which feels all sorrows but its own,
And seeks by blessing to be blest.
Fled are all the gbastly train,
Writhing pain, and pale disease;
Joy resumes his wonted reign, Whate'er the torrid regions hide,
The Sun-beams mingle with the breeze, From Sirius' fiercer flames,
And his own month, which Health's gay livery wears, Of herb, or root, or gem, or ore,
On the sweet prospect smiles of long succeeding They grasp them all from shore to shore,
FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1766.
Hail to the man, so sings the Hebrew bard,
Whose numerous offspring grace his genial board:
Heaven's fairest gift, Heaven's hest reward, No streamers float on this sequester'd air ! - Yes, yes, proceed, and conquer too;
To those who honour, who obey his word.
What shall he fear, though drooping age
Unnerve his strength, and pointless sink bis spear;
In vain the proad, in vain the mad shall rage ; “ Know, ye rash adventurous bands,
He fears his God, and knows no other fear.
Lo! at his call a duteous race
Spring eager from his lov'd embrace,
And fiy at each rever'd command,
Like arrows from the giant's hand,
In vengeance on his foes.
A blooming hero, great beyond his years.
So William fought—but cease the strain, By me conducted, shall exert their claims,
A loss so recent bathes the Muse in tears.
So shall hereafter every son,
Who now with prattling infancy relieves
Those anxious cares which wait upon a throne,
The thorn its pointed anguish-So
Shall every youth his duty know,
To guard the monarch's right, and people's weal;
And thou, great George, with just regard Hail to the rosy morn, whose ray
To Heaven, shalt own the Hebrew bard To lustre wakes th' auspicious day,
But sung the truths you feel.
Blest be the day which gave thee birth!
Let others tear the ravay'd Earth, And pastimes of the year.
And fell Ambition's powers appear Whate'er the wintry colds prepard,
In storms, which desolate the year. Whate'er the spring but faintly rear'd,
Confess'd thy milder virtues shine, Now wears its brightest bloom ;
Thou rul'st indeed, our hearts are thine. A brighter blue enrobes the skies,
By slender ties our kings of old From laughing fields the zephyrs rise
Their fabled right divine would vainly hold. On wings that breathe perfume.
Thy juster claim ev'n Freedom's sons can love, The lark in air that warbling floats,
The king who bends to Heaven, must Heaven itself The wood-birds with their tuneful throats,
1767 And shall the British lyre be mute,
When first the rude o'er-peopled North
At large in alien climes to roam,
And seek a newer, better home, To him we pour the grateful lay,
From the bleak mountain's barren head, Who makes the season doubly gay:
The marshy vale, th' ungrateful plain, For whom, so late, our lifted eyes
From cold and penury they fled With tears besought the pitying skies,
To warmer suns, and Ceres' golden reign.
FOR THE NEW-YEAR.
At every step the breezes blew
Their fostring dews distill’d : Soft and more soft: the lengthen'd view
In vain the wide and teeming Earth Did fairer scenes expand :
Gave all her buried treasures birth, Unconscious of approaching foes,
And crown'd the laughing field : The farm, the town, the city rose,
For lo ! some fiend, in evil hour, To tempt the spoiler's hand.
Assuming Famine's horrid mien,
Diffus'd her petrifying power Not Britain so. For nobler ends
O'er thoughtless Plenty's festive bower, Her willing daring sons she sends,
And blasted every green. Praught like the fabled car of old,
Strong panic terrours shook the land;
Th’ obdurate breast, the griping hand
Were almost taught to spare ;
For loud misrule, the scourge of crimes, From peopled farms, and busy towns,
Mix'd with the madness of the times,
To sandy deserts, pathless woods, (the loom, Whilst real Want, with sigh sincere,
At home, in silence, dropp'd a tear,
Or rais’d th' imploring eye, To where self-strangled Nature lies,
Foul Riot's sons in torrents came, Till social art shall bid her rise
And dar'd usurp thy awful name, From chaos into form.
Thrice sacred Misery ! Thus George and Britain bless mankind.
Then George arose. His feeling heart And lest the parent realm should find
Inspir'd the nation's better part Her numbers shrink, with flag unfurl'a
With virtues like its own: She stands, th' asylum of the world.
His power control'd th' insatiate train, From foreign strands new subjects come, Whose avarice grasp'd at private gain, New arts accede a thousand ways,
Regardless of a people's groan. For here the wretched finds a home,
Like snows beneath th' all-cheering ray, And all her portals Charity displays.
The rebel crowds dissolv'd away: From each proud master's hard command,
And Justice, though the sword she drew, From tyrant Zeal's oppressive hand,
Glanc'd lightly o'er th' offending crew, What eager exiles fly!
And scarce selected, to avenge her woes, “ Give us,” they cry, “'t is Nature's cause, A single victim from a host of foes. O give us liberty and laws,
Yes, Mercy triumph'd; Mercy shone confest Beneath a harsher sky!”
In her own noblest sphere, a monarch's breast.
Forcibly mild did Mercy shine, Thus George and Britain bless mankind.-
Like the sweet month in which we pay Away, ye barks; the favouring wind
Our annual vows at Mercy's shrine, Springs from the east; ye prows, divide
And hail our monarch's natal day. The vast Atlantic's heaving tide!
Britannia from each rocky height
FOR THE NEW-YLAR. 1768.
Let the voice of Music breathe,
Hail with song the new-born year! The lakes admit the merchant's keel
Though the frozen Earth beneath
Feels not yet his influence near,
The genial god who rules the day
Has bid his glowing axle roll,
And promis'd the return of May.
Yon ruffian blasts, whose pinions sweep
Impetuous o'er our northern deep,
Shall cease their sounds of war:
And, gradual as his power prevails,
Shall mingle with the softer gales
That sport around his car.
Poets should be prophets too,
Plenty in his train attends; Emerging from the main :
Fruits and flowers of various hue In vain the genial source of day
Bloom where'er her step she bends. Selected each indulgent ray
Down the green hill's sloping side, For Britain's fertile plain :
Winding to the vale below, In vain yon bright surrounding skies
See, she pours her golden tide! Bade all their clouds in volumes rise,
Whilst, upon its airy brow,
Amidst his flocks, whom Nature leads
FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1769.
PATRON of Arts, at length by thee
Their home is fix'd: thy kind decree Then lifts it to the skies.
Has plac'd their empire here.
No more unheeded shall they waste Let the voice of Music breathe !
Their treasures on the fickle taste Twine, ye swains, the festal wreath!
Of each fantastic year. Britain shall no more complain
Judgment shall frame each chaste design, Of niggard harvests, and a failing year :
Nor e'er from Truth's unerring line No more the miser hoard his grain,
The sportive artist roam : Regardless of the peasant's tear,
Whether the breathing bust he forms, Whose hand laborious till'd the earth,
With Nature's tints the canvass warms, And gave those very treasures birth.
Or swells, like Heaven's high arch, th’imperial dome,
Fancy, the wanderer, shall be taught No more shall George, whose parent breast
To own severer laws : Feels every pang his subjects know,
Spite of her wily wanton play, Behold a faithful land distress'd,
Spite of her lovely errours, which betray Or hear one sigh of real woe:
Th'enchanted soul to fund applause, But grateful' mirth, whose decent bounds
Ev'n she, the wanderer, shall be taught No riot swells, no fear confounds,
That nothing truly great was ever wrought, And heartfelt ease, whose glow within
Where judgment was away. Exalts Contentment's modest mien,
Through osier twigs th’ Acanthus rose: In every face shall smile confess'd,
Th'idea charms, the artist glows:
Which bade the graceful foliage spread,
With dignity and ease.
When great Apelles, pride of Greece,
Frown'd on the almost finish'd piece,
Despairing to succeed, FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4,
What though the missile vengeance pass'd
From his rash hand, the random cast
Nor less the Phidian arts approve
Labour, and patient care,
Whate'er the skilful artists trace,
Laccoon's pangs, or soft Antinous' face.
The Delian god does all but move;
'T was skill gave terrours to the front of Jove, To that imaginary deity,
To Venus every grace.
--And shall each sacred seat,
The vales of Arno, and the Tuscan stream,
No more be visited with pi!grim feet?
No more on sweet Hymettus' summits dream
The sons of Albion ? or below,
Where Ilyssus' waters flow,
Trace with awe the dear remains
Of mould'ring urns, and mutilated fanes ?
Far be the thought. Each sacred seat,
Each monument of ancient fame,
Shall still be visited with pilgrim feet, (flame.
Still shall her studious youth repair, draws To venerate and patronize the laws)
Beneath their king's protecting care,
To every clime which art has known;
And rich with spoils from every coast
Return, till Albion learn to boast
An Athens of her own.
FOR THE NEW-YEAR. 1770. Till, white as Britain's fleece, old Time shall FORWARD, Janus, turn thine eyes, shed
Future scenes in prospect view, His snows upon his reverend head,
Rising as the moments rise, Commanding filial awe from senates yet unborn, Which form the fleeting year anew,
Fresh beneath the scythe of Time,
He too, when Heaven vouchsafes to smile Could the Muse's voice avail,
Propitious on his favourite isle,
With zeal performs the task he loves,
And every gracious boon improves.
Blest delegate ! if now there lies To Britain, and to Britain's king.
Ripening in yonder pregnant skies Suns should warm the pregnant soil,
Some great event of more than common good, Health in every breeze should blow;
Though Envy howl with all her brood, Plenty crown the peasant's toil,
Thy wonted power employ;
Usher the mighty moments in
Sacred to harmony and joy,
And from his era let their course begin!
And every distant fear remove;
FOR THE NEW-YEAR. 1771.
Again returns the circling year, But let Britain still be found
Again the festal day, Safe within her wat'ry bound.
Which ushers in its bright career,
Demands the votive lay:
Again the oft-accustom'd Muse
Her tributary task pursues, And, by blessing, truly blest.
Strikes the preluding lyre again, Though comets rise, and wonder mark their way, And calls the harmonious band to animate her strain. Above the bounds of Nature's sober laws,
Britain is the glowing theme; It is the all-cheering lamp of day,
To Britain sacred be the song : The permanent, the unerring cause,
Whate'er the sages lov'd to dream By whom th' enliven'd world its course maintains,
Lycéan shades among, By whom all Nature smiles, and beauteous order (When raptur'd views their bosoms warm'd reigns.
Of perfect states by fancy form'd)
United here and realiz'd we see,
Thrones, independence, laws, and liberty !
The triple cord, which binds them fast, FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1770.
Like the golden chain of Jove DISCORD hence! the torch resign
Combining all below with all above, Harmony shall rule to day.
Shall bid the sacred union last. Whate'er thy busy fiends design
What though jars intestiné rise, Of future ills, in cruel play,
And discord seems awhile to reign, To torture or alarm mankind,
Britain's sons are brave, are wise, Lead the insidious train away,
The storm subsides, and they embrace again. Some blacker hours for mischief find;
The master-springs which rule the land, Harmony shall rule to day.
Guided by a skilful hand, Distinguish'd from the vulgar year,
Loosening now, and now restraining, And mark'd with Heaven's peculiar white,
Yielding something, something gaining, This day shall grace the rolling sphere,
Preserve inviolate the public frame, And ling'ring end its bright career,
As, though the seasons change, the year is still the Unwilling to be lost in night.
O, should Britain's foes presume, (same. Discord, lead thy fiends away!
Trusting some delusive scene Harmony shall rule to day.
Of transient feuds that rage at home,
And seem to shake the nice machine, Is there, intent on Britain's good,
Should they dare to lift the sword, Some angel hovering in the sky,
Or bid their hostile thunders roar, Whose ample view surveys her circling flood,
Soon their pride would mirth afford, Her guardian rocks, that shine on high,
And break like billows on a shore; Her forests, waving to the gales,
Soon would find her vengeance wake, Her streams, that glide through fertile vales,
Weep in blood the dire mistake, Her lowing pastures, fleecy downs,
And 'gainst their wild attempts united see
Thrones, independence, laws, and liberty!
FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1771.
Long did the churlish East detain
In icy bonds th' imprison'd spring:
No verdure dropp'd in dewy rain,
And not a zephyr wav'd its wing.
Even he, th' enlivening source of day,
True to herself if Britain prove, But pour'd an ineffectual ray
What foreign foes has she to dread? On Earth's wild bosom, cold and bare;
Her sacred laws, her sovereign's love, Where not a plant uprear'd its head,
Her virtuous pride by Freedom bred, Or dar'd its infant foliage spread
Secure at once domestic ease, To meet the blasting air.
And awe th' aspiring nations into peace. Nor less did man confess its force:
Did Rome e'er court a tyrant's smiles, Whate'er could damp its genial course,
Till faction wrought the civil frame's decay ? Or o'er the seats of life prevail,
Did Greece submit to Philip's wiles,
Till her own faithless sons prepard the way?
True to herself if Britain prove,
The warring world will league in vain, But now th' unfolding year resumes
Her sacred laws, her sovereign's love, Its various hues, its rich array ;
Her empire boundless as the main, And, bursting into bolder blooms,
Will guard at once domestic ease, Repays with strength its long delay.
And awe th' aspiring nations into peace. *T is Nature reigns. The grove unbinds Its tresses to the southern winds,
The birds with music fill its bowers;
FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4, 1772.
From scenes of death, and deep distress, While health, the animating soul
(Where Britain shar'd her monarch's woe) Of every bliss, inspires the whole,
Which most the feeling mind oppress, And heightens each peculiar charm.
Yet best to bear the virtuous know,
Turn we our eyes—The cypress wreath Loveliest of months, bright Jupe! again
No more the plaintive Muse shall wear; Thy season smiles. With thee return
The blooming flowers which round her breathe, The frolic band of Pleasure's train;
Shall form the chaplet for her hair; With thee Britannia's festal morn,
And the gay month which claims her annual fire, When the glad land her homage pays
Shall raise to sprightlier notes the animated lyre, To George, her monarch, and her friend.
The lark that mounts on morning wings “ May cheerful health, may length of days,
To meet the rising day, And smiling peace his steps attend !
Amidst the clouds exulting sings, May every good" - Cease, cease the strain ;
The dewy clouds, whence Zephyr flings The prayer were impotent and vain:
The fragrance of the May. What greater good can man possess
The day, which gave our monarch birth, Than he, to whom all-bounteous Heaven,
Recalls each noblest theme of ages past; With unremitting hand, has given
Tells us, whate'er we owed to Nassau's worth, The power and will to bless?
The Brunswick race confirm'd, and bade it last :
And conscious gratitude, to feel
Our laws, our liberties, reclaim'd
From tyrant pride, and bigot zeal;
While each glad voice, that wakes the echoing air, At length the fleeting year is o'er,
In one united wish thus joins the general prayer: And we no longer are deceiv'd;
“ Till Ocean quits his favorite isle, The wars, the tumults are no more
Till, Thames, thy wat'ry train Which fancy form’d, and fear believ'd. No more shall bless its pregnant soil, Each distant object of distress,
May order, peace, and freedom smile
Beneath a Brunswick's reign !”
Revive, in stale succession roll'd?
FOR THE NEW-YEAR, 1773.
Wrapt in the stole of sable grain,
Which howl the naked woods among,
Winter claims the solemn song. Dissolve at their approaching light,
Hark, 't is Nature's last farewell; As fy the wint'ry damps the soft return of spring! Every blast is Nature's kuell !