Sir, I have long, and with impatience, sought

To ease the fulness of my grateful thought,

My fame at once, and duty to pursue,

And please the public, by respect to you.

Though you, long since beyond Britannia known,

Have spread your country's glory with your own;

To me you never did more lovely shine,

Than when so late the kindled wrath divine

Quench'd our ambition, in great Anna's fate,

And darken'd all the pomp of human state.

Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay,

Though rais'd in life, and greatness fade away,

Your lustre brightens: virtue cuts the gloom

With 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

The sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot.

I sing—but ah! my theme I need not tell,

See every eye with conscious sorrow swell:

Who now to verse would raise his humble voice,

Can only show his duty, not his choice.

How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain!

We languish, and to speak is to complain.

Let us look back, (for who too oft can view

That most illustrious scene, 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,

While millions lie subdu'd by Anna's prayer.

How great her zeal! how fervent her desire!

How did her soul in holy warmth expire!

Constant devotion did her time divide,

Not set returns of pleasure or of pride.

Not want of rest, or the sun's parting ray,

But finish'd duty, limited the day.

How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes

Smil'd in her thoughts, and soften'd all her dreams!

Her royal couch descending angels spread,

And join'd their wings a shelter o'er her head.

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

And reconcile the wounded heart to rest?

Great in her goodness, well could we perceive,

Whoever sought, it was a queen that gave.

Misfortune lost her name, her guiltless frown

But made another debtor to the crown;

And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore,

Became our title to the regal store.

Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot,

And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit.

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.

August in native worth and regal state,

Anna sate arbitress of Europe's fate;

To distant realms did every accent fly,

And nations watch'd each motion of her eye.

Silent, nor longer awful to be seen,

How small a spot contains the mighty queen!

No throng of suppliant princes mark the place,

Where Britain's greatness is compos'd in peace:

The broken earth is scarce discern'd to rise,

And a stone tells us where the monarch lies.

Thus end maturest honours of the crown!

This is the last conclusion of renown!

So when with idle skill the wanton boy

Breathes through his tube; he sees, with eager joy,

The trembling bubble, in its rising small;

And by degrees expands the glittering ball.

But when, to full perfection blown, it flies

High in the air, and shines in various dyes,

The little monarch, with a falling tear,

Sees his world burst at once, and disappear,

'Tis not in sorrow to reverse our doom,

No groans unlock th' inexorable tomb!

Why then this fond indulgence of our woe!

What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow!

Yes, this advantage; from our deep distress

We learn how much in George the gods can bless

Had a less glorious princess left the throne,

But half the hero had at first been shown:

An Anna falling all the king employs,

To vindicate from guilt our rising joys:

Our joys arise and innocently shine,

Auspicious monarch! what a praise is thine!

Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne!

Nor let thy country think thee all her own.

Of thy delay how oft did we complain!

Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main.

With prayer we smooth the billows for thy fleet;

With ardent wishes fill thy swelling sheet;

And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore,

We bending bless'd the gods, and ask'd no more.

What hand but thine should conquer and compose,

Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes?

Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim,

And by his rival's greatness give him fame?

Now in some foreign court he may sit down,

And quit without a blush the British crown.

Secure his honour, though he lose his store,

And take a lucky moment to be poor.

Nor think, great sir, now first, at this late hour,

In Britain's favour, you exert your power;

To us, far back in time, I joy to trace

The numerous tokens of your princely grace.

Whether you chose to thunder on the Rhine,

Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine;

In the more scenes your genius was display'd,

The greater debt was on Britannia laid:

They all conspir'd this mighty man to raise,

And your new subjects proudly share the praise.

All share; but may not we have leave to boast

That we contemplate, and enjoy it most?

This ancient nurse of arts, indulged by fate

On gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat;

For many roiling ages justly fam'd,

Has through the world her loyalty proclaim'd;

And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!)

Her blood and treasure to support the throne!

For England's church her latest accents strain'd;

And freedom with his dying hand retain'd.

No wonder then her various ranks agree

In all the fervencies of zeal for thee.

What though thy birth a distant kingdom boast,

And seas divide thee from the British coast?

The crown's impatient to enclose thy head:

Why stay thy feet? the cloth of gold is spread.

Our strict obedience through the world shall tell

That king's a Briton, who can govern well!

With invocations some their breasts inflame;

I need no muse, a Walpole is my theme.

Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise!

Our morning stars! our boast in former days!

Which hovering o'er, your purple wings display,

Lur'd by the pomp of this distinguish'd day,

Stoop, and attend: by one, the knee be bound;

One, throw the mantle's crimson folds around;

By that, the sword on his proud thigh be plac'd;

This, clasp the diamond girdle round his waist;

His breast, with rays, let just Godolphin spread;

Wise Burleigh plant the plumage on his head;

And Edward own, since first he fix'd the race,

None press'd fair glory with a swifter pace.

When fate would call some mighty genius forth

To wake a drooping age to godlike worth,

Or aid some favourite king's illustrious toil,

It bids his blood with generous ardour boil;

His blood, from virtue's celebrated source,

Pour'd down the steep of time, a lengthen'd course;

That men prepar'd may just attention pay,

Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day,

When all the scatter'd merits of his line

Collected to a point, intensely shine.

See, Britain, see thy Walpole shine from far,

His azure ribbon, and his radiant star;

A star that, with auspicious beams, shall guide

Thy vessel safe, through fortune's roughest tide.

If peace still smiles, by this shall commerce steer

A finish'd course, in triumph round the sphere;

And, gathering tribute from each distant shore,

In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour.

If war's ordain'd, this star shall dart its beams

Through that black cloud which, rising from the Thames,

With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is sent

To claim the seas, and awe the continent.

This shall direct it where the bolt to throw,

A star for us, a comet to the foe.

At this the muse shall kindle, and aspire:

My breast, O Walpole, glows with grateful fire.

The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee,

Refresh the dry domains of poesy.

My fortune shows, when arts are Walpole's care,

What slender worth forbids us to despair:

Be this thy partial smile from censure free;

'Twas meant for merit, though it fell on me.

Since Brunswick's smile has authoris'd my muse,

Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views.

False praises are the whoredoms of the pen,

Which prostitute fair fame to worthless men:

This profanation of celestial fire

Makes fools despise, what wise men should admire.

Let those I praise to distant times be known,

Not by their author's merit, but their own.

If others think the task is hard, to weed

From verse rank flattery's vivacious seed,

And rooted deep; one means must set them free,

Patron! and patriot! let them sing of thee.

While vulgar trees ignobler honours wear,

Nor those retain, when winter chills the year;

The generous orange, favourite of the sun,

With vigorous charms can through the seasons run;

Defies the storm with her tenacious green;

And flowers and fruits in rival pomp are seen:

Where blossoms fall, still fairer blossoms spring;

And midst their sweets the feather'd poets sing.

On Walpole, thus, may pleas'd Britannia view

At once her ornament and profit too;

The fruit of service, and the bloom of fame,

Matur'd and gilded by the royal beam.

He, when the nipping blasts of envy rise

Its guilt can pity, and its rage despise;

Lets fall no honours, but, securely great,

Unfaded holds the colour of his fate:

No winter knows, though ruffling factions press;

By wisdom deeply rooted in success;

"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.

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 peerage flow'd.

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 aright,

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.