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It was a scene in every part
Like those in fable feign'd,
And seem'd by some magician's art
Created and sustain’d.
But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.
That cordial thought her spirits cheer'd,
And through the cumbrous throng,
Not else unworthy to be fear’d,
Convey'd her calm along.
So, ancient poets say, serene
The seamaid rides the waves,
And fearless of the billowy scene
Her peaceful bosom laves.
With more than astronomic eyes
She view'd the sparkling show;
One Georgian star adorns the skies,
She myriads found below.
Yet let the glories of a night
Like that, once seen,
suffice, Heaven grant us no such future sight,
Such previous woe the price!
COMMÉMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY Recovery.
I RANSACK'D, for a theme of song,
Much ancient chronicle, and long;
I read of bright embattled fields,
Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,
Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast
Prowess to dissipate a host:
Through tomes of fable and of dream
I sought an eligible theme,
But none I found, or found them shared
Already by some happier bard.
To modern times, with Truth to guide
My busy search, I next applied;
Here cities won and fleets dispersed
Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed,
Deeds of unperishing renown,
Our fathers' triumphs and our own.
Thus, as the bee from bank to bower,
Assiduous sips at every flower,
But rests on none till that be found
Where most nectareous sweets abound,
So I from theme to theme display'd
In many a page historic stray'd,
Siege after siege, fight after fight,
Contemplating with small delight
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view);
Till, settling on the current year,
I found the far sought treasure near;
A theme for poetry divine,
A theme to’ ennoble even mine,
In memorable eighty-nine.
The spring of eighty-nine shall be
An era cherish'd long by me,
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of eighty-eight,
That threaten'd England's trembling state
With loss of what she least could spare,
Her sovereign's tutelary care,
One breath of Heaven, that cried-Restore!
Chased, never to assemble more;
And far the richest crown on earth,
If valued by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign,
Sat fast on George's brows again.
Then peace and joy again possess'd
Our queen's long agitated breast,
Such joy and peace as can be known
By sufferers like herself alone;
Who, losing or supposing lost
The good on earth they valued most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below,
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!
queen of Albion, queen of isles !
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,
that never saw thee shine
With joy not unallied to thine,
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land's remotest part,
And strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answer'd prayers,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.
If they, who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,
'Tis but the natural effect
Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than queen,
Who is beloved where never seen.
O LORD, my best desire fulfill,
And help me to resign
Life, health, and comfort to thy will,
And make thy pleasure mine.
Why should I shrink at thy command,
Whose love forbids my fears?
Or tremble at the gracious hand
That wipes away my tears? No, let me rather freely yield
What most I prize to Thee;
Who never hast a good withheld,
Or wilt withhold from me.
Thy favour all my journey through
Thou art engaged to grant;
What else I want, or think I do,
But, ah! my inward spirit cries,
Still bind me to thy sway; Else the next cloud that veils my skies,
Drives all these thoughts away.
IN Scotland's realm where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found.
For Husband there and Wife
boast Their union undefiled, And false ones are as rare almost
As hedge-rows in the wild.
In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare
The history chanced of late-
This history of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate. The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct fill’d;
They pair’d, and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.
The heaths uncover'd and the moors,
Except with snow and sleet,
Seabeaten rocks, and naked shores,
Could yield them no retreat.