The ftorms of Boreas rave no more,
The ftorms of faction cease to roar :
At vernal funs as wintry tempefts cease,
She, lovely Pow'r! fmiles faction into peace.
THE VOLUNTEER LAUREAT, FOR THE FIRST OF MARCH, 1737-8.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE MAJESTY,
Humbly addreffed to
HIS MAJESTY.
OFT' has the Mufe, on this distinguish'd day,
Tun'd to glad harmony the vernal lay;
But, O lamented change! the lay muft flow
From grateful rapture now to grateful woe.
She to this day who joyous luftre gave,
Defcends for ever to the filent grave: -
She! born at once to charm us and to mend,
Of human race the pattern and the friend.
To be or fondly or severely kind,
To check the rafh or prompt the better mind,
Parents fhall learn from her, and thus fhall draw
From filial love alone a filial awe.
Who seek in av'rice wisdom's art to fave,
Who often fquander, yet who never gave,
From her thefe knew the righteous mean to find, 15
And the mild virtue ftole on half mankind:..
The lavish now caught frugal Wisdom's lore,
Yet ftill the more they fav'd bestow'd the more.
Now mifers learn'd at others' woes to melt,
And faw and wonder'd at the change they felt: 20
'The gen'rous, when on her they turn'd their view,
The gen'rous ev'n themfelves more gen'rous grew,
Learn'd the fhunn'd haunts of fhame-fac'd Want to
To goodness, delicacy, adding grace.
The confcious cheek no rifing blush confeft,
Nor dwelt one thought to pain the modeft breast;
Kind and more kind did thus her bounty show'r,
And knew no limit but a bounded pow'r.
This truth the widow's fighs, alas! proclaim;
For this the orphan's tears embalm her fame.
The wife beheld her Learning's fummit gain,
Yet never giddy grow, nor ever vain,
But on one fcience point a ftedfaft eye,
That fcience-how to live and how to die.
Say, Memory while to thy grateful sight
Arife her virtues in unfading light,
What joys were ours, what forrows now remain:
Ah! how fublime the blifs! how deep the pain!
And thou, bright Princess! feated now on high,
Next one the fairest daughter of the Sky, '..
Whose warm-felt love is to all beings known,
Thy fifter Charity! next her thy throne;
See at thy tomb the Virtues weeping lie!
There in dumb forrow feem the Arts to die.
So were the fun o'er other orbs to blaze,
And from our world, like thee, withdraw his rays,
No more to vifit where he warm'd before,
All life muft ceafe, and nature be no more.
Yet fhall the Muse a heav'nly height effay
Beyond the weakness mix'd with mortal clay;
Beyond the lofs which, tho' fhe bleeds to fee,
Tho' ne'er to be redeem'd, the lofs of thee!
Beyond ev'n this fhe hails, with joyous lay,
Thy better birth, thy first true natal day;
A day that fees thee borne beyond the tomb
To endless health, to youth's eternal bloom;
Borne to the mighty dead, the fouls fublime
Of ev'ry famous age and ev'ry clime;
To goodnefs fix'd by truth's unvarying laws,
To blifs that knows no period, knows no pause-60
Save when thine eye, from yonder pure ferene,
Sheds a foft ray on this our gloomy fcene.
With me now Liberty and Learning mourn,
From all relief, like thy lov'd confort, torn;
For where can prince or people hope relief,
When each contend to be fupreme in grief?
So vy'd thy virtues that could point the way,
So well to govern, yet fo well obey.
Deign one look more! ah! fee thy confort dear Wishing all hearts, except his own, to cheer. Lo! ftill he bids thy wonted bounty flow To weeping families of worth and woe: He stops all tears, however faft they rise, Save those that still muft fall from grateful eyes; And, fpite of griefs that fo ufurp his mind, Still watches o'er the welfare of mankind.
Father of those whofe rights thy care defends, Still moft their own when moft their fovereign's friends,
Then chiefly brave, from bondage chiefly free, When most they truft,when moft they copy thee; 80 Ah! let the lowest of thy fubjects pay
His honeft heart-felt tributary lay;
In anguish happy, if permitted here
One figh to vent, to drop one virtuous teaf;
Happier, if pardon'd, should he wildly moan,
And with a monarch's forrow mix his own.
ATION to the Wanderer. Addreffed to
John Lord Visc. Tyrconnel,
Of Public Spirit in regard to Public Works: An
Epistle to his Royal Highness Frederick
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