XXVIII. Let Europe fav'd the column high erect, Sublime the Queen fhall on the fummit stand, XXIX. There fleets fhall ftrive by winds and waters toft; Till the young Auftrian on Iberia's strand, Great as Æneas on the Latian coaft, Shall fix his foot: and this, be this the land, Great Jove, where I for ever will remain (The empire's other hope fhall fay) and here Vanquish'd, intomb'd I'll∙lie; or crown'd, I'll reign virtue, to thy British mother dear! 4 Like the fam'd Trojan suffer and abide; For Anne is thine, I ween, as Venus was his guide. XXX. There, in eternal characters engrav'd, Vigo, and Gibraltar, and Barcelone. Their force deftroy'd, their privileges fav'd, Whom Anna fent to claim Iberia's throne: And made him more than king, in calling him her fon. XXXI. There Ifter pleas'd, by Blenheim's glorious field Thro' climes, where never British chief before Brabantia, clad with fields, and crown'd with tow'rs, With decent joy fhall her Deliv'rer meet; Shall own thy arms, great Queen, and bless thy pow'ra, Bright fwords, and crefted helms, and pointed spears And ftandards with diftinguish'd honours bright, VOL. II. B Which Valois' fons, and Bourbon's bore in fight, XXXIV. And as fine art the fpaces may. difpofe, The knowing thought and curious eye fhall fee. XXXV. Beneath, great Queen, oh! very far beneath, Near to the ground, and on the humble bafe, To fave herfelf from darknefs, and from death, That Mufe defires the laft, the lowest place; Who tho' unmeet, yet touch'd the trembling ftring; For the fair fame of Anne and Albion's land, Who durft of war and martial fury fing: And when thy will, and when thy subject's hand Had quell'd thofe wars, and bid that fury ceafe; Hangs up her grateful harp to conqueft, and to peace. CANTATA. Set by MONSIEUR GALLIARD. B REGIT. ENEATH a verdant lawrel's ample fhade, His lyre to mournful numbers ftrung, Horace, immortal bard, fupinely laid, To Venus thus addrefs'd the fong: Ten thousand little Loves around Lift'ning, dwelt on ev'ry found. ARIET. Potent Venus, bid thy fon Sound no more his dire alarms. Potent Venus, bid thy fon Sound no more his dire alarms. RECIT. Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair? Why do I all day lament and figh, Unless the beauteous maid be nigh? And why all night purfue her in my dreams, 4 RECIT. Thus fung the bard; and thus the goddefs fpoke; Submiffive bow to Love's imperious yoke: Ev'ry ftate, and ev'ry age Shall own my rule, and fear my rage: Often praife, and always love her: A HER RIGHT NAME. S Nancy at her toilet fat, Admiring this, and blaming that; |