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II.

Parent of arms! for ever ftand

With large increase of fame rever'd,
Whilft arches to thy faving hand
On Danube's grateful banks are rear'd.
Eugene, infpir'd to war by thee,

Aufonia's weeping states to free,
Swift on th' imperial eagle flies;
Whilft, bleeding, from his azure bed
Th' afferted Iber lifts his head,
And fafe his Auftrian lord enjoys.

III.

I Britannia! fix'd on foreign wars, Guiltlefs of civil rage extend thy name : The waves of utmoft ocean, and the stars, Are bounds but equal to thy fovereign's fame. With deeper wrath thy victor lion roars, Wide o'er the fubject world diffufing fear, Whilft Gallia weeps her guilt, and peace implores ; So Earth, transfix'd by fierce Minerva's fpear, A gentler birth obedient did disclose;

And fudden from the wound eternal olives rofe.

I.

When with establish'd freedom blefs'd,

The globe to great Alcides bow'd,

Whofe happy power reliev'd th' opprefs'd
From lawless chains, and check'd the proud;
Mature in fame, the grateful gods

Receiv'd him to their bright abodes:

Where

Where Hebe crown'd his blooming joys;
Garlands the willing Muses wove,
And each with emulation ftrove
T' adorn the Churchill of the skies.

II.

For Albion's Chief, ye facred Nine !
Your harps with generous ardour string,
With Fame's immortal trumpet join,
And fafe beneath his laurel fing:
When clad in vines the Seine fhall glide,
And duteous in a smoother tide
To British Seas her tribute yield;
Wakeful at Honour's fhrine attend,
And long with living beams defend
From night, the warrior's votive shield.

III.

And, Woodstock, let his dome exalt thy fame,

Great o'er thy Norman ruins be restor❜d;

Thou that with pride doft* Edward's cradle claim,
Receive an equal hero for thy lord:

Whilft every column to record their toils

Eternal monuments of conqueft wears,

And all thy walls are drefs'd with mingled fpoils,
Gather'd on fam'd Ramillia and Poitiers,

High on thy tower the grateful flag display,

Due to thy Queen's reward, and Blenheim's glorious day.

The Black Prince.

FLORE

FLORE LI O.

A PASTORA L.

Lamenting the Death of the late

MARQUIS OF BLANDFORD.

ASK not the caufe why all the tuneful fwains,

Who us'd to fill the vales with tender strains,

In deep defpair neglect the warbling reed,
And all their bleating flocks refuse to feed.

Afk not why greens and flowers fo late

appear To cloath the glebe, and deck the springing year;

Why founds the lawn with loud laments and cries,
And fwoln with tears to floods the rivulets rife :
The fair Florelio now has left the plain,

And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British swain.
For thee, lov'd youth! on every vale and lawn,
The nymphs and all thy fellow-fhepherds moan.
The little birds now cease to fing and love,
Silent they fit, and droop on every grove :
No mounting lark now warbles on the wing,
Nor linnets chirp to chear the fullen spring :
Only the melancholy turtles coo,

And Philomel by night repeats her woe.
O, charmer of the fhades! the tale prolong,
Nor let the morning interrupt thy song:

Or

Or foftly tune thy tender notes to mine,
Forgetting Tereus, make my forrows thine.
Now the dear youth has left the lonely plain,

And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British swain.
Say, all ye fhades, where late he us'd to reft,
If e'er your beds with lovelier fwain were preft;
Say, all ye filver ftreams, if e'er ye "bore
The image of fo fair a face before.

But now, ye ftreams, affift me whilft I mourn,
For never muft the lovely fwain return;
And, as thefe flowing tears increase your tide,
O, murmur for the shepherd as ye glide :'
Be fure, ye rocks, while I my grief disclose,
your fad echoes lengthen out my woes:

Let

Ye breezes, bear the plaintive accent on,

And, whispering, tell the woods Florelio's gone.
For ever gone, and left the lonely plain,

And is the grief, who was the grace, of every British fwain.
Ripe ftrawberries for thee, and peaches grew,
Sweet to the tafte, and tempting red to view.
For thee the rofe put sweeter purple on,
Preventing, by her hafte, the fummer-fun.
But now the flowers all pale and blighted lie,
And in cold fweats of fickly mildew die.
Nor can the bees fuck from the fhrivel'd blooms
Ætherial fweets, to store their golden combs.
Oft' on thy lips they would their labour leave,
And fweeter odours from thy mouth receive :
Sweet as the breath of Flora, when the lies
In jafinine fhades, and for young Zephyr fighs.

But now thofe lips are cold; relentless death

Hath chill'd their charms, and ftopt thy balmy breath.
Thofe eyes, where Cupid tipp'd his darts with fire,
And kindled in the coldest nymphs defire,
Robb'd of their beams, in everlasting night
Are clos'd, and give us woes as once delight:

And thou, dear youth, haft left the lonely plain,
And art the grief, who wert the grace, of every British fwain.
As in his bower the dying fhepherd lay,

The fhepherd yet so young, and once so gay!

The nymphs that fwim the ftream, and range the wood, And haunt the flowery meads, around him stood. There tears down each fair cheek unbounded fell, And, as he gasp'd, they gave a fad farewel. Softly, they cry'd, as fleeping flowers are clos'd By night, be thy dear eyes by death compos'd: A gentle fall may thy young beauties have, And golden flumbers wait thee in the grave: Yearly thy hearse with garlands we'll adorn, And teach young nightingales for thee to mourn; Bees love the blooms, the flocks the bladed grain, Nor lefs wert thou belov'd by every fwain. Come, fhepherds, come, perform the funeral due For he was ever good and kind to you: On every finoothest beech, in every grove, In weeping characters record your love. And as in memory of Adonis flain, When for the youth the Syrian maids complain His river, to record the guilty day,

With freshly bleeding purple ftains the sea a

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