The Fates at length the blissful web have spun,
And bid it round in endless circles run.
Again shall distant lands confess thy sway,
Again the watery world thy rule obey;
Again thy martial fons fhall thirst for fame,
And win in foreign fields a deathless name;
For William's genius every foul inspires,
And warms the frozen youth with warlike fires.
Already, fee, the hostile troops retreat,
And feem forewarn'd of their impending fate.
Already routed foes his fury feel,
And fly the force of his unerring steel.
The haughty Gaul, who well, till now, might boast
A matchlefs fword and unrefifted host,
At his foreseen approach the field forfakes;
His cities tremble, and his empire shakes.
His towering enfigns long had aw'd the plain,
And fleets audaciously ufurp'd the main ;
A gathering ftorm he seem'd, which from afar
Teem'd with a deluge of destructive war,
Till William's ftronger genius foar'd above,
And down the skies the daring tempeft drove.
So from the radiant fun retires the night,
And western clouds fhot through with orient light.
So when th' afsuming god, whom storms obey,
To all the warring winds at once gives way,
The frantic brethren ravage all around,
And rocks, and woods, and fhores, their rage refound;
Incumbent o'er the main, at length they sweep
The liquid plains, and raife the peaceful deep.
But when fuperior Neptune leaves his bed,
His trident shakes, and fhews his awful head;
The madding winds are hush'd, the tempefts cease,
And every rolling furge refides in peace.
And now the facred leaf a landfkip wears,
Where, heaven ferene, and air unmov'd appears.
The rofe and lily paint the verdant plains,
And palm and olive fhade the fylvan scenes.
The peaceful Thames beneath his banks abides,
And foft, and ftill, the filver furface glides.
The Zephyrs fan the fields, the whispering breeze
With fragrant breath remurmurs through the trees.
The warbling birds, applauding new-born light,
In wanton measures wing their airy flight.
Above the floods the finny race repair,
And bound aloft, and bask in upper air;
They gild their fcaly backs in Phoebus' beams,
And fcorn to fkim the level of the ftreams.
Whole Nature wears a gay and joyous face,
And blooms and ripens with the fruits of peace.
No more the labouring hind regrets his toil,
But chearfully manures the grateful foil;
Secure the glebe a plenteous crop will yield,
And golden Ceres grace the waving field.
Th' adventurous man, who durft the deep explore,
Oppofe the winds, and tempt the shelfy fhore,
Beneath his roof now taftes unbroken reft,
Enough with native wealth and plenty bleft.
No more the forward youth purfues alarms,
Nor leaves the facred arts for ftubborn arms.
No more the mothers from their hopes are torn,
Nor weeping maids the promis'd lover mourn.
No more the widows' fhrieks, and orphans' cries,
Torment the patient air, and pierce the skies;
But peaceful joys the profperous times afford,
And banish'd virtue is again restor❜d.
And he whofe arms alone fuftain'd the toil,
And propp'd the nodding frame of Britain's ifle;
By whofe illuftrious deeds, her leaders fir'd,
Have honours loft retriev'd, and new acquir'd,
With equal fway will virtue's laws maintain,
And good, as great, in awful peace shall reign;
For his example ftill the rule fhall give,
And those it taught to conquer, teach to live.
Proceeding on, the Father still unfolds
Succeeding leaves, and brighter still beholds;
The latest seen the faireft feems to fhine,
Yet fudden does to one more fair refign.
Th' Eternal paus'd-
Nor would Britannia's fate beyond explore;
Enough he faw befides the coming store.
Enough the hero had already done,
And round the wide extent of glory run:
Nor further now the fhining path pursues,
But like the fun the fame bright race renews.
And fhall remorfelefs Fates on him have power!
Or Time unequally fuch worth devour!
Then, wherefore fhall the brave for fame contest?
Why is this man distinguish'd from the rest ?
Whose foaring genius now fublime afpires,
And deathlefs fame the due reward requires.
Approving Heaven th' exalted virtue views,
Nor can the claim which it approves refuse.
The great Creator foon the grant refolves,
And in his mighty mind the means revolves.
He thought; nor doubted once, again to chuse,
But fpake the word, and made th' immortal Mufe,
Ne'er did his power produce fo bright a child,
On whofe creation infant Nature fmil'd.
Perfect at firft, a finish'd form she wears,
And youth perpetual in her face appears.
Th' affembled gods, who long expecting ftaid,
With new delight gaze on the lovely maid,
And think the wifh'd-for world was well delay'd.
Nor did the fire himself his joy disguise,
But ftedfast view'd, and fix'd, and fed his eyes,
Intent a space, at length he filence broke,
And thus the god the heavenly fair bespoke.
"To thee, immortal Maid, from this blefs'd hour, "O'er Time and Fame, I give unbounded power, "Thou from Oblivion fhalt the hero fave; "Shalt rife, revive, immortalize the brave. "To thee, the Dardan Prince fhall owe his fame; "To thee, the Cæfars their eternal name. "Eliza, fung by thee with Fate fhall strive, "And long as Time in facred verse survive. "And yet, O Mufe, remains the nobleft theme; "The first of men, mature for end lefs fame,
"Thy future fongs fhall grace, and all thy lays, "Thenceforth, alone fhall wait on William's praise. "On his heroic deeds thy verse shall rise; "Thou fhalt diffufe the fires that he supplies. "Through him thy songs shall more fublime aspire ; "And he, through them, shall deathless fame acquire ? "Nor Time nor Fate his glory fhall oppose, "Or blaft the monuments the Mufe beftows." This faid; no more remain'd.
Again impatient crowd the cryftal coaft.
The Father, now, within his fpacious hands, Encompass'd all the mingled mass of seas and lands; And, having heav'd aloft the ponderous sphere,
He launch'd the world to float in ambient air.
ON MRS. ARABELLA HUNT, SINGING.
ET all be hush'd, each softest motion cease,
Be loud tumultuous thought at peace,
And every ruder gasp of breath
Be calm, as in the arms of death.
And thou, most fickle, most uneafy part,
Thou reftlefs wanderer, my heart,
Be ftill; gently, ah leave,
Thou bufy, idle thing, to heave.
Stir not a pulse; and let my blood,
That turbulent, unruly flood,
|