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XVII.

While ftill fhe chid the coming fpring,
Which call'd him o'er his fubject feas:
While, for the fafety of the king,
She wish'd the victor's glory less.

XVIII.

'Tis chang'd; 'tis gone: fad Britain now Haftens her lord to foreign wars : Happy, if toils break his woe,

may

Or danger may divert his cares.

XIX.

In martial din fhe drowns her fighs,
Left he the rifing grief fhould hear :
She pulls her helmet o'er her eyes,
Left he should fee the falling tear.
XX.

Go, mighty prince; let France be taught,
How conftant minds by grief are try'd ;
How great the land, that wept and fought,
When William led, and Mary dy’d.
XXI.

Fierce in the battle. make it known,

Where death with all his darts is feen,

That he can touch thy heart with none,
But that which ftruck the beauteous queen.
XXII.

Belgia indulg'd her open grief,

While yet her master was not near;

With fullen pride refus'd relief,

And fat obdurate in defpair.

XXIII, As

XXIII.

As waters from her fluices, flow'd
Unbounded forrow from her eyes :
To earth her bended front fhe bow'd,
And fent her wailings to the fkies.
XXIV.

But when her anxious lord return'd,
Rais'd is her head, her eyes are dry'd;

She fmiles, as William ne'er had mourn'd,
She looks, as Mary ne'er had dy'd.
XXV.

That freedom which all forrows claim,
She does for thy content refign:

Her piety itself would blame,

If her regrets fhould weaken thine.
XXVI.

To cure thy woe, the fhews thy fame:
Left the great mourner fhould forget,
That all the race, whence Orange came,
Made Virtue triumph over Fate.

XXVII.

William his country's caufe could fight,
And with his blood her freedom feal:

Maurice and Henry guard that right,
For which their pious parents fell.
XXVIII.

How heroes rife, how patriots fet,

Thy father's bloom and death may tell :
Excelling others, these were great :
Thou, greater ftill, must these excell.

XXIX. The

XXIX,

The laft fair inftance thou must give,

Whence Naffau's virtue can be try'd ; And fhew the world, that thou canst live Intrepid, as thy confort dy'd;

XXX.

Thy virtue, whofe refiftlefs force
No dire event could ever stay,
Muft carry on its destin'd course;
Though death and envy stop the way.
.XXXI.

For Britain's fake, for Belgia's, live :
Pierc'd by their grief, forget thy own;
New toils endure, new conqueft give,

And bring them eafe, though thou haft none.
XXXII.

Vanquish again; though the be gone,
Whofe garland crown'd the victor's hair :
And reign, though fhe has left the throne,
Who made thy glory worth thy care.
XXXIII.

Fair Britain never yet before

Breath'd to her king an ufelefs prayer :

Fond Belgia never did implore,

While William turn'd averfe his ear.
XXXIV.

But, fhould the weeping hero now
Relentless to their wishes prove;
Should he recall, with pleating wỏe,
The object of his grief and love;
VOL. I.

G

XXXV. Her

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Her face with thoufand beauties bleft,
Her mind with thousand virtues ftor'd,
Her power with boundlefs joy confeft,
Her perfon only not ador'd :

XXXVI.

Yet ought his forrow to be checkt;
Yet ought his paffions to abate;
If the great mourner would reflect,
Her glory in her death compleat.
XXXVII.

She was inftructed to command,
Great king, by long obeying thee
Her fcepter, guided by thy hand,
Preferv'd the ifles, and rul'd the fea..
XXXVIII.

But oh! 'twas little, that her life
O'er earth and water bears thy fame :
In death, 'twas worthy William's wife,
Amidst the ftars to fix his name.
XXXIX.

Beyond where matter moves, or place
Receives its forms, thy virtues roll;

From Mary's glory, angels trace
The beauty of her partner's foul.
XL.

Wife Fate, which does its heaven decree

To heroes, when they yield their breath, Haftens thy triumph. Half of thee

Is deify'd before thy death.

XLI. Alone

XLI.

Alone to thy renown 'tis given,
Unbounded through all worlds to go:
While fhe, great Saint, rejoices Heaven;
And thou fuftain'ft the orb below.

In IMITATION of ANACREON.

LET them cenfure: what care

The herd of critics I defy.

Let the wretches know, I write,
Regardless of their grace or fpite.
No, no the fair, the gay, the young,
Govern the numbers of my fong;
All that they approve is fweet;
And all is sense that they repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire; Venus, ftring thy fervant's lyre: Love shall be my endless theme; Pleasure shall triumph over Fame: And, when these maxims I decline, Apollo, may thy fate be mine! May I grafp at empty praise;

And lofe the nymph, to gain the bays!

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