On Conquest's cheek the vernal roses fail, The Muses mourn-an ineffectual band! (So late by Love's designful labour dress'd), But from her brow the glowing diamond tears, And with the sable cypress veils her breast. Religion, lodged high on her pious pile, Laments the fading state of crowns below; Whilst Melancholy fills the vaulted aisle With the slow music of a nation's woe. The dreary paths of unrelenting fate [try? Must monarchs, mix'd with common mortals, Is there no refuge?-are the good, the great, The gracious, and the godlike, doom'd to die? Must the gay court be changed for Horror's cave? 1 King of Prussia, [ear, age: Then shall the monarch weigh the moral thought But see a sacred radiance beams around, Mark how his breast expands the filial sigh, Successive Georges, gracious and beloved, 2 In a picture representing the sacrifice of Iphigenia, Timanthes, despairing to represent the natural distraction of a parent on so affecting an occasion, drew the figure of Agamemnon with a veil thrown over his face. ON THE FORWARDNESS OF SPRING. tibi, flores, plenis O'ER Nature's fresh bosom, by verdure unbound, To greet the young monarch of Britain's bless'd isle, The groves with gay blossoms are graced! The primrose peeps forth with an innocent smile, And cowslips crowd forward in haste! Dispatch, gentle Flora, the nymphs of your train Two chaplets of laurel, in verdure the same, From Conquest's own temples these evergreens came, And those from the brows of the Nine! What honours, ye Britons! (one emblem implies) What glory to George shall belong! What Miltons (the other), what Addisons rise, To make him immortal in song! To a wreath of fresh oak, England's emblem of power! Whose honours with time shall increase! Add a fair olive sprig, just unfolding its flower, Rich token of concord and peace! Next give him young myrtles, by beauty's bright Collected, the pride of the grove! [queen How fragrant their odour! their foliage how green! Sweet promise of conjugal love. Let Gaul's captive lilies, cropp'd close to the As trophies of conquest be tied: [ground, The virgins all cry, 'There's not one to be found! Out-bloom'd by his roses-they died.' Ye foes of Old England, such fate shall ye share With George, as our glories advance— Through envy you'll sicken,-you'll droop,you'll despair, And die-like the lilies of France. FORTUNE. Fabula narratur. JOVE and his senators, in sage debate For man's felicity, were settling laws, A long-ear'd wretch, the loudest of his race, I am an ass, of innocence allow'd The type, yet Fortune persecutes me still; While foxes, wolves, and all the murdering crowd Beneath her patronage can rob and kill. The pamper'd horse (he never toil'd so hard!) Favour and friendship from his owner finds; For endless diligence,-(a rough reward!) I'm cudgel'd by a race of paltry hinds. On wretched provender compell'd to feed! The rugged pavement every night my bed; For me dame Fortune never yet decreed The gracious comforts of a well thatch'd shed. Rough and unseemly's my irreverent hide! Where can I visit, thus uncouthly dress'd? That outside elegance the dame denied, For which her favourites are too oft caress'd. To suffering virtue, sacred Jove! be kind; From Fortune's tyranny pronounce me free: She's a deceiver, if she says she's blind, She sees, propitiously sees all-but me.' The plaintiff could articulate no more: His bosom heaved a most tremendous groan! The race of long-ear'd wretches join'd the roar, Till Jove seem'd tottering on his high-built throne. The monarch, with an all-commanding sound (Deepen'd like thunder through the rounds of space), Gave order-That dame Fortune should be found, To answer, as she might, the plaintiff's case. |