Part 34 (1/2)

Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne!

Nor let thy country think thee all her own.

Of thy delay how oft did we complain!

Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main.

With prayer we smooth the billows for thy fleet; With ardent wishes fill thy swelling sheet; And when thy foot took place on Albion's sh.o.r.e, We bending bless'd the G.o.ds, and ask'd no more.

What hand but thine should conquer and compose, Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes?

Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim, And by his rival's greatness give him fame?

Now in some foreign court he may sit down, And quit without a blush the British crown.

Secure his honour, though he lose his store, And take a lucky moment to be poor.

Nor think, great sir, now first, at this late hour, In Britain's favour, you exert your power; To us, far back in time, I joy to trace The numerous tokens of your princely grace.

Whether you chose to thunder on the Rhine, Inspire grave councils, or in courts to s.h.i.+ne; In the more scenes your genius was display'd, The greater debt was on Britannia laid: They all conspir'd this mighty man to raise, And your new subjects proudly share the praise.

All share; but may not we have leave to boast That we contemplate, and enjoy it most?

This ancient nurse of arts, indulged by fate On gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat; For many roiling ages justly fam'd, Has through the world her loyalty proclaim'd; And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!) Her blood and treasure to support the throne!

For England's church her latest accents strain'd; And freedom with his dying hand retain'd.

No wonder then her various ranks agree In all the fervencies of zeal for thee.

What though thy birth a distant kingdom boast, And seas divide thee from the British coast?

The crown's impatient to enclose thy head: Why stay thy feet? the cloth of gold is spread.

Our strict obedience through the world shall tell That king's a Briton, who can govern well!

THE INSTALMENT.

To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Walpole, Knight of the Most n.o.ble Order of the Garter.

Quaesitam meritis.

-HOR.

With invocations some their b.r.e.a.s.t.s inflame; I need no muse, a Walpole is my theme.

Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise!

Our morning stars! our boast in former days!

Which hovering o'er, your purple wings display, Lur'd by the pomp of this distinguish'd day, Stoop, and attend: by one, the knee be bound; One, throw the mantle's crimson folds around; By that, the sword on his proud thigh be plac'd; This, clasp the diamond girdle round his waist; His breast, with rays, let just G.o.dolphin spread; Wise Burleigh plant the plumage on his head; And Edward own, since first he fix'd the race, None press'd fair glory with a swifter pace.

When fate would call some mighty genius forth To wake a drooping age to G.o.dlike worth, Or aid some favourite king's ill.u.s.trious toil, It bids his blood with generous ardour boil; His blood, from virtue's celebrated source, Pour'd down the steep of time, a lengthen'd course; That men prepar'd may just attention pay, Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day, When all the scatter'd merits of his line Collected to a point, intensely s.h.i.+ne.

See, Britain, see thy Walpole s.h.i.+ne from far, His azure ribbon, and his radiant star; A star that, with auspicious beams, shall guide Thy vessel safe, through fortune's roughest tide.

If peace still smiles, by this shall commerce steer A finish'd course, in triumph round the sphere; And, gathering tribute from each distant sh.o.r.e, In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour.

If war's ordain'd, this star shall dart its beams Through that black cloud which, rising from the Thames, With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is sent To claim the seas, and awe the continent.

This shall direct it where the bolt to throw, A star for us, a comet to the foe.

At this the muse shall kindle, and aspire: My breast, O Walpole, glows with grateful fire.

The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee, Refresh the dry domains of poesy.

My fortune shows, when arts are Walpole's care, What slender worth forbids us to despair: Be this thy partial smile from censure free; 'Twas meant for merit, though it fell on me.

Since Brunswick's smile has authoris'd my muse, Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views.

False praises are the wh.o.r.edoms of the pen, Which prost.i.tute fair fame to worthless men: This profanation of celestial fire Makes fools despise, what wise men should admire.

Let those I praise to distant times be known, Not by their author's merit, but their own.

If others think the task is hard, to weed From verse rank flattery's vivacious seed, And rooted deep; one means must set them free, Patron! and patriot! let them sing of thee.