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And, whether being craz'd or blind,
Or seeking with a biass'd mind,

Have not, it seems, discern'd it.

O Friendship! if my soul forego
Thy dear delights while here below;

To mortify and grieve me,
May I myself at last appear
Unworthy, base, and insincere,

may my friend deceive me!




GO_Thou art all unfit to share

The pleasures of this place
With such as it's old tenants are,

Creatures of gentler race.

The squirrel here his hoard provides,

Aware of wintry storms,
And wood-peckers explore the sides

Of rugged oaks for worms.

The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn

With frictions of her fleece; And here I wander eve and morn,

Like her, a friend to peace.

Ah!- I could pity thee exil'd

From this secure retreat-
I would not lose it to be styld

The happiest of the great.

But thou canst taste no calm delight;

Thy pleasure is to show Thy magnanimity in fight,

Thy prowess — therefore go

I care not whether east or north,

So I no more may find thee;
The angry muse thus sings thee forth,

And claps the gate behind thee.


Written in commemoration of his Majesty's happy recovery.

I RANSACK'D, for a theme of song,
Much ancient chronicle, and long;
I read of bright embattled fields,
Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,
Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast
Prowess to dissipate a host;
Through tomes of fable and of dream
I sought an eligible theme,
But none I found, or found them shard
Already by some happier bard.

To modern times, with Truth to guide
My busy search, I next applied;
Here cities won, and fleets dispers’d,
Urg'd loud a claim to be rehears’d,
Deeds of unperishing renown,
Our father's triumphs and our own.

Thus, as the bee, from bank to bow'r,
Assiduous sips at ev'ry flow'r,

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But rests on none, till that be found,
Where most nectareous sweets abound,
So I, from theme to theme display'd
In many a page historic stray'd,
Siege after siege, fight after fight,
Contemplating with small delight,
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view ;)
Till, settling on the current year,
I found the far-sought treasure near.
A theme for poetry divine,
A theme t' ennoble even mine,
In memorable eighty nine.

The spring of eighty nine shall be
An æra cherish'd long by me,
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of eighty eight,
That threaten’d England's trembling state
With loss of what she least could

Her sov'reign's tutelary care,
One breath of Heav'n, that cried-Restore!
Chas’d, never to assemble more:


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And for the richest crown on Earth,
If valu'd by it's wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign
Sat fast on George's brows again.

Then peace and joy again possess'd
Our Queen's long-agitated breast;
Such joy and peace as can be known
By suff'rers like herself alone,
Who losing, or supposing lost
The good on Earth they valu'd most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below,
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!

O Queen of Albion, queen of isles! Since all thy tears were chang’d to smiles, The

eyes, that never saw thee, shine
With joy not unallied to thine,
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land's remotest part,
Aud strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answer'd pray’rs,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.

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