40 She held the sword and balance right, And sought her people's good;

In clemency she did delight,

Her reign not stained with blood.

41 Her gracious goodness, piety,
In all her deeds did shine,
And bounteous was her charity;
All attributes divine.

42 Consummate wisdom, meekness all, Adorned the words she spoke ; When they from her fair lips did fall; And sweet her lovely look.

43 Ten thousand glorious deeds to crown,
She caused dire war to cease:
A greater empress ne'er was known,
She fixed the world in peace.

44 This last and godlike act achieved,
To heaven she winged her flight;
Her loss with tears all Europe grieved;
Their strength, and dear delight.

45 Leave we in bliss this heavenly saint, Revere, ye just, her urn;

Her virtues high and excellent,
Astræa gone we mourn.

46 Commemorate, my sons, the day

Which gave great Anna birth:

Keep it for ever and for aye,

And annual be your mirth!'

47 Illustrious George now fills the throne,
Our wise benign good king:

Who can his wondrous deeds make known,
Or his bright actions sing?

48 Thee, favourite Nero, he has deigned
To raise to high degree!

Well thou thy honours hast sustained,
Well vouched thy ancestry.

49 But pass: These honours on thee laid,
Can they e'er make thee white!

Don't Gaphny's blood, which thou hast shed,
Thy guilty soul affright?

50 Oh! is there not, grim mortal, tell,
Places of bliss and woe!

Oh! is there not a heaven, a hell;
But whither wilt thou go?

51 Can nought change thy obdurate mind?
Wilt thou for ever rail;

The prophet on thee well refined,
And set thy wit to sale.

52 How thou art lost to sense and shame,
Three countries witness be;

Thy conduct all just men do blame,
Libera nos, Domine!

53 Dame Justice waits thee, well I ween,
Her sword is brandished high:

Nought can thee from her vengeance screen,
Nor canst thou from her fly.

54 Heavy her ire will fall on thee, The glittering steel is sure; Sooner or later, all agree,

She cuts off the impure.

55 To her I leave thee, gloomy peer,
Think on thy crimes committed;
Repent, and be for once sincere,
Thou ne'er wilt be De-Witted.

APOLOGY TO A LADY,

WHO TOLD ME I COULD NOT LOVE HER HEARTILY,
BECAUSE I HAD LOVED OTHERS.

IN IMITATION OF MR WALLER.

1 FAIR Sylvia, cease to blame my youth
For having loved before;

So men, ere they have learned the truth,
Strange deities adore.

2 My youth ('tis true) has often ranged,
Like bees o'er gaudy flowers;

And many thousand loves has changed,
Till it was fixed in yours.

3 For, Sylvia, when I saw those eyes,
'Twas soon determined there;

Stars might as well forsake the skies,
And vanish into air!

4 If I from this great rule do err,
New beauties to explore;

May I again turn wanderer,

And never settle more!

AGAINST MODESTY IN LOVE.

1 For many unsuccessful years

At Cynthia's feet I lay;

And often bathed them with my tears,
Despaired, but durst not pray.

2 No prostrate wretch, before the shrine Of any saint above,

E'er thought his goddess more divine,
Or paid more awful love.

3 Still the disdainful dame looked down
With an insulting pride;
Received my passion with a frown,
Or tossed her head aside.

4 When Cupid whispered in my ear,
Use more prevailing charms,
Fond, whining, modest fool, draw near,
And clasp her in your arms.

5 With eager kisses tempt the maid,
From Cynthia's feet depart;
The lips he warmly must invade
Who would possess the heart.'

6 With that I shook off all my fears,
My better fortune tried;

And Cynthia gave what she for years
Had foolishly denied.

ON A YOUNG LADY'S GOING TO TOWN IN THE SPRING.

1 ONE night unhappy Celadon,

Beneath a friendly myrtle's shade, With folded arms and eyes cast down, Gently reposed his love-sick head;

Whilst Thyrsis, sporting on the neighbouring plain, Thus heard the discontented youth complain:

2 'Ask not the cause why sickly flowers

Faintly recline their drooping heads; As fearful of approaching showers,

They strive to hide them in their beds; Grieving with Celadon they downward grow, And feel with him a sympathy of woe.

3 'Chloris will go; the cruel fair, Regardless of her dying swain, Leaves him to languish, to despair,

And murmur out in sighs his pain.

The fugitive to fair Augusta flies,

To make new slaves, and gain new victories.'

4 So restless monarchs, though possessed
Of all that we call state or power,
Fancy themselves but meanly blessed,
Vainly ambitious still of more.

Round the wide world impatiently they roam,
Not satisfied with private sway at home.