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When the fierce * female tyrant of the north
Claim'd every realm her conquering arms could gain, i
When Discord, red with faughter issuing forth
Saw Albert struggling with the victor's chain.
The storm bcat high, and thook the coaft,

Th' exhausted treasures of the land
Could scarce supply th' embattled hoft,

Or pay th' insulting foe's demand.
What then could beauty do? + She gave

Her treasur'd tribute to the brave,
To her own softness join'd the manly heart,

Sustain'd the soldiers drooping arms,

Confided in her genuine charms,
And yielded every ornament of art.
We want them not. Yet, O ye fair,

Should Gallia, obstinately vain,
To her own ruin urge despair,
And brave th' acknowledg'd master of the main ;
Should the through ling'ring years protract her fall,

Through seas of blood to her destruction wade,
Say,

could ye feel the genercus call,
And own the fair example here pourtray'd ?

Doubtless ye could. The royal dame
Would plead her dear adopted country's cause,

And each indignant breaft unite its flame
To save the land of liberty and laws.

ODE for His MAJESTY's Birth Day.

June 4th, 1762.

By William Whitehead, Esq; Poet Laureat.

Strophe.
O Flora, (said th' impatient queen,

Who shares great Jove's eternal reign)

Go breathe on yonder thorn ;
Wake into bloom th’emerging rose,
And let the fairest flower that blows

The faireft month adorn,

Margaret de Waldemar, commonly called the Semiramis of the North. # In the year 1395, the ladies of Mecklenburg, to support their Duke Albert's pretensions to the crown of Sweden, and to redeem him when he was taken prisoner, gave up all their jewels to the public; for which they afterwards received great emoluments and privileges, particularly the right of succession in fiefs, which had before been appropriated to males only.

Sacred

Sacred to Me that month shall rise,
Whatever * contests shake the kies

To give that month a name:
Her April buds let Venus boast,
Let Maia range her painted hoft ;
But June is Juno's claim.

Antistrophe.
And, Goddess, know, in after times
(I name not days, I name not climes)

From Nature's noblest throes
A human flow'r shall glad the earth,
And the same month disclose his birth,

Which bears the blushing rose.
Nations shall bless his mild command,
And fragrance fill th' exulting land

Where'er I fix his throne.”.
Britannia listen'd as she spoke,
And from her lips prophetic broke,
The flower shall be my own!

Epode.
O goddess of connubial love,
Thou sifter, and thou wife of Jove,
To thee the suppliant voice we raise !
We name not months, we name not days,
For, where thy smiles propitious shine,
The whole prolific year is thine.
Accordant to the trembling strings,

Hark, the general chorus swells !
From every heart it springs,

On every tongue it dwells.
Goddess of connubial love,
Sifter Thou, and wife of Jove,
Bid the genial powers that glide
On æther's all-pervading tide,

Or from the fount of life that stream
Mingling with the solar beam,
Bid them here at Virtue's shrine,

In chaftest bands of union join,
'Till many a GEORGE, and many. a CHARLOTTE prove
How much to Thee we owe, queen of connubial love!

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Alluding to the contention between the goddesses in Ovid's Fafti, about naming the month of June.

Extracted

Extra&ed from Mr. W. Whitehead's CHARGE to the Poets.

TIME was when poets played the thorough game,

Swore, drank and blutter'd, and blasphem'd for fame.
The first in brothels with their punk and Muse;
Your toast, ye bards ? • Parnassusand the stews !'
Thank heav'n, the times are chang'd; no Poet now
Need roar for Bacchus, or to Venus bow.
'Tis our own fault if Fielding's lalh we feel,
Or, like French wits, begin with the Baltile.

Ev'n in those days some few escap'd the fate,
By better judgment, or a longer date,
And rode, like buoys, trumpbant o'er the tide.
Poor Otway, in an ale house dos'd, and dy'd!
While happier Southern, tho' with sports of yore,
Like Plato's hov'ring spirits, crusted o'er,
Liv'd every mortal vapour to remove,
And to our admiration, join'd our love.

Light lie his funeral turf!--For you, who join
His decent manners to his art divine,
Would ye (whilft, round you, toss the Proud and Vain
Convuls’d with feeling, or with giving pain)
Indulge the Muse in innocence and ease,
And tread the flow'ry path of life in peace?
Avoid all authors,..." What! th' illustrious Few,
Who shunning Fame have taught her to pursue
Fair Virtue's heralds ?"...Yes, I say again,
Avoid all authors, 'till you've read the men.
Full many a peevish, envious, flandering ell,
Is in his works, Benevolence itself.
For all mankind, unknown, his bosom heaves,
He only injures those with whom he lives.
Read then the Man: Does truth his actions guide,
Exempt from petulance, exempt from pride ?
To social duties does his heart attend,
As son, as father, busband, brother, friend?
Do those who know him love him ? if they do,
You've my permission, you may love him too.

But chief avoid the boilt'rous roaring sparks,
The sons of fire you'll know them by their marks.
Fond to be heard they always court a croud,
And, tho' 'cis borrow'd nonsense, talk it loud.
One epithet fupplies their constant chime,
Damnd bad, damn'd good, damn'd low, and damn'd sublime !

But

But most in quick short repartee they shine
Of local humour; or from from plays purloin
Each quaint ftale scrap which every subject hits,
'Till fools almost imagine they are wits.
Hear them on Shakespear! there they foam, they rage!
Yet tafte not half the beauties of his page,
Nor see that Art, as well as Nature, Itrove
To place him foremost in ch' Aonian grove.
For there, there only, where the fifters meet,
His Genius triumphs, and the work's compleat.

Or would ye sift more near these sons of fire,
'Tis Garrick, and not Shakespear, they admire,
Without his breath, inspiring every thought,
They ne'er perhaps had known what Shakespear wrote,
Without his eager, his becoming zeal,
To teach them, tho' they scarce know why, to feel,
A crude unmeaning mass had Johnson been,
And a dead letter Shakespear's noblest scene.
i'm no enthufiaft

, yet with joy can trace
Some gleams of fun-fhine, for the tuneful race.
If Monarchs liften when the Muses woo,
; Attention wakes, and nations listen too.
The Bard grows rapturous, who was dumb before,
And every fresh plum'd eagle learns to soar !

Friend of the finer arts, when Egypt saw
Her fecond Ptolemy give science law,
Each genius wakend from his dead repose,
The column swell'd, the pile majestic rose,
Exact proportion borrow'd strength from ease,
And use was taught by elegance to please,
Along the breathing walls, as fancy flow'd,
The sculpture soften'd, and the picture glow'd,
Heroes reviv'd in animated stone,
The groves grew vocal, and the * Pleiads shone!
Old Nilus rais'd his head, and, wond'ring, cry'd,
" Long live the king ! my patron! and my pride!
Secure of endless praise, behold, I bear.
My grateful fuffrage to my sovereign's ear.
1 ho' war shall rage, tho' time shall level all,
Yon colours ficken, and yon columns fall,

Tho'art's dear treasures feed the wasting flame,
And the proud volume sinks, an empty name;

• The seven poets patronised by Ptolemy Philadelphus, are usually called by the name of that constellation.

Tho'

Tho' Plenty may desert this copious vale,
My streams be scatter'd, or my fountains fail,
Yet Ptolemy has liv'd : The world has known
A king of arts, a patron on a throne,
Ev’n utmost Britain shall his name adore,
“ And Nile be fung when Nile shall be no more."

One rule remains. Nor shun nor court the great:
Your truest center is that middle state,
From whence with ease th' observing eye may go
To all which soars above, or finks below,
'Tis yours all manners to have try'd, or known,

T'adopt all virtues, yet retain your own:
To ftem the tide, where thoughtless crouds are hurld,
The firm spectators of a bustling world!

Thus arm’d, proceed : The breezes court your wing:
Go range all Helicon, taste every spring;
From varying nature cull th’innoxious spoil,
And, whilst amusement sooths the generous toil,
Let puzzled critics with suspicious spite
Descant on what you cản, or cannot write ;
True to yourselves, not anxious for renown,
Nor court the world's applause, nor dread its frown.
Guard your own breasts, and be the bulwark there,
To know no envy, and no malice fear.
At last you'll find, thus stoic-like prepard,
That verse and virtue are their own reward,

The Descent to the Vault in Clerkenwell; from the Ghost; a Poem.

By Mr. Churchill.

D

ARK was the night; it was that hour,

When terror reigns in fullest pow's,
When as the learnd of old have said,
The yawning grave gives up her dead,
When Murder, Rapine by her side,
Stalks o'er the earth with Giant ftride;
Our Quixotes (for that Knight of old
Was not in truth by half to bold,
Though Reason at the fame time cries,
Our Quixotes are not half so wise,
Since they with other follies boaft
An expedition 'gainst a Ghoff)
Through the dull deep furrounding gloom
In close array tow'rds Fanny's tomb
Adventur'd forth...Caution before
With heedful step the lanthorn bore,

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