How cold is man! to him how hard, (Hard what most easy seems)

"To set a just esteem on that

"Which yet he most esteems."

What shall we say, when boundless bliss Is offer'd to mankind,

And to that offer when a race

Of rationals is blind?

206

ON THE

DEATH OF QUEEN ANNE,

AND THE

ACCESSION OF KING GEORGE.

INSCRIBED TO

JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ.

Secretary to their Excellencies the Lords Justices.

....

-Guadia curis. Hor.

.............

SIR! I have long, and with impatience, sought To ease the fulness of my grateful thought, My fame at once and duty to pursue,

And please the public by respect to you.

Tho' you, long since beyond Britannia known, Have spread your country's glory with your own, To me you never did more lovely shine, Than when so late the kindled wrath divine

Quench'd our ambition in great Anna's fate,
And darken'd all the pomp of human state.
Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay,
Though rais'd in life, and greatness fade away,
Your lustre brightens; virtue cuts the gloom
With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb.

Know, Sir! the great esteem and honour due
I chose, that moment, to profess to you,
When sadness reign'd, when Fortune so severe
Had warm'd our bosoms to be most sincere,
And when no motive could have force to raise
A serious value, and provoke my praise,
But such as rise above, and far transcend,
Whatever glories with this world shall end,
Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot
The sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot.

I sing!-but, ah! my theme I need not tell! See ev'ry eye with conscious sorrow swell: Who now to verse would raise his humble voice, Can only shew his duty, not his choice. How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain ! We languish, and to speak is to complain.

Let us look back, (for who too oft can view That most illustrious scene, for ever new!) See all the seasons shine on Anna's throne, And pay a constant tribute not their own.

Her summer heats not fruits alone bestow,

They reap the harvests and subdue the foe;
And when black storms confess the distant sun,
Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won :
Revolving pleasures in their turns appear,
And triumphs are the product of the year.
To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease,
And glorious victory is lost in peace.
Whence this profusion on our favour'd isle!
Did partial Fortune on our virtue smile?
Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand,
Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land?
Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim;
The queen and thy good fortune are the same.
Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky;
'Tis Anna reigns; the Gallic squadrons fly.
We spread our canvass to the southern shore;
'Tis Anna reigns! the South resigns her store.
Her virtue sooths the tumult of the main,
And swells the field with mountains of the slain ;
Argyle and Churchill but the glory share,
While millions lie subdu'd by Anna's prayer.
How great her zeal! how fervent her desire!
How did her soul in holy warmth expire!
Constant devotion did her time divide!

Nor set returns of pleasure or of pride;

Not want of rest, or the sun's parting ray,

But finish'd duty, limited the day.

How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes Smil'd in her thoughts, and soften'd all her dreams! Her royal couch descending angels spread,

And join their wings, a shelter o'er her head.

Tho' Europe's wealth and glory claim'd a part,
Religion's cause reign'd mistress of her heart;
She saw, and griev'd, to see the mean estate
Of those who round the hallow'd altar wait;
She shed her bounty piously profuse,

And thought it more her own in sacred use.
Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand,
And fill with genial seed his lavish hand;
He trusts the kindness of the fruitful plain,
And providently scatters all his grain.

What strikes my sight! does proud Augusta rise New to behold, and awfully surprise!

Her lofty brow more num'rous turrets crown,
And sacred domes on palaces look down ;
A noble pride of piety is shewn,

And temples cast a lustre on the throne.
How would this work another's glory raise;
But Anna's greatness robs her of the praise:
Drown'd in a greater blaze it disappears.
Who dry'd the widow's and the orphan's tears?