Who stoop'd from high to succour the distress'd,
And reconcile the wounded heart to rest?
Great in her goodness, well could we perceive,
Whoever sought, it was a Queen that gave.
Misfortune lost her name: her guiltless frown
But made another debtor to the crown,
And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore,
Became our title to the regal store.
Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot, And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit. Ye Numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd, When first the dreadful blast of Fame arriv'd, Say, what a shock, what agonies you felt, How did your souls with tender anguish melt! That grief which living Anna's love suppress'd, Shook like a tempest ev'ry grateful breast. A second fate our sinking fortunes try'd ; A second time our tender parents dy'd! Heroes returning from the field we crown, And deify the haughty victor's frown; His splendid wreath too rashly we admire, Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire. Wisely to spend is the great art of gain; And one reliev'd transcends a million slain. When time shall ask where once Ramillia lay,
Or Danube flow'd that swept whole troops away,
One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry,
Shall raise a fountain of eternal joy.
But ah! to that unknown and distant date
Is Virtue's great reward push'd off by Fate;
Here random shafts in ev'ry breast are found,
Virtue and merit but provoke the wound.
August in native worth and regal state,
Anna sat arbitress of Europe's fate;
To distant realms did ev'ry accent fly,
And nations watch'd each motion of her eye.
Silent, nor longer awful to be seen,
How small a spot contains the mighty Queen!
No throng of suppliant princes mark the place,
Where Britain's greatness is compos'd in peace :
The broken earth is scarce discern'd to rise,
And a stone tells us where the monarch lies.
Thus end maturest honours of the crown!
This is the last conclusion of renown!
So when, with idle skill, the wanton boy
Breathes thro' his tube, he sees, with eager joy,
The trembling bubble, in its rising small,
And by degrees, expands the glittering ball;
But when, to full perfection blown, it flies
High in the air, and shines in various dyes,
The little monarch, with a falling tear,
Sees his world burst at once, and disappear.
"Tis not in sorrow to reverse our doom;
No groans unlock thʼ inexorable tomb;
Why then this fond indulgence of our woe!
What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow!
Yes, this advantage from our deep distress,
We learn how much in George the gods can bless
Had a less glorious princess left the throne,
But half the hero had at first been shewn ;
And Anna falling all the King employs,
To vindicate from guilt our rising joys:
Our joys arise, and innocently shine,
Auspicious monarch! what a praise is thine!
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 pray'r we smooth'd the billows for thy fleet,
With ardent wishes filled thy swelling sheet;
And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore,
We bending bless'd the gods, and ask'd no more.
What hand but thine should conquer and compose,
Join those whom int'rest 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, tho' 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 pow'r:
To us, far back in time, I joy to trace
The num❜rous tokens of your princely grace.
Whether you chuse to thunder on the Rhine,
Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine:
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 shares the praise.
All share but may not we have leave to boast, That we contemplate and enjoy it most?
This ancient nurse of arts, indulg'd by Fate
On gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat,
For many rolling ages justly fam'd,
Has thro' 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 accent strain❜d,
And freedom with her dying hand retain'd;
No wonder then her various ranks agree
In all the fervencies of zeal for thee.
What tho' 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 thro' the world shall tell, That king's a Briton who can govern well.
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