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 summers heats nor fruits alone bestow,
They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe;
And when black storms confess the distant sun,
Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won:
Revolving pleasures in their turn 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.

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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 Gallick squadrons fly.
We spread our canvass to the southern shore;
'Tis Anna reigns! the South resigns her store.
Her virtue soothes 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 pray'r.
How great her zeal! how fervent her desire!
How did her soul in holy warmth expire!
Constant devotion did her time divide,
Not set returns of pleasure or of pride;
Not want of rest, nor 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'd 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;

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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 shown,
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?
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 wealth 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:

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The broken earth is scarce discern'd to rise,
And a stone tells us where the monarch lies.

Thus end maturest honours of a 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 th' 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 shown;
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!

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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

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