To you my secret transports I disclose,
That rise above the languid powers of prose.
But, while these artless numbers you peruse,
Think 't is my heart that dictates, not the Muse;
My heart, which at the name of Brunswick fires,
And no assistance from the Muse requires.
Believe me, sir, your breast, that glows with
zeal

For George's glory, and the public weal,
Your breast alone feels more pathetic heats;
Your heart alone with stronger raptures beats.
When I review the great examples past,
And to the former ages join the last;
Still, as the godlike heroes to me rise,
In arms triumphant, and in councils wise,
The king is ever present to my mind;
His greatness, trac'd in every page, I find:
The Greek and Roman pens his virtues tell,
And under shining names on Brunswick dwell.
At Hampton while he breathes untainted air,
And seems, to vulgar eyes, devoid of care;
The british Muses to the grove will press,
Tune their melodious harps, and claim access:
But let them not too rashly touch the strings;
For Fate allows no solitude to kings.

Hail to the shades, where William, great in arms,
Retir'd from conquest to Maria's charms!
Where George serene in majesty appears,
And plans the wonders of succeeding years!
There, as he walks, his comprehensive mind
Surveys the globe, and takes-in all mankind:
While, Britain, for thy sake he wears the crown;
To spread thy power as wide as his renown:
To make thee umpire of contending states,
And poise the balance in the world's debates.
From the smooth terrass as he casts his eye,
And sees the current sea-ward rolling by;
What schemes of commerce rise in his designs!
Pledges of wealth! and unexhausted mines!
Through winds and waves, beneath inclement skies,
Where stars, distinguish'd by no name, arise,
Our fleets shall undiscover'd lands explore,
And a new people hear our cannons roar.

The rivers, long in ancient story fam'd,
Shall flow obscure, nor with the Thames be nam'd:
Nor shall our poets copy from their praise,
And Nymphs and Syrens to thy honour raise;
Nor make thy banks with Tritons' shells resound,
Nor bind thy brows with humble sedges round:
But paint thee as thou art a peopled stream!
The boast of merchants, and the sailors' theme '
Whose spreading floods unnumber'd ships sustain,
And pour whole towns afloat into the main;
While the redundant seas waft up fresh stores,
The daily tribute of far-distant shores.

Back to thy source I try thy silver-train,
That gently winds through many a fertile plain;
Where flocks and lowing herds in plenty feed,
And shepherds tune at ease the vocal reed:
Ere yet thy waters meet the briny tide,
And freighted vessels down thy channel ride;
Ere yet thy billows leave their banks behind,
Swell into state, and foam before the wind:
Thy sovereign's emblem! in thy course complete!
When I behold him in his lov'd retreat,
Where rural scenes their pleasing views disclose,
A sylvan deity the monarch shows;
And if he only knew the woods to grace,
To rouse the stag, and animate the chase:

While every hour, from thence, his high commands,
By speedy winds convey'd to various lands,
Control affairs; give weighty councils birth;
And sway the mighty rulers of the Earth.
Were he, our island's glory and defence,
To reign unactive, at the world's expense;
Say, generous Craggs, who then should quell the
Of lawless Faction, and reform the age? [rage
Who should our dear-bought liberties maintain?
Who fix our leagues with France, and treat with
Spain?

Who check the headstrong Swede; assuage the Czar;
Secure our peace, and quench the northern war?
The Turk, though he the Christian name defies,
And curses Eugene, yet from Eugene flies,
His cause to Brunswick's equity dare trust;
He knows him valiant, and concludes him just:
He knows his fame in early youth acquir'd,
When turban'd hosts before his sword retir'd.

Thus while his influence to the poles extends,
Or where the day begins, or where it ends,
Far from our coasts he drives off all alarms;
And those his power protects, his goodness charms.
Great in himself, and undebas'd with pride,
The sovereign lays his regal state aside,
Pleas'd to appear without the bright disguise
Of pomp; and on his inborn worth relies.
His subjects are his guests; and daily boast
The condescension of their royal host:
While crowds succeeding crowds on either hand,
A ravish'd multitude, admiring stand.
His manly wit and sense, with candour join'd,
His speech with every elegance refin'd,
His winning aspect, his becoming ease,
Peculiar graces all, conspire to please,
And render him to every heart approv'd;
The king respected, and the man belov'd.

Nor is his force of genius less admir'd:
When most from crowds or public cares retir'd,
The learned arts, by turns, admittance find;
At once unbend and exercise his mind.

The secret springs of Nature, long conceal'd,
And to the wise by slow degrees reveal'd,
(Delightful search!) his piercing thought descries.
Oft through the concave azure of the skies
His soul delights to range, a boundless space,
Which myriads of celestial glories grace;
Worlds behind worlds, that deep in ether lie,
And suns, that twinkle to the distant eye;
Or call them stars, on which our fates depend,
And every ruling star is Brunswick's friend.

Soon as the rising Sun shoots o'er the stream,
And gilds the palace with a ruddy beam,
You to the healthful chase attend the king,
And hear the forest with the huntsmen ring:
While in the dusty town we rule the state,
And from gazettes determine England's fate.
Our groundless hopes and groundless fears prevail
As artful brokers comment on the mail.
Deafen'd with news, with politics opprest,

I wish the wind ne'er varied from the west.
Secure, on George's councils I rely,
Give up my cares, and Britain's foes defy.
What though cabals are form'd, and impious leagues?
Though Rome fills Europe with her dark intrigues?
His vigilance, on every state intent,
Defeats their plots, and over-rules th' event.
But whither do my vain endeavours tend?
Or how shall I my rash attempt defend?

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.
MAY 1, 1723.

WHO, much distinguish'd, yet is blest?
Who, dignified above the rest,

Does still unenvied live?

Not to the man whose wealth abounds,
Nor to the man whose fame resounds,
Does Heaven such favour give,

Nor to the noble-born, nor to the strong,
Nor to the gay, the beautiful, or young.
Whom then, secure of happiness,
Does every eye beholding bless,

And every tongue commend?

Him, Pulteney, who, possessing store,
Is not solicitous of more,

Who, to mankind a friend,
Nor envies, nor is envied by, the great,
Polite in courts, polite in his retreat:
Whose unambitious, active soul
Attends the welfare of the whole,

When public storms arise,

And, in the calm, a thousand ways
Diversifies his nights and days,

Still elegantly wise;

While books, each morn, the lightsome soul invite,
And friends, with season'd mirth, improve the night.

In him do men no blemish see;
And factions in his praise agree,
When most they vex the state:
Distinguish'd favourite of the skies,
Belov'd he lives, lamented dies:

Yet, shall he not to Fate

Submit entire; the rescuing Muse shall save

His precious name, and win him from the grave.

Too frail is brass and polish'd stone;
Perpetual fame the Muse alone

On Merit can bestow:

Yet, must the time-enduring song,
The verse unrival'd by the throng,
From Nature's bounty flow:

DIMPLY damsel, sweetly smiling,
All caressing, none beguiling,
Bud of beauty, fairly blowing,
Every charm to Nature owing,
This and that new thing admiring,
Much of this and that inquiring,
Knowledge by degrees attaining,
Day by day some virtue gaining,
Ten years hence, when I leave chiming,
Beardless poets, fondly rhyming,
(Fescued now, perhaps, in spelling,)
On thy riper beauties dwelling,
Shall accuse each killing feature
Of the cruel, charming creature,
Whom I knew complying, willing,
Tender, and averse from killing.

TO

MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER

MOTHER'S ARMS.

May 1, 1724.

TIMELY blossom, infant fair,

Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn, and every night,
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please,
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue,
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,