XV. Our monarch, there, Rear'd high in air, Should tempests rise, disdains to bend ; Like British oak, Derides the stroke; His blooming honours far extend! XVI. Beneath them lies, With lifted eyes, Fair Albion, like an amorous maid; Bold foreign Kings To fly, like eagles, to his shade. XVII. At his proud foot The sea, pour'd out, Thence wealth and state, And power and fate, Which Europe reads in GEORGE's eyes. XVIII. From what we view, We take the clue, Which leads from great to greater things: But gods adore, When such resemblance shines in kings. VOL. I. N EPISTLE I. TO MR. POPE. WHILST you at Twick'nham plan the future wood, Or turn the volumes of the wise and good, And CODRUS' prose works up, and Lico's strains. O POPE! I burst; nor can, nor will refrain; |