Then shall they triumph, and the British stage
Improve her manners, and refine her rage,
More noble characters expofe to view,
And draw her finifht heroines from you.
Nor you the kind indulgence will refufe,
Skill'd in the labours of the deathlefs Mufe:
The deathlefs Mufe with undiminisht rays
Through diftant times the lovely dame conveys,
To Gloriana Waller's harp was ftrung;
The Queen ftill fhines, because the Poet fung.
Even all those graces, in your frame combin'd,
The common fate of mortal charms may find;
(Content our fhort-live'd praises to engage,
The joy and wonder of a fingle age,)
Unless fome Poet in a lafting fong
To late pofterity their fame prolong,
Inftruct our fons the radiant form to prize,
And fee your beauty with their fathers' eyes.
KNELLER, with filence and furprise
We fee Britannia's Monarch rise,
A godlike form, by thee difplay'd
In all the force of light and fhade;
And, aw'd by thy delufive hand,
As in the presence-chamber ftand.
The magick of thy art calls forth
His fecret foul and hidden worth,
His probity and mildness shows,
His care of friends, and fcorn of foes:
In every stroke, in every line,
Does fome exalted virtue shine,
And Albion's happiness we trace
Through all the features of his face.
To Her ROYAL HIGHNESS the
PRINCESS of WALES,
With the Tragedy of CATO. Nov. 1714.
HE Mufe that oft, with facred raptures fir'd,
T Has gen'rous thoughts of Liberty infpir'd,
And, boldly rifing for Britannia's laws,
Engage'd great Cato in her country's cause,
On You fubmiffive waits, with hopes affur'd,
By whom the mighty bleffing ftands fecur'd,
And all the glories, that our age adorn,
Are promis'd to a people yet unborn.
No longer shall the widow'd land bemoan
A broken lineage, and a doubtful throne;
But boaft her royal progeny's increase,
And count the pledges of her future peace.
O born to strengthen and to grace our isle!
While you, fair PRINCESS, in your Offspring smile,
Supplying charms to the fucceeding age,
Each heavenly Daughter's triumphs we presage;
Already fee th' illuftrious youths complain,
And pity Monarchs doom'd to figh in vain.
Thou too, the darling of our fond defires,
Whom Albion, opening wide her arms, requires,
With manly valour and attractive air
Shalt quell the fierce, and captivate the fair.
O England's younger hope! in whom confpire
The mother's fweetness, and the father's fire!
For thee perhaps, even now, of kingly race
Some dawning beauty blooms in every grace,
Some Carolina, to heaven's dictates true,
Who, while the scepter'd rivals vainly fue,
Thy inborn worth with confcious eyes fhall fee,
And flight th' Imperial diadem for thee.
Pleas'd with the prospect of fucceffive reigns,
The tuneful tribe no more in daring strains
Shall vindicate, with pious fears oppreft,
Endanger'd rights, and liberty diftreft:
To milder founds each Muse shall tune the lyre,
And gratitude, and faith to Kings infpire,
And filial love; bid impious difcord cease,
And footh the madding factions into peace;
Or rife ambitious in more lofty lays,
And teach the nation their new Monarch's praise,
Describe his awful look, and godlike mind,
And Cafar's power with Cato's virtue join'd.
Mean-while, bright PRINCESS, who, with graceful eafe And native majefty are form'd to please,
Behold those Arts with a propitious eye,
That fuppliant to their great protectress fly!
O may I live to hail the day,
When the glad nation fhall furvey
Their Sov'reign, through his wide command,
Paffing in progress o'er the land!
Each heart fhall bend, and every voice
In loud applauding fhouts rejoice,
Whilst all his gracious aspect praise,
And crowds grow loyal as they gaze.
This image on the medal placed,
With its bright round of titles graced,
And ftampt on British coins fhall live,
To richest ores the value give,
Or, wrought within the curious mould,
Shape and adorn the running gold.
To bear this form, the genial Sun
Has daily, fince his courfe begun,
Rejoice'd the metal to refine,
And ripen'd the Peruvian mine.
Thou, Kneller, long with noble pride,
The foremost of thy art, haft vie'd
With nature in a generous ftrife,
And touch'd the canvas into life.
Thy pencil has, by Monarchs fought,
From reign to reign in ermine wrought,
And, in the robes of ftate array'd,
The Kings of half an age difplay'd.
Here fwarthy Charles appears, and there
His Brother with dejected air:
|