Not want of rest, or the sun's parting ray,
But finished duty, limited the day.
How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes
Smiled in her thoughts, and softened all her dreams!
Her royal couch descending angels spread,
And join their wings, a shelter o'er her head.
Though Europe's wealth and glory claimed a part,
Religion's cause reigned mistress of her heart;
She saw, and grieved, to see the mean estate
Of those who round the hallowed altar wait.
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.
August in native worth and regal state,
Anna sat arbitress of Europe's fate;
To distant realms did ev'ry accent fly,
And nations watched 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 composed in peace:
The broken earth is scarce discerned 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 through his tube, he sees, with eager joy,
The trembling bubble, in its rising small,
And by degrees, expands the glittering ball;
What strikes my sight! does proud Augusta rise But when, to full perfection blown, it flies
New to behold, and awfully surprise!
Her lofty brow more numerous 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:
Drowned in a greater blaze it disappears.
Who dried the widow's and the orphan's tears?
Who stooped from high to succour the distressed,
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 injured trees adopt a foreign shoot,
And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit.
Ye Numbers, who on your misfortunes thrived,
When first the dreadful blast of Fame arrived,
Say, what a shock, what agonies you felt,
How did your souls with tender anguish melt!
That grief which living Anna's love suppressed,
Shook like a tempest every grateful breast.
A second fate our sinking fortunes tried;
A second time our tender parents died!
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 relieved transcends a million slain.
When time shall ask where once Ramillia lay,
Or Danube flowed that swept whole troops away,
One drop of water, that refreshed the dry,
Shall raise a fountain of eternal joy.
But ah! to that unknown and distant date Is Virtue's great reward pushed off by Fate; flere random shafts in every breast are found, Virtue and merit but provoke the wound.
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 the inexorable tomb;
Why then this fond indulgence of our wo!
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!
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 reached out, and met thee on the main. With prayer we smoothed the billows for thy fleet. With ardent wishes filled thy swelling sheet; And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore, We bending blessed the gods, and asked 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, though 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 power:
To us. far back in time, I joy to trace
The num'rous tokens of your princely grace.
Whether you choose to thunder on the Rhine,
Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine:
In the more scenes your genius was displayed,
The greater debt was on Britannia laid:
They all conspired 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, indulged by Fate
On gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat,
For many rolling ages justly famed,
Has through the world her loyalty proclaimed;
And often poured (too well the truth is known!)
Her blood and treasure to support the throne;
For England's church her latest accent strained,
Ard freedom with her dying hand retained;
No wonder then her various ranks agree
In all the fervencies of zeal for thee.
What though 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 through the world shall tell,
That king's a Briton who can govern well.
Occasioned by that famous piece of the
CRUCIFIXION.
DONE BY MICHAEL ANGELO.*
WHILE his Redeemer on his canvass dies,
Stabbed at his feet his brother weltering lies;
The daring artist, cruelly serene,
Views the pale cheek and the distorted mien;
He drains off life by drops, and, deaf to cries,
Examines every spirit as it flies:
He studies torment; dives in mortal wo;
To rouse up every pang, repeats his blow;
Each rising agony, each dreadful grace,
Yet warm, transplanting to his Saviour's face.
O glorious theft! O nobly wicked draught!
With its full charge of death each feature fraught!
Such wondrous force the magic colours boast,
From his own skill he starts, in horror lost.
AN HISTORICAL EPILOGUE TO THE BROTHERS.
AN Epilogue through custom is your right, But ne'er perhaps was needful till this night. To-night the virtuous falls, the guilty flies; Guilt's dreadful close our narrow scene denies.
⚫Who obtained leave to treat a malefactor, condemned to be broke upon the wheel, as he pleased for this purpose. The man being extended, this wonderful artist directed that he should be stabbed in such parts of the body as he apprehended would occasion the most excruciating torture, that he might represent the agonies of death in the most natural manner.
In history's authentic record read
What ample vengeance gluts Demetrius' shade!
Vengeance so great, that, when his tale is told,
With pity some e'en Perseus may behold.
Perseus survived, indeed, and filled the throne,
But ceaseless cares in conquest made him groan
Nor reigned he long; from Rome swift thun.le.
flew,
And headlong from his throne the tyrant threw:
Thrown headlong down, by Rome in triumph led
For this night's deed his perjured bosom bled:
His brother's ghost each moment made him start
And all his father's anguish rent his heart.
When, robed in black, his children round him hung,
And their raised arms in early sorrow wrung,
The yonger smiled, unconscious of their wo,
At which thy tears, O Rome! began to flow,
So sad the scene: What then must Perseus feel,
To see Jove's race attend the victor's wheel?
To see the slaves of his worst foes increase
From such a source !-an emperor's embrace?
He sickened soon to death; and, what is worse,
He well deserved, and felt the coward's curse;
Unpitied, scorned, insulted his last hour,
Far, far from home, and in a vassal's power.
His pale cheek rested on his shameful chain,
No friend to mourn, no flatterer to feign.
No suit retards, no comfort sooths his doom,
And not one tear bedews a monarch's tomb.
Nor ends it thus-Dire vengeance to complete,
His ancient empire falling, shares his fate.
His throne forgot! his weeping country chained!.
And nations ask-where Alexander reigned?
As public woes a prince's crimes pursue,
So public blessings are his virtue's due.
Shout, Britons! shout;-auspicious fortune bless
And cry, Long live-our title to success!
ON LORD AUBREY BEAUCLERK,* In Westminster Abbey, 1740. WHILST Briton boasts her empire o'er the deep, This marble shall compel the brave to weep:
Lord Aubrey Beauclerk was the eighth son of the Duke of St. Alban's, who was one of the sons of King Charles the Second. He was born in the year 1711, and being regularly bred to the sea-service, in 1731 he was appointed to the com mand of his Majesty's ship the Ludlow Castle; and he comanded the Prince Frederick at the attack of the harbour of Carthagena, March 24, 1741. This young nobleman was one of the most promising commanders in the King's service. When on the desperate attack of the castle of Bocca Chica, at the entrance of the said harbour, he lost his life, both his legs being first shot off. The prose part of the inscription on his monument, was the production of Mrs. Mary Jones, of Ox ford, who also wrote a Poem on his death, printed in ne vis cellanies, 8vo. 1752.
As men, as Britons, and as soldiers, mourn;
"Tis dauntless, loyal, virtuous Beauclerk's urn.
Sweet were his manners, as his soul was great,
And ripe his worth, though immature his fate;
Each tender grace that joy and love inspire,
Living he mingled with his martial fire:
Dying, he bid Britannia's thunders roar;
And Spain still felt him, when he breathed no more.
TO MR. ADDISON,
ON THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.
WHAT do we see-is Cato then become
A greater name in Britain than in Rome?
Does mankind now admire his virtues more
Though Lucan, Horace, Virgil wrote before?
How will posterity this truth explain?
"Cato begins to live in Anna's reign."
The world's great chief, in council or in arms,
Rise in your lines with more exalted charms:
Illustrious deeds in distant nations wrought,
And virtues by departed heroes taught,
Raise in your soul a pure immortal flame,
Adorn your life, and consecrate your fame;
AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN.
Oft has the buskined muse with action mean, Debased the glory of the tragic scene: While puny villains, drest in purple pride, With crimes obscene the heaven-born rage belied. To her belongs to mourn the hero's fate, To trace the errors of the wise and great; To mark the excess of passions too refined, And paint the tumults of a god-like mind; Where, moved with rage, exalted thoughts combine, And darkest deeds with beauteous colours shine. So lights and shades in a well-mingled draught, By curious touch of artful pencils wrought, With soft deceit amuse the doubtful eye, Pleased with the conflict of the various dye. Thus, through the following scenes, with sweet surprise,
Virtue and guilt in dread confusion rise,
And love, and hate, at once, and grief and joy,
Pity and rage, their mingled force employ.
Here the soft virgin, sees, with secret shame,
Her charms excelled by friendship's purer flame,"
Forced with reluctant virtues to approve
The generous hero who rejects her love.
Behold him there, with gloomy passions stained
A wife suspected, and an injured friend;
Yet such the toil where innocence is caught,
That rash suspicion seems without a fault.
We dread awhile lest beauty should succeed,
And almost wish e'en virtue's self may bleed
Mark well the black revenge, the cruel guile,
The traitor-fiend, trampling the lovely spoil
Of beauty, truth, and innocence opprest,
Then let the rage of furies fire your breast.
Yet may his mighty wrongs, his just disdain.
His bleeding country, his loved father slain,
His martial pride, your admiration raise,
And crown him with involuntary praise.
Zan. Whether first nature, or long want of For from that day, that day of my dishonour,
Who's there? my love!
Isa. Why have you left my bed?
Your absence more affrights me than the storm.
Zan. The dead alone in such a night can rest,
And I indulge my meditations here.
Woman, away. I choose to be alone.
Isa. I know you do, and therefore will not leave you;
Excuse me, Zanga, therefore dare not leave you.
Is this a night for walks of contemplation?
Something unusual hangs upon your heart
And I will know it: by our loves I will.
To you I sacrificed my virgin fame.
Ask I too much to share in your distress?
I from that day have curst the rising sun,
Which never failed to tell me of my shame.
I from that day have blest the coming night,
Which promised to conceal it; but in vain;
The blow returned for ever in my dream.
Yet on I toiled, and groaned for an occasion
Of ample vengeance; none is yet arrived.
Howe'er, at present I conceive warm hopes
Of what may wound him sore, in his ambition,
Life of his life, and dearer than his soul.
By nightly march he purposed to surprise
The Moorish camp; but I have taken care
They shall be ready to receive his favour,
Failing in this, a cast of utmost moment,
Would darken all the conquests he has won.
Isa. Just as I entered an express arrived.
Zan. To whom?
Isa. His friend, Don Carlos.
Zan. Be propitious,
Oh, Mahomet, on this important hour,
And give at length my famished soul revenge!
What is revenge, but courage to call in
Our honour's debts, "and wisdom to convert
Other's self-love into our own protection?"
Zan. In tears? thou fool! then hear me and be But see, the morning dawns;
Great let me call him, for he conquered me,
Made me the captive of his arm in fight.
He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me,
While I with pious rage pursued revenge.
I then was young, he placed me near his person,
From whom so late Alonzo set me free;
And while I groaned in bondage, I deputed
This great Alonzo, whom her father honours,
To be my gentle advocate in love,
To stir her heart, and fan its fires for me.
Man. And what success?
Car. Alas, the cruel maid
Indeed her father, who, though high at court,
And powerful with the king, has wealth at heart
To heal his devastation from the Moors,
Knowing I'm richly freighted from the east,
My fleet now sailing in the sight of Spain,
Heaven guard it safe through such a dreadful
storm;
Caresses me, and urges her to wed.
Mcn. Her aged father, see,
Leads her this way.
Car. She looks like radiant truth,
Brought forward by the hand of hoary time-
You to the port with speed, 'tis possible
Some vessel is arrived. Heaven grant it bring
Tidings which Carlos may receive with joy!
Enter DON ALVAREZ and LEONORA.
Rather than come thus coldly, than come thus
With absent eyes and alienated mien,
Suffering address, the victim of my love.
Oh, let me be undone the common way,
And have the common comfort to be pitied,
And not be ruined in the mask of bliss,
And so be envied, and be wretched too!
Love calls for love. Not all the pride of beauty,
Those eyes that tell us what the sun is made of,
Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life,
Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt;
All these possessed, are nought, but as they are
The proof, the substance of an inward passion,
And the rich plunder of a taken heart.
Leon. Alas, my lord, we are too delicate;
And when we grasp the happiness we wished,
We call on wit to argue it away:
A plainer man would not feel half your pains:
But some have too much wisdom to be happy.
Cur. Had I known this before, it had been well :
I had not then solicited your father
To add to my distress; as you behave,
Your father's kindness stabs me to the heart.
Give me your hand—nay, give it, Leonora:
Alv. Don Carlos, I am labouring in your favour You give it not—nay, yet you give it not-
With all a parent's soft authority,
And earnest counsel.
Car. Angels second you!
For all my bliss or misery hangs on it.
Alv. Daughter, the happiness of life depends
On our discretion, and a prudent choice;
Look into those they call unfortunate,
And closer viewed, you'll find they are unwise:
Some flaw in their own conduct lies beneath,
And 'tis the trick of fools to save their credit,
Which brought another language into use.
Don Carlos is of ancient, noble blood,
And then his wealth might mend a prince's fortune.
For him the sun is labouring in the mines,
A faithful slave, and turning earth to gold.
His keels are freighted with that sacred power,
By which even kings and emperors are made."
Sir, you have my good wishes, and I hope (to Car.)
My daughter is not indisposed to hear you. [Exit.
Car. Oh, Leonora! why art thou in tears?
Because I am less wretched than I was?
Before your father gave me leave to woo you,
Hushed was your bosom, and your eye serene.
Will you for ever help me to new pains,
And keep reserves of torment in your hand,
To let them loose on every dawn of joy?
Leon. I pray, my Lord, no more.
Car. Ah, why so sad? you know each sigh does shake me :
Sighs there, are tempests here.
I've heard, bad men would be unblest in heaven:
What is my guilt, that makes me so with you?"
Have I not languished prostrate at thy feet?
Have I not lived whole days upon thy sight?
Have I not seen thee where thou hast not been?
And, mad with the idea, clasped the wind
And doated upon nothing?
Good Carlos, by recounting of my faults,
And telling how ungrateful I have been.
Alas, my lord, if talking would prevail,
I could suggest much better arguments
Than those regards you threw away on me;
Your valour, honour, wisdom, praised by all.
But bid physicians talk our veins to temper,
And with an argument new-set a pulse;
Then think, my Lord, of reasoning into love.
Car. Must I despair then? do not shake methus:
My temper-beaten heart is cold to death.
Ah, turn, and let me warm me in thy beauties.
Heavens! what proof I gave, but two nights past,
Leon. Think you my father too indulgent to me, Of matchless love! to fling me at thy feet,
'T'hat he claims no dominion o'er my tears? A daughter sure may be right dutiful, Whose tears alone are free from a restraint.
Car. Ah, my torn heart!
Leon. Regard not me, my Lord, I shall obey my father.
I slighted friendship, and I flew from fame;
Nor heard the summons of the next day's battle.
But darting headlong to thy arms, I left
The promised fight, I left Alonzo too,
To stand the war and quell a world alone.
(Trumpeta)
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