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The thing's too serious to be made a joke of:
Where is the husband, pray, that once you fpoke of?"
Wide is the difference, as you fee it here,

'Twixt widow of a day, and widow of a year.

All lenient Time expands his wings,

Away he flies with human cares;

Then back, full fraught with joy, repairs,

And every balmy comfort brings.

Time checks the mourning husband's fighs; 'Tis he congeals the falling tear,

To form the lovely lucid leer, Which sparkles in a widow's eyes.




Peace o'er the world her olive wand extends,
And white-rob'd Innocence from heaven defcends.


DIEU, the horrors of destructive war,
And mad Bellona in her iron car!

But welcome to our fmiling fields again,

Sweet Peace! attended with thy jocund train,
Truth, Virtue, Freedom, that can never cloy,
And all the pleafing family of Joy.

Those schemes purfu'd, which Pitt fo wifely plann'd,
Conqueft has shower'd her bleffings on the land;
And Britain's fons more laurèls have obtain❜d,
Than all her Henry's, or her Edward's gain'd.
George faw with joy the peaceful period given,
And bow'd obedient to the will of Heaven :



Awful he rose to bid diffention cease,

And all the warring world was calm'd to peace;
Thus did the roaring waves their rage compose,
When the great father of the floods arofe.
Then came Aftrea mild, our isle to bless,

Fair queen of virtue, and of happiness !
Then came our troops, in fighting fields renown'd,
And mark'd with many an honourable wound.
The tender fair one, long by fears opprefs'd,
Now feels foft raptures rifing in her breast,
The blooming hero of her heart to view,
And hear him bid the dangerous camp adieu.
The widow'd bride, that long on grief had fed,
And bath'd with weeping the deferted bed,
Glad that the tumults of the war are o'er,
That terror, rage, and rapine are no more,
Greets her rough lord, secure from hoftile harms,
And hopes an age of pleafure in his arms :
While he, with pompous eloquence, recites-
Dire scenes of caftles ftorm'd, and defperate fights;
Or tells how Wolfe the free-born Britons led,
How Granby conquer'd, and the Houshold fied;
She, to the pleafing dreadful tale intent,
Now fmiles, now trembles, for the great event.
O curs'd ambition, foe to human good,

Pregnant with woe, and prodigal of blood!

Thou fruitful fource, whence ftreams of forrow flow,
What devastations to thy guilt we owe !

Where'er thy fury riots, all around

Confufion, havock, and dread deaths abound:
Where Ceres flourish'd, and gay Flora fmil'd,
Behold a barren, folitary wild!

To ftately cedars, thorns and briars fucceed,
And in the garden spreads the noxious weed;
Where cattle paftur'd late, the purple plain,
Sad fcene of horror! teems with heroes flain;

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Where the proud palace rear'd it's haughty head,
Deep in the duft, fee crumbling columns fpread;
See gallant Britons in the field expire,...
Towns turn'd to afhes, fanes involv'd in fire!
Thefe deeds the guilt of rash Ambition tell,
And bloody Difcord, furious fiend of hell!
Ye baneful fifters, with your frantick crew,
Hence speed your flight, and take your last adieu,
Eternal wars in barbarous worlds to wage;
There vent your inextinguishable rage.

But come, fair Peace, and be the nation's bride,
And let thy fifter Plenty grace thy fide;
O come! and with thy placid presence chear f
Our drooping hearts, and stay for ever here.
Now be the fhrill ftrife-ftirring trumpet mute;
Now let us liften to the fofter lute:

The shepherd now his numerous flocks shall feed,
Where war relentless doom'd the brave to bleed

On ruin'd ramparts shall the hawthorn flower, a stimul
And mantling ivy clafp the nodding tower;
Unusual harvests wave along the dale,
And the bent fickle o'er the fword prevail.
No more shall states with rival rage contend,
But Arts their empire o'er the world extend;
Ingenuous Arts, that humanize the mind,
And give the brightest polish to mankind!
Then shall our chiefs in breathing marble stand,
And life feem starting from the fculptor's hands
Then lovely nymphs in living picture rise,
The fairest faces, and the brightest eyes :
There polish'd Lane* no lofs of beauty fears;
Her charms, ftill mellowing with revolving years
Shall, e'en on canvas, youthful hearts engage,
And warm the cold indifference of age:

* The Hon. Mrs. Lane,, daughter of the Right Hon. Lord Chancellor 'Henley, and wife to the Hon. Mr. Lane.


Then the firm arch shall stem the roaring tide,

And join thofe countries which the ftreams divide !
Then villas rife of true Palladian proof,

And the proud palace rear it's ample roof;
Then ftatelier temples to the fkies afcend,
Where mix'd with nobles mighty kings may bend,
Where Poverty may fend her fighs to Heaven,
And Guilt return, repent, and be forgiven.
Such are the fruits which facred Peace imparts,
Sweet nurfe of liberty and learned arts !

Thefe fhe reftores-O! that fhe could restore
Life to thofe Britons who now breathe no more;
Who in the embattled field undaunted flood,
And greatly perifh'd for their country's good;
Or who, by rage of angry tempefts tofs'd,
In whirlpools of the whelming main were loft.
Ye honour'd fhades of chiefs untimely flain!
Whose bones lie scatter'd on fome foreign plain;
That now perchance by lonely hind are seen
In glittering armour gliding o'er the green;
Ye! that beneath the cold cerulean wave
Have made the watery element your grave,
Whose wandering fpirits haunt the winding fhore,
Or ride on whirlwinds while the billows roar,
With kind protection fill our ifle defend,
(If fouls unbodied can protection lend)

Still o'er the king your fhadowy pinions fpread,
And in the day of danger fhield his head;
Your bright examples fhall our pattern be,
To make us valiant, and to keep us free.

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AN my testowa

N o'ergrown wood my wandering steps invade,

Dire haunt! for none but favage monsters made,
Where frofts defcend, and howling tempefts blow.

Here, from the fearch of bufy mortals stray'd,
My woe-worn foul fhall hug her galling chain :
For fure, no forest boasts too deep a shade,
No haunt too wild, for misery to remain.

O my Aminta! dear diftracting name!
Late all my comfort, all my fond delight;

Still writhes my foul beneath it's torturing flame,

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When fhall vain Memory flumber o'er her woes?
When to oblivion be her tale resign'd?

When shall this fatal form in death repose,
Like thine, fair victim, to the duft confign'd?

Again the accents faulter on my tongue;
Again, to tear the conscious tear fucceeds;
From sharp reflection is the dagger fprung,
And Nature, wounded to the centre, bleeds.

Ye bitter skies! upon the tale defcend;

Ye blafts, tho' rude your vifits, lend an ear; Around, ye gentler oaks, your branches bend; And, as ye liften, drop an icy tear!


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