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OLY Jefus! God of Love!
Look with pity from above

Shed the precious purple tide
From thine hands, thy feet, thy fide;
Let thy ftreams of comfort roll,
Let them please and fill my foul.
Let me thus for ever be
Full of gladnefs, full of thee.
This, for which my wishes pine,
Is the cup of love divine ;

Sweet affections flow from hence,
Sweet, above the joys of sense;
Bleffed philtre! how we find
Its facred worships! how the mind,
Of all the world forgetful grown,
Can despise an earthly throne;
Raife its thoughts to realms above,
Think of God, and sing of love.
Love celestial, wondrous heat,
O, beyond expreffion great!
What refiftlefs charms were thine,
In thy good, thy best defign!


When God was hated, Sin obey'd,
And man undone without thy aid,
From the feats of endlefs peace

They brought the Son, the Lord of Grace;
They taught him to receive a birth,

To cloath in flesh, to live on earth;
And after, lifted him on high,
And taught him on the crofs to die.
Love celestial, ardent fire,
O, extreme of fweet defire!
Spread thy brightly raging flame
Through and over all my frame;
Let it warm me, let it burn,
Let my corpfe to afhes turn;
And, might thy flame thus act with me
To fet the foul from body free,

I next would use thy wings, and fly
To meet my Jefus in the sky.



(Written in December, 1712 *.)

OTHER of Plenty, daughter of the skies, Sweet Peace, the troubled world's defire, arife; Around thy Poet weave thy fummer shades, Within my fancy spread thy flowery meads;

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*This Poem received feveral corrections, in confequence of hints from Lord Bolingbroke and Dr. Swift. See the Dean's "Journal to Stella," Dec. 22, 1712; Jan. 31, and Feb. 19, 1712-13. N.

Amongst thy train soft Ease and Pleasure bring,
And thus indulgent footh me whilst I fing.
Great Anna claims the fong; no brighter name
Adorns the lift of never-dying fame ;

No fairer foul was ever form'd above;

None e'er was more the grateful nation's love,
Nor lov'd the nation more. I fly with speed
To fing fuch lines as Bolingbroke may read,
On war difpers'd, on faction trampled down,
On all the peaceful glories of the crown,
And, if I fail in too confin'd a flight,
May the kind world upon my labours write,
"So fell the lines which ftrove for endless fame,
"Yet fell, attempting on the noblest theme."

Now twelve revolving years has Britain stood,
With lofs of wealth, and vaft expence of blood,
Europa's guardian; still her gallant arms
Secured Europa from impending harms.
Fair honour, full fuccefs, and just applause,
Pursued her marches, and adorn'd her cause;
Whilft Gaul, afpiring to erect a throne
O'er other empires, trembled for her own;
Bemoan'd her cities won, her armies slain,
And funk the thought of universal reign.

When thus reduc'd the world's invaders lie, The fears which rack'd the nations justly die: Power finds its balance, giddy motions cease In both the fcales, and each inclines to peace. This fair occafion Providence prepares, To answer pious Anna's hourly prayers,

Which still on warm Devotion's wings arose,
And, reaching heaven, obtain'd the world's repofe.
Within the vast expanfion of the sky,

Where orbs of gold in fields of azure lie,.
A glorious palace fhines, whofe filver ray,
Serenely flowing, lights the milky way;
The road of angels. Here, with speedy care,
The fummon'd guardians of the world repair.
When Britain's Angel, on the message fent,
Speaks Anna's prayers, and Heaven's fupreme intent;
That war's deftructive arm fhould humble Gaul,
Spain's parted realms to different monarchs fall;
The grand alliance crown'd with glory ceafe,
And joyful Europe find the fweets of peace.
He fpuke: the fmiling hopes of man's repofe,
The joy that fprings from certain hopes arose,
Diffufive o'er the place; complacent airs,
Sedately fweet, were heard within the fpheres;
And, bowing, all adore the fovereign mind,
And fly to execute the work defign'd.

This done, the Guardian on the wing repairs,
Where Anna fate, revolving public cares
With deep concern of thought. Unfeen he stood,
Prefenting peaceful images of good ;

On Fancy's airy stage, returning Trade,
A funk Exchequer fill'd, an Army paid':

The fields with men, the men with plenty blefs'd,
The towns with riches, and the world with reft.
Such pleafing objects on her bofom play,
And give the dawn of glory's golden day;


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When all her labours at their harvest shown
Shall, in her fubjects' joy, complete her own.
Then breaking filence; 'Tis enough, she cries,
That war has rag'd to make the nations wife.
Heaven profpers armies whilft they fight to save,
And thirst of further fame destroys the brave;
The vanquish'd Gauls are humbly pleas'd to live,
And but escap'd the chains they meant to give.
Now let the powers be ftill'd, and each poffefs'd
Of what fecures the common fafety beft.

So fpake the Queen; then, fill'd with warmth divine, She call'd her Oxford to the grand defign;

Her Oxford, prudent in affairs of state,
Profoundly thoughtful, manifeftly great
In every turn, whofe fteddy temper steers
Above the reach of gold, or shock of fears;
Whom no blind chance, but merit understood,
By frequent trials, power of doing good;
And will to execute, advanc'd on high,
Oh, foul created to deferve the sky!

And make the nation, crown'd with glory, fee
How much it rais'd itself by raising thee!
Now let the schemes which labour in thy breast,
The long Alliance, bleft with lasting rest:
Weigh all pretences with impartial laws,
And fix the feparate interefts of the cause.
These toils the graceful Bolingbroke attends,
A genius fafhion'd for the greatest ends;
Whose strong perception takes the fwifteft flight,
And yet its swiftness ne'er obscures its fight:

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