When God was hated, Sin obey'd,
And man undone without thy aid,
From the feats of endless 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 cross to die.
Love celeftial, 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 fkies, Sweet Peace, the troubled world's defire, arife; Around thy Poet weave thy fummer fhades, Within my fancy spread thy flowery meads;
*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 whilft 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 nobleft theme."
Now twelve revolving years has Britain stood,
With lofs of wealth, and vaft expence of blood,
Europa's guardian; ftill 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, aspiring to erect a throne
O'er other empires, trembled for her own;
Bemoan'd her cities won, her armies flain,
And funk the thought of univerfal 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 expansion of the sky,
Where orbs of gold in fields of azure lie,
A glorious palace shines, whose 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 destructive arm should humble Gaul,
Spain's parted realms to different monarchs fall;
The grand alliance crown'd with glory cease,
And joyful Europe find the fweets of peace.
He fpoke: the fmiling hopes of man's repofe,
The joy that springs from certain hopes arofe,
Diffusive o'er the place; complacent airs,
Sedately fweet, were heard within the spheres;
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;
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 wise.
Heaven profpers armies whilft they fight to fave,
And thirst of further fame deftroys 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 secures the common fafety best.
So fpake the Queen; then, fill'd with warmth divine, She call'd her Oxford to the grand design;
Her Oxford, prudent in affairs of state,
Profoundly thoughtful, manifeftly great
In every turn, whofe fteddy temper fteers
Above the reach of gold, or fhock 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 lafting reft:
Weigh all pretences with impartial laws,
And fix the feparate interefts of the cause.
Thefe toils the graceful Bolingbroke attends,
A genius fashion'd for the greatest ends;
Whose strong perception takes the swifteft flight,
And yet its swiftnefs ne'er obfcures its fight:
When schemes are fix'd, and each affign'd a part,
None ferves his country with a nobler heart;
Juft thoughts of honour all his mind control,
And expedition wings his lively foul.
On fuch a Patriot to confer the trust,
The Monarch knows it fafe, as well as juft.
Then next proceeding in her Agents' choice,
And ever pleas'd that worth obtains the voice,
She, from the voice of high-distinguish'd fames,
With pious Bristol, gallant Strafford names :
One form'd to ftand a Church's firm support,
The other fitted to adorn a Court:
Both vers'd in business, both of fine address,
By which experience leads to great fuccefs:
And both to diftant lands the Monarch fends,
And, to their conduct, Europe's peace commends..
Now fhips unmoor'd, to waft her Agents o'er,
Spread all their fail, and quit the flying fhore;
The foreign Agents reach th' appointed place,
The Congress opens, and it will be peace.
Methinks the war, like ftormy winter, flies,
When fairer months unveil the bluish skies;
A flowery world the sweetest season spreads,
And doves, with branches, flutter round their heads.
Half-peopled Gaul, whom numerous ills destroy,
With wishful heart, attends the promis'd joy.
For this prepares the Duke- ah, fadly flain,
'Tis grief to name him whom we mourn in vain :
No warmth of verfe repairs the vital flame,
For verfe can only grant a life in fame;
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