O virtue, to thy British mother dear!

Like the fam'd Trojan suffer and abide;

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For Anne is thine, I ween, as Venus was his guide.

There, in eternal characters engrav'd, Vigo, and Gibraltar, and Barcelone, Their force destroy'd, their privileges sav'd, Shall Anna's terrors and her mercies own: Spain, from th' usurper Bourbon's arms retriev'd, Shall with new life and grateful joy appear, Numbering the wonders which that youth achiev'd, Whom Anna clad in arms and sent to war; Whom Anna sent to claim Iberia's throne; And made him more than king, in calling him her

son.

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There Ister, pleas'd by Blenheim's glorious field, Rolling shall bid his eastern waves declare Germania sav'd by Britain's ample shield, And bleeding Gaul afflicted by her spear; Shall bid them mention Marlborough on that shore, Leading his islanders, renown'd in arms,

Through climes, where never British chief before Or pitch'd his camp, or sounded his alarms;

Shall bid them bless the queen, who made his

streams

Glorious as those of Boyne, and safe as those of Thames.

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Vigo was surprised by the Duke of Ormond and Sir George Rooke, and the galleons taken and destroyed in the year 1702; Gibraltar by Sir George Rooke in 1704; and Barcelona by the Prince of Hesse and the Earl of Peterborough in 1705.

Brabantia, clad with fields, and crown'd with

towers,

With decent joy shall her deliverer meet;

Shall own thy arms, great queen, and bless thy powers,

Laying the keys beneath thy subject's feet.
Flandria, by plenty made the home of war,
Shall weep her crime, and bow to Charles restor❜d;
With double vows shall bless thy happy care,
In having drawn, and having sheath'd the sword;
From these their sister provinces shall know,
How Anne supports a friend, and how forgives a foe.

Bright swords, and crested helms, and pointed

spears,

In artful piles around the work shall lie;
And shields indented deep in ancient wars,
Blazon'd with signs of Gallie heraldry;

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And standards with distinguish'd honours bright, Marks of high power and national command, Which Valois' sons, and Bourbon's bore in fight, Or gave to Foix' or Montmorency's hand:

Great spoils, which Gallia must to Britain yield, From Cressy's battle sav'd, to grace Ramilia's field.

And, as fine art the spaces may dispose, The knowing thought and curious eye shall see Thy emblem, gracious queen, the British rose, Type of sweet rule and gentle majesty: The northern thistle, whom no hostile hand Unhurt too rudely may provoke, I ween; Hibernia's harp, device of her command, And parent of her mirth, shall there be seen:

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Thy vanquish'd lilies, France, decay'd and torn, Shall with disorder'd pomp the lasting work adorn.

Beneath, great queen, oh! very far beneath, Near to the ground, and on the humble base, 342 To save herself from darkness and from death, That Muse desires the last, the lowest place; Who, though unmeet, yet touch'd the trembling string,

For the fair fame of Anne and Albion's land,
Who durst of war and martial fury sing;

And when thy will, and when thy subject's hand,
Had quell'd those wars, and bid that fury cease,
Hangs up her grateful harp to conquest, and to peace.

CANTATA.

SET BY MONSIEUR GALLIARD.

B

RECIT.

ENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade,
His lyre to mournful numbers strung,
Horace, immortal bard, supinely laid,
To Venus thus address'd the song:

Ten thousand little loves around,
Listening, dwelt on every sound.

ARIET.

Potent Venus, bid thy son

Sound no more his dire alarms.

Youth on silent wings is flown :
Graver years come rolling on.
Spare my age, unfit for arms:

Safe and humble let me rest,
From all amorous care releas'd.
Potent Venus, bid thy son

Sound no more his dire alarms.

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RECIT.

Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare
The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair?
Why, why do I all day lament and sigh,
Unless the beauteous maid be nigh?

And why all night pursue her in my dreams,
Through flowery meads and crystal streams?

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RECIT.

Thus sung the bard; and thus the goddess spoke : Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke;

Every state, and every age

Shall own my rule, and fear my rage:
Compell'd by me, thy Muse shall prove,
That all the world was born to love.

ARIET.

Bid thy destin'd lyre discover

Soft desire and gentle pain:

Often praise, and always love her:

Through her ear, her heart obtain.

Verse shall please, and sighs shall move her,
Cupid does with Phoebus reign.

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HER RIGHT NAME.

S Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this, and blaming that;
Tell me, she said; but tell me true;

The nymph who could your heart
subdue.

What sort of charms does she possess?
Absolve me, fair one: I'll confess,
With pleasure, I replied. Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love sits in open triumph crown'd:
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor gray;
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes nor no.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,

May say, how red, how round, how sweet:

Old Homer only could indite

Their vagrant grace and soft delight:
They stand recorded in his book,

When Helen smil'd, and Hebe spoke

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