Siege after siege, fight after fight,
Contemplating with small delight,
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view;)
Till setting on the current year,
I found the far-sought treasure near.
A theme for poetry divine,
A theme t' enoble even mine,
In memorable eighty-nine.
The spring of eighty-nine shall be
An æra cherish'd long by me,
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of eighty-eight,
That threaten'd England's trembling state
With loss of what she least could spare,
Her sov'reign's tutelary care,
One breath of Heav'n, that cried -Restore!
Chas'd, never to assemble more :
And for the richest crown on Earth,
If valu'd by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign
Sat fast on George's brows again.
Then peace and joy again possess'd
Our Queen's long-agitated breast;
Such joy and peace as can be known
By suff rers like herself alone,
Who loosing, or supposing lost,
The good on Earth they valu'd most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below,
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!
O Queen of Albion, queen of isles!
Since all thy tears were chang'd to smiles,
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine
With joy not unallied to thine,
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land's remotest part,
And strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answer'd pray'rs,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.
If they, who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,
'Tis but the natural effect,
Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than Queen,
Who is belov'd where never seen
FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY.
HEAR, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r,
In Heav'n thy dwelling-place,
From infants made the publick care,
And taught to seek thy face.
Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,
And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play
Thy holy sabbaths more.
Thanks that we hear, but O impart
To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,
And learn as well as hear.
For if vain thoughts the minds engage
Of older far than we,
What hope, that, at our heedless age,
Our minds should e'er be free?
Much hope, if thou our spirits take
Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,
And babes as wise as they.
Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,
A sun that ne'er declines,
And be thy mercies show'r'd on those,
Who plac'd us where it shines.
Subjoined to the Yearly Bill of Mortality of the Parish of All-Saints, Northampton,*
Pallida Mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres.
Pale Death with equal foot strikes, wide the door Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor.
WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,
All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home, the grave.
Was man (frail aways) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?
Did famine or did plague prevail,
That so much death appears?
No; these were vig'rous as their sires,
Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waves his claim.
* Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of North
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