Who, fuch a length of years, 'midst party rage And veering patriots, with deferv'd applause, In place, in pow'r, has fhewn, from youth to age, True to his King and to his country's cause ? On whofe firm credit, ere the terms were known, Hence to thy toils each diftant nation pays That juft regard which envy here denies ; Hence, future annals fhall record thy praise, And lafting trophies to thy honour rife. Who, when of old the public torrent ran, To check, to turn, and regulate its course? Who, unreproach'd, has fince for half an age, In freedom's cause fuch ftedfast zeal approv'd ♪ Who could th' efteem of Sire and Son engage,, By each entrusted, and by each belov'd? And tho' detraction now thefe wreaths would tear, And break thofe bands whence all our triumphs flow, Who plac'd our Tully in the consul's chair ? To whofe advice this ftatefman do we owe? Say, when Hortenfius in the fenate rofe, Who on his rival fix'd his fov'reign's choice? That well weigh'd choice, deplor'd by Britain's foes, And prais'd with transport by the public voice. Still may the world, diftinguish'd pair, behold What bliss your country to this union owes ! And oh ! in glorious radiance tho' the flies EPIGRAM ON THE BATTLE OF MINDEN.. IN antient times the Roman laws decreed He ON ON MR. PITT'S RESIGNATION, IN 1761 NE'er yet in vain did heav'n its omens fend; ON THE DISMISSION OF EARL TEMPLE FROM THE LIEUTENANCY OF THE COUNTY OF BUCKS, IN 1763. To honour virtue in the lord of Stowe, ON THE THIRTIETH OF NOVEMBER, BEING ST. ANDREW'S DAY, AND THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE PRINCESS DOWAGER. OF WALES. HAIL black November, in whofe foggy rear: And now while. Andrew and Augufta fmile, STANZAS BY LORD CAPEL; WRITTEN WHEN HE WAS A PRISONER IN THE TOWER, DURING CROMWELL'S USURPATION. I.. BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; That innocence is tempeft proof.. Tho' furly Nereus frowns, my thoughts are calm : Then strike, affliction,, for thy wounds are balm. II. That which the world mifcalls a jail, A private closet is to me; Locks, bars, and folitude, together met,. III. Here fin, for want of food, must starve, And these strong walls do only ferve Malice is now grown charitable, fure; IV. And whilft I wish to be retir'd, Into this private room I'm turn'd; The falamander fhould be burn'd. V. The Cynic hugs his poverty, Naked on frozen Caucafus. Contentment feels no fmart; ftoics, we fee, VF. I'm in this cabinet lock'd' up, And thus, proud fultan, I'm as great as thee. VII. Thefe |