On the tall Pine, and ftately Tow'r,

Its Force the raging Tempeft fpends; When Light'nings play, and Thunders roar,. The highest Mountain fooneft bends.

The Man, who arms his fteady Breaft,
To ftand unmov'd the worst of Ills,
When Fortune frowns, ftill hopes the best,.
And fears the worst, whene'er fhe fmiles.

The Pow'rs above the Seafons guide,
Tho' now it rains, 'twill quickly fhine,
Apollo lays his Arms afide,

And tunes his Harp to Lays Divine.

When Clouds grow thick, be bravely wife,
With Patience guide your conftant Mind;
But if a merry Gale arife,

Contract your Sails, nor trust the Wind.

AN

AN

ODE

FOR THE

Prince's Birth-Day.

By Mr. WELSTED

HEN Churchil, on Onarda's Plain,
The Pow'rs of Europe led;

When Slaughter ftalk'd on Heaps of Slain,,
And Virtue greatly bled: :

Twas then the blooming Prince, ordain'd

By Fate to BRITAIN'S Throne,

In Arms immortal Honours gain'd,

And won the Victor's Crown.

III.

His glitt'ring Steel he fhook, and vow'd

By Carolina's Eyes,

To ftain it in his Rival's Blood,

And gain the deftin'd Prize.

IV.

BRITONS, affert your Country's Cause!
The youthful Warrior cry'd;

You fight for Freedom and for Laws;
For thofe your Fathers dy'd.

V.

Then rushing on, in Crowds of Foes,
Thro' Tracts of Death he ran;

His Courage with his Danger grows,
Hero, as foon as Man..

VI

Whilft he each dreadful Scene review'd,.

His Rival hid his Head;

Whilft he with graceful Wrath pursu'd,

The pale Impoftor fled..

VII.

Behold Britannia's promis'd Heir!
Behold him cover'd o'er

With all the glorious Duft of War;
And ftain'd with comely Gore!

VIII.

While Martial Sounds his Ear delight,.
And roufe him as they fwell,
Amidst the Fury of the Fight

His wounded Courfer fell.

IX.

In that distress'd and dubious Hour,

All cover'd with Despair,
Alarm'd was England's Guardian Pow'r,
And fay'd his Royal Care..

Oh! Fated Empire to adorn,

And ALBION's Fame to Spread!

XI.

Thy fhining Vertues to reward,

And blefs a Martial Land,

A Diadem thy Brow shall guard,
A Sceptre grace thy Hand.

.XII.

Let the glad Day, which gave thee Light,

The Symphonies prolong;

While Poets thy great Deeds recite,
And OUDENAR D's thy Song.

CHORUS.

To Harmony, and Fame, that Day

Shall ever Sacred be;

And ev'ry Mufe devote a Lay

To Oudenard and Thee.

1

AN