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William, the brave, the pious, and the juft,
Adorn these gloomy scenes of tyranny and lust? 10

Polhill! my blood boils high, my spirits flame;
Can your zeal sleep, or are your passions tame,
Nor call revenge and darkness on the poet's name?
Why smoke the kies not, why no thunders roll,
Nor kindling lightnings blast his guilty soul? 15
Audacious wretch! 'to Itab a monarch's fame,
And fire his subjects with a rebel flame,
To call the painter to his black designs,
To draw our guardian's face in hellish lines.
Painter, beware! the monarch can be shown
Under no shape but angels or his own,
Gabriel or William on the British throne.
0!could my thought but grasp the valt design,
And words with infinite ideas join,
I'd rouse Apelles from his iron fleep,

25 And bid him trace the warriour o'er the deep: Trace him, Apelles, o'er the Belgian plain, Fierce how he climbs the mountains of the slain, Scatt'ring just vengeance thro' the red campaign, Then dash the canvass with a flying stroke Till it be lost in clouds of fire and finoke, And say 'Twas thus the conq'ror thro' the squa

drons broke. Mark him again emerging from the cloud Far from his troops; there like a rock he stood, His country's single barrier in a sea of blood. 35

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Calmly he leaves the pleasures of a throne
And his Maria weeping, whilft alone
He wards the fatc of nations and provokes his own.
But Heav'n secures its champion : o'er the field
Paint hov'ring angels tho' they lie conceal'd; 40
Each intercepts a death and wears it on his field.

Now, noble pencil, lead him to our ifle,
Mark how the skies with joyful luftre smile,
Then imitate the glory on the strand,
Spread half the nation longing till he land. 45
Wafla off the blood and take a peaceful teint,
All red the warriour, white the ruler paint,
Abroad a hero and at home a faint.
Throne him on high upon a shining seat,
Lust and Profaneness dying at his feet,
Whileround his head the laurel and the olive meet,
The crowns of war and peace, and may they blow
With flow'ry blessings ever on his brow!
At his right hand pile up the English laws
In facred volumes, thence the monarch draws

55 His wife and juft commandsRise ye old sages of the British ifle, On the fair tablet cast a rev'rend smile, And bless the piece: these statutes are your own That sway the cottage and direct the throne : 60 People and prince are one in William's name, Their joys, their dangers, and their laws, the same,

SO

Let Liberty and Right, with plumes display'd,
Claptheir glad wings around their guardian's head,
Religion o'er the rest her starry pinionsspread. 65
Religion guards him; round th' imperial queen
Place waiting Virtues, each of heav'niy mien :
Learn their bright air and paint it from his eyes;
The just, the bold, the temp'rate, and the wise,
Dwell in his looks, majestick but serene,

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Sweet with no fondness, cheerful but not vain,
Bright without terrour, great without disdain.
His soul inspires us what his lips command,
And spreads his brave example thro’ the land.
Not so the former reigns-

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Bend down his earth to each afflicted cry,
Let beams of grace dart gently from his eye;
But the bright treasures of his sacred breast
Are too divine, too vast, to be exprest:
Colours must fail where words and numbers faint, 80
And leave the hero's heart for thought alone to paint,

PART II.

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Now Muse, pursue the satirist again,
Wipe off the blots of his envenom'd pen.
Hark how he bids the servile painter draw
In monstrous shapes the patrons of our law;
At one flight dalh he cancels ev'ry same 5
From the white rolls of honesty and fame:
This scribbling wretch marks all he meets for knave,
Shoots sudden bolts promiscuous at the base and brave,

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And with unpardonable malice sheds
Poison and spite on undistinguish'd heads.
Painter, forbear ! or if thy bolder hand
Dares to attempt the villains of the land,
Draw firit this poet, like some baleful ftar
With silent influence thedding civil war,
Or factious trumpeter, whose magick found
Calls off the subjects to the hostile ground
And scatters hellish feuds the nations round.
These are the imps of hell, that cursed tribe
That first create the plague and then the pain describe.
Draw next above the great ones of our isle, 20
Still from the good distinguishing the vile;
Seat'em in pomp, in grandeur and command,
Peeling the fubjects with a greedy hand:
Paint forth the knavės that have the nations fold,
And tinge their greedy looks with fordid gold: 25
Mark what a selfish faction undermines
The pious monarch's generous designs,
Spoil their own native landas vipers do,
Vipers that tear their mothers' bowels thro'.
Let grcat Nassau bencath a careful crown, 30
Mournful in majesty, look gently down,
Mingling foft pity with an awful frown.
He grieves to see how long in vain he strove
To make us bless’d, how vain his labours prove 34
To save the stubborn land he condescends to love.

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To the discontented and unquiet.

Imitated partly from Casimire, Lib. iv. Od. IS.

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Varia! there's nothing here that's free
From wearisome anxiety,
And the whole round of mortal joys
With short poffeffion tires and cloys.
'Tis a dull circle that we tread,
Juft from the window to the bed :
We rise to see and to be seen,
Gaze on the world a while, and then
We yawn, and stretch to fleep again.
But Fancy, that aneasy guest,
Still holds a lodging in our breaft;
She finds or frames vexation ftill,
Herself the greatest plague we feel.
We take strange pleasure in our pain,
And make a mountain of a grain,
Assume the load, and pant and sweat
Beneath th' imaginary weight.
With our dear felves we live at strife:
While the most constant scenes of life
From peevish humours are not free
Still we affect variety.
Rather than pass an easy day
We fret and chide the hours away,

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