Thefe, as they change, Almighty Father! these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleafing Spring
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love.
Then comes thy glory in the Summer months,
With light and heat refulgent.-

Thy bounty fhines in Autumn unconfin'd,
And spreads a common feaft for all that lives.
In Winter awful Thou! with clouds and ftorms

Around Thee thrown! tempeft o'er tempest roll'd! &c.

HYMN.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY Frp AND Couchman, MOORFIELDS.

Anno 1787.

A POEM.

-Et tantas audetis tollere moles?

Quos ego-fed motos praeftat componere fluctus.
Poft mihi non fimili poena commiffa luetis.
Maturate fugam, regique haec dicite veftro:
Non illi imperium pelagi, faevumque tridentem,
Sed mihi forte datum.-

As on the fea-beat shore Britannia fat,
Of her degenerate fons the faded fame
Deep in her anxious heart revolving fad,
Bare was her throbbing bosom to the gale,

Virg.

That hoarfe and hollow from the bleak furge blew;5
Loofe flow'd her treffes, rent her azure robe.
Hung o'er the deep, from her majestic brow
She tore the laurel, and the tore the bay;
Nor ceas'd the copious grief to bathe her cheek,
Nor ceas'd her fobs to murmur to the main.
Peace difcontented nigh, departing, stretch'd
Her dove-like wing; and War, tho' greatly rous'd,
Yet mourns his fetter'd hands; while thus the Queen
Of Nations spoke, and what she said the Muse
Recorded, faithful, in unbidden verfe.

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Even not yon' fail, that from the sky-mixt wave Dawns on the fight, and wafts the Royal youth' A freight of future glory, to my shore;

Frederick Prince of Wales, then lately arrived.

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Even not the flattering view of golden days,
And rifing periods yet of bright renown,
Beneath the Parents, and their endless line
Thro' late revolving time, can footh my rage,
While, unchaftis'd, the infulting Spaniard dares
Infeft the trading flood, full of vain war
Defpife my navies, and my merchants feize,
As, trufting to falfe peace, they fearless roam
The world of waters wild, made by the toil
And liberal blood of glorious ages mine;
Nor bursts my fleeping thunder on their head.
Whence this unwonted patience? this weak doubt?30
This tame befeeching of rejected peace?
This meek forbearance? this unnative fear,
To generous Britons never known before?
And fail'd my fleets for this, on Indian tides
To float, unactive, with the veering winds?
The mockery of war! while hot Disease,
And Sloth diftemper'd, fwept off burning crowds
For action ardent, and, amid the deep,
Inglorious funk them in a wat❜ry grave.
There now they lie beneath the rolling flood,
Far from their friends, and country unaveng'd,
And back the drooping war-fhip comes again,
Difpirited, and thin, her fons afham'd
Thus idly to review their native fhore,
With not one glory sparkling in their eye,
One triumph on their tongue. A paffenger

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