 | An Ode on the Birth-Day of his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales |  |
An ODE
ON THE Birth-Day of his Royal Highness the PRINCE of Wales.
Neque enim quivis horrentia pilis
Agmina------
Attamen & justum poteras & scribere fortem.
Hor.
Agmina------
Attamen & justum poteras & scribere fortem.
Hor.
1
I
When Churchill on Onarda's PlainThe Powers of Europe led;
When Slaughter stalk'd on heaps of Slain,
And Virtue greatly bled:
II
'Twas then the blooming Prince, ordain'dBy Fate to Britain's Throne,
In Arms immortal Honours gain'd,
And won the Victor's Crown.
III
His glitt'ring Steel he shook, and Vow'dBy Carolina's Eyes,
To stain it in his Rival's Blood,
And gain the destin'd Prize.
IV
Britons, assert your Country's Cause,The youthful Warrior cry'd;
You fight for Freedom and for Laws:
For those 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 soon as Man!
VI
Whilst he each dreadful Scene review'd,His Rival hid his Head:
Whilst he with graceful Wrath pursu'd,
The pale Impostor fled.
VII
Behold Britannia's promis'd Heir!Behold him cover'd o'er
With all the glorious Dust of War,
And stain'd with comely Gore!
2
VIII
While Martial Sounds his Ear delight,And rouze him as they swell;
Amidst the Fury of the Fight
His wounded Courser fell.
IX
In that distress'd and dubious Hour,All cover'd with Despair,
Alarm'd was England's Guardian Power,
And sav'd his Royal Care.
X
Victorious Youth, to Greatness born,The smiling Genius said!
O fated, Empire to adorn,
And Albion's Fame to spread!
XI
Thy shining Virtues to reward,And bless a Martial Land,
A Diadem thy Brow shall guard,
A Scepter grace thy Hand.
XII
Let the glad Day, which gave Thee Light,The Symphonies prolong:
While Poets thy great Deeds recite,
And Oudenard's the Song.
XIII
To Harmony and Fame that DayShall ever Sacred be;
And every Muse devote a Lay,
To Oudenard and Thee.
To the PRINCESS.
O Born for Nations! Britain's Joy confest!A publick Blessing, and compleatly blest!
Whatever's lovely in the Female Race,
In her Unites with more than Female Grace:
Virtue less Awe assumes in Beauty's Seat,
And Wisdom charms us in the Mien of Wit:
3
The Prince's Wife, or Daughter of the King:
In her bright Life each Excellence is shown,
A Galaxy of Charms, the Sex in one.
So the rich Tree, in Java's spicy Vale,
Revives the Air, and breaths in every Gale:
From her the Mace, the Cinnamon, and Clove
Diffuse their blended Odours thro' the Grove:
The loaded Branch with copious Fragrance blooms,
And gives not simply one, but all Perfumes.
TO THE EARL of CLARE,
On his being Created DUKE of NEWCASTLE.
When Fair Astræa to the Earth descends,Parnassus wakes, and every Muse attends:
Once in an Age the Goddess leaves her Skies;
Once in an Age we see a Holles rise.
O born to equal thy Forefather's Fame,
And give new Lustre to Newcastle's Name!
That Gem not worn by thee, would cease to Shine:
That Flower would Fade on any Stem but Thine:
In Alien Climes the drooping Vine decays,
And asks a softer Soil with warmer Rays;
But if her native Latium she regains,
Her swelling Clusters grace the fruitful Plains;
In her own Fields with beauteous Pride she grows,
And in rich Streams the noble Vintage flows.
4
Amintor and the Nightingale.
A SONG.
I
As in a blowing Jasmyn Bower,Where Envy's Eye could ne'er disclose 'em,
Enjoying Ages in an Hour
Amintor lay in Chloe's Bosom.
II
A Nightingale renew'd her SongIn such a sad complaining Measure,
In Notes at once so sweet and strong,
Th' enchanted Grove was fill'd with Pleasure.
III
O lovely Songstress, said the Swain,Thy idle Melody give over;
To me, alas, thou sing'st in vain,
To me, a panting wishing Lover.
IV
Thy sweet Complainings now dismiss,O heavenly, yet unkind Intruder;
Nor rob me of a gentler Bliss,
To give me in its Place a ruder.
V
When I am sunk in Chloe's Arms,The softest Moment Love possesses;
E'en Philomel has lost her Charms,
And Harmony it self displeases.
VI
Bright Chloe all my Powers employs,And all besides is fond Delusion:
While she alone compleats my Joys,
Variety is but Confusion.
FINIS.
| An Ode on the Birth-Day of his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales | |