The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted ... Now First Collected. With Historical Notes, And Biographical Memoirs of the Author, by John Nichols |
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A POEM to her Royal Highness
The PRINCESS of WALES;
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 | The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted |  |
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A POEM to her Royal Highness The PRINCESS of WALES;
Occasioned by her late happy Delivery, and the Birth of a PRINCESS, 1737.
“Jam nova progenies cœlo demittitur alto......
“Aggredere, O! magnos, aderit jam tempus, honores,
“Clara Deûm soboles!”
Virg. Ecl. iv. 7. 56.
“Aggredere, O! magnos, aderit jam tempus, honores,
“Clara Deûm soboles!”
Virg. Ecl. iv. 7. 56.
“See a new progeny from Heaven descend!.....
“Assume thy state! thy destin'd honours prove,
“Dear to the Gods! O progeny of Jove.”
Warton.
“Assume thy state! thy destin'd honours prove,
“Dear to the Gods! O progeny of Jove.”
Warton.
Strike the deep note, the concent swell,
My psaltry, and my golden shell;
No more delight in shepherds themes,
Or warble to mæandering streams:
For, lo! the Triumph-song we bring,
To the fair Daughter of a King
Devoted.—Britons, this is She,
Who shall your tower and bulwark be!
With Caroline, who wipes the stains
And griefs away of former reigns:
Nor England's Angel now bemoans
Her childless Queens, and barren Thrones.
My psaltry, and my golden shell;
No more delight in shepherds themes,
Or warble to mæandering streams:
For, lo! the Triumph-song we bring,
To the fair Daughter of a King
Devoted.—Britons, this is She,
Who shall your tower and bulwark be!
With Caroline, who wipes the stains
And griefs away of former reigns:
Nor England's Angel now bemoans
Her childless Queens, and barren Thrones.
Within the womb, in silence kept,
While yet the Babe Imperial slept:
Distrust, the harbinger of Sorrow,
With panting breast still wak'd the morrow:
But now, dispers'd those doubtful glooms,
Gay Pleasure mounts on eagles' plumes:
I feel, I taste, Joy's saffron gale!
Bright Princess! blest Augusta, hail.
Sweet Blossom of a conquering Race;
The realms of Conquest doom'd to grace!
Beneath the dazzling British Sun,
Great Beauty's circuit shalt thou run:
Lo! in thy eye Love's lightnings stand:
All o'er thee is his promis'd Land.
While yet the Babe Imperial slept:
Distrust, the harbinger of Sorrow,
With panting breast still wak'd the morrow:
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Gay Pleasure mounts on eagles' plumes:
I feel, I taste, Joy's saffron gale!
Bright Princess! blest Augusta, hail.
Sweet Blossom of a conquering Race;
The realms of Conquest doom'd to grace!
Beneath the dazzling British Sun,
Great Beauty's circuit shalt thou run:
Lo! in thy eye Love's lightnings stand:
All o'er thee is his promis'd Land.
To Heaven the Hallelujah send!
Where shall our thanks or raptures end?
Most fair of Mothers! happiest Bride!
Like palms art thou, the brook beside;
Like fields with waving harvests crown'd:
The fields which lilies border round!
Ordain'd to bless a Royal Line,
With virtues and with charms divine;
To bless a more than Royal Youth,
With boundless love and spotless truth.
Where shall our thanks or raptures end?
Most fair of Mothers! happiest Bride!
Like palms art thou, the brook beside;
Like fields with waving harvests crown'd:
The fields which lilies border round!
Ordain'd to bless a Royal Line,
With virtues and with charms divine;
To bless a more than Royal Youth,
With boundless love and spotless truth.
Recount me, Muse, the Dames of old,
In Christian charts, or Jewish, roll'd;
Whom Israel's or whom Albion's swains
Have canoniz'd in mighty strains!
See, led by Abraham's lordly hand,
The tempting Foundress of her land!
Here, lo! the Star with Nassau seen:
There, proud Ahasuerus' Queen!
Anne Bullen this—too lovely rose!
Who views her form, shall feel her woes:
That's She, in Egypt's grand attire,
Who tun'd the Hebrew Monarch's lyre!
Such were the high-rais'd Nymphs, whom Fate
Gave to subdue the Wise or Great;
Whom, through a thousand rubric days,
Fame's never dying heralds blaze:
Yet, sparkling Princess, could I be,
As Time to them, most just to Thee;
O'er theirs thy brighter name should last,
And present glories cloud the past.
In Christian charts, or Jewish, roll'd;
Whom Israel's or whom Albion's swains
Have canoniz'd in mighty strains!
See, led by Abraham's lordly hand,
The tempting Foundress of her land!
Here, lo! the Star with Nassau seen:
There, proud Ahasuerus' Queen!
Anne Bullen this—too lovely rose!
Who views her form, shall feel her woes:
That's She, in Egypt's grand attire,
Who tun'd the Hebrew Monarch's lyre!
Such were the high-rais'd Nymphs, whom Fate
Gave to subdue the Wise or Great;
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Fame's never dying heralds blaze:
Yet, sparkling Princess, could I be,
As Time to them, most just to Thee;
O'er theirs thy brighter name should last,
And present glories cloud the past.
At length, Hope bleeding now no more,
A virtuous Empire's danger o'er,
Come, Goddess, forth! and with thee bring
The gloss that mocks the cygnet's wing!
The mien, t' Immortals that belongs:
The voice, more sweet than sky-lark songs!
The face, that, innocent of wiles,
Like Hebe blooms, like Venus smiles.
A virtuous Empire's danger o'er,
Come, Goddess, forth! and with thee bring
The gloss that mocks the cygnet's wing!
The mien, t' Immortals that belongs:
The voice, more sweet than sky-lark songs!
The face, that, innocent of wiles,
Like Hebe blooms, like Venus smiles.
Yet first awhile the long'd-for day,
The Virgin's jubilee, delay;
Nor gladness yet through worlds inspire;
Nor yet re-wake great Vario's lyre:
First with thy God the covenant seal;
At his all-hallow'd altars kneel;
Devoutly, sweetly, charming there,
Lift to the Mercy-seat thy prayer;
There praise the Power, that propt the life
Of Gotha's Sister, Frederick's Wife!
In battle cover'd George's head,
Through whom the Belgic surges fled:
Who quell'd Sedition's angry dart,
And now o'erjoys thy Prince's heart.
The Virgin's jubilee, delay;
Nor gladness yet through worlds inspire;
Nor yet re-wake great Vario's lyre:
First with thy God the covenant seal;
At his all-hallow'd altars kneel;
Devoutly, sweetly, charming there,
Lift to the Mercy-seat thy prayer;
There praise the Power, that propt the life
Of Gotha's Sister, Frederick's Wife!
In battle cover'd George's head,
Through whom the Belgic surges fled:
Who quell'd Sedition's angry dart,
And now o'erjoys thy Prince's heart.
| The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted | |