The Poetical Works of Thomas Tickell

Front matter

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

The Life of the Author

THE LIFE OF

THOMAS TICKELL.

This gentleman, well known to the world by the friendship and intimacy which subsisted between him and Mr. Addison, was the son of the Rev. Richard Tickell, and was born in 1686 at Bridekirk in Cumberland. In 1701 he was sent to Queen's College Oxford, in 1708 he was made Master of Arts, and in 1710 was chosen Fellow, for which, as he did not comply with the statutes by taking orders, he obtained a dispensation from the Crown. In the 1726 he married at Dublin, and in that year vacated his Fellowship.

While he was at the university he wrote some beautiful verses addressed to Mr. Addison on his opera of Rosamond, which so effectually recommended him to that gentleman that he held him in esteem ever afterwards. He produced another piece of the same kind on Cato, but not with equal happiness.

When Mr. Addison went into Ireland as Secretary to Lord Sunderland he carried Tickell with him and employed him in business; and when he afterwards in the 1717 rose to be Secretary of State he conferred the place of Undersecretary on Mr. Tickell. On Mr. Addison's resigning the Secretaryship, Mr. Craggs who succeeded him continued Tickell in his place, which he held till that gentleman's death.

Mr. Addison being a diffident man consulted with his friends about disposing of such places as were immediately dependant on him, and communicated to Sir Richard Steele his design of preferring Mr. Tickell to be his Undersecretary, which Sir Richard warmly opposed, considering Tickell as a petulant man. He observed that Tickell was of a temper too enterprising to be governed, and as he had no opinion of his honour he did not know what might be the consequence if by insinuation and flattery, or by bolder means, he ever had an opportunity of raising himself. It holds pretty generally true that diffident people, under the appearance of distrusting their own opinions, are frequently positive, and though they pursue their resolutions with trembling, they seldom fail to pursue them. Mr. Addison had a little of this temper; he could not be persuaded to set aside Mr. Tickell, nor even had caution to conceal from him Sir Richard's opinion. This produced a great animosity between Sir Richard and Tickell which subsisted during their lives.

Mr. Tickell, in his life of Addison, prefix'd to his own edition of that great man's works, (for when Addison died he left him the charge of publishing his works) throws out some unmannerly reflections against Sir Richard, who was at that time in Scotland as one of the Commissioners on the forfeited estates. Upon Sir Richard's return to London he dedicates to Mr. Congreve Addison's comedy called The Drum- mer, in which he takes occasion very smartly to retort upon Tickell, and clears himself of the imputation laid to his charge, namely that of valuing himself upon Mr. Addison's papers in The Spectator. It does not appear that Mr Tickell was in any respect ungrateful to Mr. Addison, to whom he owed his promotion; on the contrary he embraced every opportunity to celebrate him, which he always performed with so much zeal and earnestness that he seems to have retained the most lasting sense of his patron's favours. His verses on Rosamond are strikingly beautiful, and his Poem to the Earl of Warwick on the Death of Mr. Addison is extremely pathetick.

About the 1713 Mr. Tickell published The Prospect of Peace, addressed to his Excellency the Lord Privy Seal, which met with so favourable reception from the publick that six editions were speedily sold. Upon this poem Mr. Addison in The Spectator has bestowed many encomiums. The sentiments are natural and obvious, but no way extraordinary. It is an assemblage of pretty notions poetically expressed, but conducted with no kind of art, and altogether without a plan.

The Royal Progress Mr. Tickell meant as a compliment to George I. on his arrival in the British dominions. This poem is mentioned in The Spectator in opposition to such performances as are generally written in a swelling style, and in which the bombast is mistaken for the sublime.

His Imitation of The Prophecy of Nereus was written about the year 1715, and was intended as a ridicule upon the Earl of Marr's enterprise, which he prophesies will be crushed by the Duke of Argyle.

The Epistle from a Lady in England to a Gentleman at Avignon stands high among party poems. It is written in the manner of a lady to a gentleman, whose principles obliged him to be an exile with the Royal Wanderer. The great propension of the Jacobites to place confidence in imaginary means, and to construe all extraordinary appearances into ominous signs of the restoration of their king is happily touched. Of this piece five editions were sold.

Kensington Garden is the longest of our Author's poems. The fiction is compounded partly of Grecian deities and partly of Gothick Fairies. The versification is harmonious, and the language elegant.

Our Author's translation of the first book of The Iliad was published much about the same time of Mr. Pope's; but it will not bear a comparison; and Mr. Tickell cannot receive a greater injury than to have his verses placed in contradistinction to Pope's. Mr. Melmouth, in his Letters published under the name of Fitzosborne, has produced some parellel passages little to the advantage of Mr. Tickell, who if he fell greatly short of the elegance and beauty of Pope, has yet much exceeded Congreve in what he has attempted of Homer. Addison declared both versions to be good, but gave the preference to Tickell's. Sir Richard Steele, in his Dedication of The Drummer to Mr. Congreve, gives it as his opinion that Addison was himself the author. Pope also considered Addison as the writer of Tickell's version. These translations published at the same time were certainly meant as rivals to one another. We cannot convey a more adequate idea of this than in the words of Mr. Pope, in a Letter to James Craggs, Esq. dated 15th July 1715. "Sir, They tell me the busy part of the nation are not more busy about Whig and Tory than these idle fellows of the feather about Mr. Tickell's and my translation. I, like the Tories, have the Town in general, that is, the mob, on my side; but it is usual with the smaller party to make up in industry what they want in number, and that is the case with the little senate of Cato. However, if our principles be well considered I must appear a brave Whig and Mr. Tickell a rank Tory. I translated Homer for the publick in general, he to gratify the inordinate desires of one man only. We have it seems a great Turk in poetry who can never bear a brother on the throne; and has his mutes too, a set of meddlers, winkers, and whisperers, whose business it is to strangle all other offsprings of wit in their birth. The new translator of Homer is the humblest slave he has, that is to say, his first minister: let him receive the honours he gives me, but receive them with fear and trembling: let him be proud of the approbation of his absolute lord; I appeal to the people as my rightful judges and masters; and if they are not inclined to condemn me I fear no arbitrary high-flying proceeding from the court faction at Button's. But after all I have said of this great man there is no rupture between us; we are each of us so civil and obliging that neither thinks he is obliged; and I for my part treat with him as we do with the Grand Monarch, who has too many great qualities not to be respected, though we know he watches any occasion to oppress us."

Pope did not long consider Tickell as the translator of the first Iliad. He suspected that version to have been Addison's; and the reasons for his suspicion we shall literally transcribe from Mr. Spence's Collection. "There had been a coldness between Mr. Addison and me for some time, and we had not been in company together for a good while any where but at Button's Coffehouse, where I used to see him almost every day. On his meeting me there one day in particular he took me aside, and said he should be glad to dine with me at such a tavern if I staid till those people were gone (Budgell and Philips.) We went accordingly, and after dinner Mr. Addison said that he had wanted for some time to talk with me; that his friend Tickell had formerly whilst at Oxford translated the first book of The Iliad; that he designed to print it, and had desired him to look it over; that he must therefore beg that I would not desire him to look over my first book, because if he did it would have the air of double-dealing. I assured him that I did not at all take it ill of Mr. Tickell that he was going to publish his translation; that he certainly had as much right to translate any author as myself, and that publishing both was entering on a fair stage. I then added that I would not desire him to look over my first book of The Iliad, because he had looked over Mr. Tickell's, but could wish to have the benefit of his observations on my second, which I had then finished, and which Mr. Tickell had not touched upon. Accordingly I sent him the second book the next morning, and Mr. Addison a few days after returned it with very high commendations. Soon after it was generally known that Mr. Tickell was publishing the first book of The Iliad I met Dr. Young in the street, and upon our falling into that subject the Doctor expressed a great deal of surprise at Tickell's having had such a translation so long by him. He said that it was inconceivable to him, and that there must be some mistake in the matter; that each used to communicate to the other whatever verses they wrote, even to the least things; that Tickell could not have been busied in so long a work there without his knowing something of the matter; and that he had never heard a single word of it till on this occasion. This surprise of Dr. Young, together with what Steele has said against Tickell in relation to this affair, make it highly probable that there was some underhand dealing in that business; and indeed Tickell himself, who is a very fair worthy man, has since in a manner as good as owned it to me. Mr. Pope.——When it was introduced into a conversation between Mr. Tickell and Mr. Pope by a third person, Tickell did not deny it, which, considering his honour and zeal for his departed friend, was the same as owning it." Upon these suspicions Pope always in his Art of Sinking quotes this book as the work of Addison.

In June 1724 Mr. Tickell was appointed Secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland, a place of great honour, and which he held till his death, which happened at Bath on the 23d of April 1740.

Mr. Tickell had a happy talent in versification, in which he much exceeds Addison, and is inferiour to few of the English poets, Dryden and Pope excepted; but as there appears no great invention in his works, if he cannot be placed in the first rank of poets, yet from the beauty of his numbers, and the real poetry which enriched his imagination, he has at least an unexceptionable claim to the second. To him cannot be refused a high place among the minor poets; nor should it pass unnoticed that he was a contributor to The Spectator. As to his personal character, he is said to have been a man of gay conversation, at least a temperate lover of wine and company, and in his domestick relations without censure.

To his Excellency the Lord Privy Seal, on the Prospect of Peace

MISCELLANIES.

TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE LORD PRIVY SEAL,

ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE.

"——sacerdos Fronde super Mitram, & felici comptus Oliva." VIRG.

TO THE LORD PRIVY SEAL.

Contending kings and fields of death too long Have been the subject of the British song. Who hath not read of fam'd Ramillia's plain, Bavaria's fall, and Danube chok'd with slain? Exhausted themes! a gentler note I raise, And sing returning Peace in softer lays. Their fury quell'd, and martial rage allay'd, I wait our heroes in the sylvan shade. Disbanding hosts are imag'd to my mind, And warring pow'rs in friendly leagues combin'd, While ease and pleasure make the nations smile, And Heav'n and Anna bless Britannia's isle. Well sends our queen her mitred Bristol forth, For early counsels fam'd and long-try'd worth, Who thirty rolling years had oft' withheld The Swede and Saxon from the dusty field, Completely form'd to heal the Christian wounds, To name the kings, and give each kingdom bounds,

The face of ravag'd Nature to repair, By leagues to soften earth, and Heav'n by pray'r, To gain by love where rage and slaughter fail, And make the crosier o'er the sword prevail. So when great Moses with Jehovah's wand Had scatter'd plagues o'er stubborn Pharaoh's land, Now spread an host of locusts round the shore, Now turn'd Nile's fatt'ning streams to putrid gore, Plenty and gladness mark'd the priest of God, And sudden almonds shot from Aaron's rod. O Thou! from whom these bounteous blessings flow, To whom as chief the hopes of Peace we owe, (For next to thee, the man whom kings contend To style companion, and to make their friend, Great Strafford! rich in ev'ry courtly grace, With joyful pride accepts the second place) From Britain's isle and Isis' sacred spring One hour, oh! listen while the Muses sing. Tho' ministers of mighty monarchs wait With beating hearts to learn their masters' fate, One hour forbear to speak thy queen's commands, Nor think the world thy charge neglected stands; The blissful prospects in my verse display'd May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd persuade; Ev'n thou to Peace shalt speedier urge the way, And more be hasten'd by this short delay.

Poem on the Prospect of Peace

POEM ON THE PROSPECT OF PEACE.

The haughty Gaul in ten campaigns o'erthrown Now ceas'd to think the western world his own. Oft' had he mourn'd his boasting leaders bound, And his proud bulwarks smoking on the ground. In vain with pow'rs renew'd he fill'd the plain, Made tim'rous vows and brib'd the saints in vain; As oft his legions did the fight decline, Lurk'd in the trench, and sculk'd behind the line. Before his eyes the fancy'd jav'lin gleams, At feasts he starts, and seems dethron'd in dreams; On glory past reflects with secret pain, On mines exhausted and on millions slain. To Briton's queen the sceptred suppliant bends, To her his crowns and infant race commends, Who grieves her fame with Christian blood to buy, Nor asks for glory at a price so high. At her decree the war suspended stands, And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands; Their open brows no threat'ning frowns disguise, But gentler passions sparkle in their eyes! The Gauls, who never in their courts could find Such temper'd fire with manly beauty join'd, Doubt if they're those whom dreadful to the view In forms so fierce their fearful fancies drew, At whose dire names ten thousand widows prest Their helpless orphans clinging to the breast.

In silent rapture each his foe surveys; They vow firm friendship and give mutual praise. Brave minds howe'er at war are secret friends; Their gen'rous discord with the battle ends; In Peace they wonder whence dissension rose, And ask how Souls so like could e'er be foes. Methinks I hear more friendly shouts rebound, And social clarions mix their sprightly sound; The British flags are furl'd, her troops disband, And scatter'd armies seek their native land. The hardy vet'ran proud of many a scar, The manly charms and honours of the war, Who hop'd to share his friends' illustrious doom, And in the battle find a soldier's tomb, Leans on his spear to take his farewell view, And sighing bids the glorious camp adieu. Ye gen'rous Fair! receive the brave with smiles; O'erpay their sleepless nights and crown their toils: Soft beauty is the gallant soldier's due; For you they conquer and they bleed for you. In vain proud Gaul with boastful Spain conspires When English valour English beauty fires. The nations dread your eyes, and kings despair Of chiefs so brave till they have nymphs so fair. See the fond wife, in tears of transport drown'd, Hugs her rough lord, and weeps o'er ev'ry wound, Hangs on the lips that fields of blood relate, And smiles or trembles at his various fate.

Near the full bowl he draws the fancy'd line, And marks feign'd trenches in the flowing wine, Then sets the invested fort before her eyes, And mines that whirl'd battalions to the skies; His little list'ning progeny turn pale, And beg again to hear the dreadful tale. Such dire achievements sings the bard that tells Of palfrey'd dames, bold knights, and magick spells, Where whole brigades one champion's arms o'erthrow, And cleave a giant at a random blow, Slay paynims vile that force the fair, and tame The goblin's fury and the dragon's flame. Our eager youth to distant nations run To visit fields their valiant fathers won; From Flandria's shore their country's same they trace, Till far Germania shews her blasted face. Th' exulting Briton asks his mournful guide Where his hard fate the loft Bavaria try'd, Where Stepney grav'd the stone to Anna's fame? He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar name. Here fled the Household, there did Tallard yield, Here Marlb'rough turn'd the fortune of the field: On those steep banks near Danube's raging flood The Gauls thrice started back and trembling stood: When Churchill's arm perceiv'd they stood not long, But plung'd amidst the waves a desp'rate throng! Crowds whelm'd on crowds dash'd wide the wat'ry bed, And drove the current to its distant head.

As when by Raphael's or by Kneller's hands A warlike courser on the canvass stands, Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore, Or set young Ammon on the Granick shore, If chance a gen'rous steed the work behold, He snorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold; So Hockster seen tumult'ous passions roll, And hints of glory fire the Briton's soul, In fancy'd fights he sees the troops engage, And all the tempest of the battle rage. Charm me, ye Pow'rs! with scenes less nobly bright; Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious Muse delight, Content to see the honours of the field By ploughshares levell'd or in flow'rs conceal'd. O'er shatter'd walls may creeping ivy twine, And grass luxuriant clothe the harmless mine; Tame flocks ascend the breach without a wound, Or crop the bastion, now a fruitful ground, While shepherds sleep along the rampart laid, Or pipe beneath the formidable shade. Who was the man, oblivion blast his name, Torn out and blotted from the lift of Fame! Who fond of lawless rule and proudly brave First sunk the filial subject to a slave, His neighbours' realms by frauds unkingly gain'd, In guiltless blood the sacred ermine stain'd, Laid schemes for death, to slaughter turn'd his heart, And fitted murder to the rules of art?

Ah! curst Ambition! to thy lures we owe All the great ills that mortals bear below; Curst by the hind when to the spoil he yields His year's whole sweat and vainly ripen'd fields; Curst by the maid torn from her lover's side When left a widow tho' not yet a bride; By mothers curst when floods of tears they shed, And scatter useless roses on the dead! Oh, sacred Bristol! then what dangers prove The arts thou smil'st on with paternal love! Then mix'd with rubbish by the brutal foes In vain the marble breathes the canvass glows; To shades obscure the glitt'ring sword pursues The gentle poet and defenceless Muse: A voice like thine alone might then assuage The warriour's fury and control his rage; To hear thee speak might the fierce Vandal stand, And fling the brandish'd sabre from his hand. Far hence be driv'n to Scythia's stormy shore The drum's harsh musick and the cannon's roar. Let grim Bellona haunt the lawless plain Where Tartar clans and grisly Cossacks reign; Let the steel'd Turk be deaf to matrons' cries, See virgins ravish'd with relentless eyes, To death grey heads and smiling infants doom, Nor spare the promise of the pregnant womb, O'er wasted kingdoms spread his wide command, The savage lord of an unpeopled land!

Her guiltless glory just Britannia draws From pure religion and impartial laws; To Europe's wounds a mother's aid she brings, And holds in equal scales the rival kings: Her gen'rous sons in choicest gifts abound, Alike in arms alike in arts renown'd. As when sweet Venus (so the fable sings) Awak'd by Nereids from the ocean springs, With smiles she sees the threat'ning billows rise, Spreads smooth the surge and clears the lowring skies, Light o'er the deep, with flutt'ring Cupids crown'd, >>> The pearly conch and silver turtles bound, Her tresses shed ambrosial odours round. Amidst the world of waves so stands serene Britannia's isle, the Ocean's stately queen! In vain the nations have conspir'd her fall, Her trench the sea, and fleets her floating wall: Defenceless barks, her pow'rful navy near, Have only waves and hurricanes to fear. What bold invader or what land opprest Hath not her anger quell'd, her aid redrest! Say where have e'er her Union Crosses sail'd But much her arms her justice more prevail'd! Her labours are to plead th' Almighty's cause, Her pride to teach th' untam'd Barbarian laws. Who conquers wins by brutal strength the prize, But it is a godlike work to civilize. Have we forgot how from great Russia's throne The king whose pow'r half Europe's regions own,

Whose sceptre waving with one shout rush forth In swarms the harness'd millions of the north, Thro' realms of ice pursu'd his tedious way To court our friendship and our fame survey! Hence the rich prize of useful arts he bore, And round his empire spread the learned store: (T' adorn old realms is more than new to raise; His country's parent is a monarch's praise.) His hands now march in just array to war, And Caspian gulfs unusual navies bear; With Runick lays Smolensko's forests ring, And wond'ring Volga hears the Muses sing. Did not the painted kings of India greet Our Queen, and lay their sceptres at her feet? Chiefs who full bowls of hostile blood had quafft, Fam'd for the jav'lin and envenom'd shaft, Whose haughty brows made savages adore, Nor bow'd to less than stars or sun before Her pitying smile accepts their suppliant claim, And adds four monarchs to the Christian name. Blest use of pow'r! O virtuous pride in kings! And like his bounty whence dominion springs! Which, o'er new worlds makes Heav'n's indulgence shine, And ranges myriads under laws divine! Well bought with all that those sweet regions hold, With groves of spices and with mines of gold. Fearless our merchant now pursues his gain, And roams securely o'er the boundless main.

Now o'er his head the polar Bear he spies, And freezing spangles of the Lapland skies; Now swells his canvass to the sultry line, With glitt'ring spoils where Indian grottoes shine, Where fumes of incense glad the southern seas, And wafted citron scents the balmy breeze. Here nearer suns prepare the rip'ning gem To grace great Anne's imperial diadem; And here the ore whose melted mass shall yield On faithful coins each memorable field, Which mix'd with medals of immortal Rome May clear disputes and teach the times to come. In circling beams shall godlike Anna glow, And Churchill's sword hang o'er the prostrate foe; In comely wounds shall bleeding worthies stand, Webb's firm platoon and Lumley's faithful band; Bold Mordaunt in Iberian trophies drest, And Campbell's Dragon on his dauntless breast; Great Ormond's deeds on Vigo's spoils enroll'd, And Guiscard's knife on Harley's Chili gold: And if the Muse, O Bristol! might decree, >>> Here Granville noted by the lyre should be, The lyre for Granville and the cross for thee. Such are the honours grateful Britain pays, So patriot's merit, and so monarchs praise: O'er distant times such records shall prevail When English numbers antiquated fail: A trifling song the Muse can only yield, And sooth her soldiers panting from the field;

To sweet retirements see them safe convey'd, And raise their battles in the rural shade. From fields of death to Woodstock's peaceful glooms, (The poet's haunt) Britannia's hero comes— Begin, my Muse! and softly touch the string; Here Henry lov'd and Chaucer learnt to sing. Hail, fabled Grotto! hail, Elysian Soil! Thou fairest spot of fair Britannia's isle! Where kings of old conceal'd forgot the throne, And beauty was content to shine unknown, Where Love and War by turns pavilions rear, And Henry's bow'rs near Blenheim's dome appear, The weary'd champion lull in soft alcoves, The noblest boast of thy romantick groves. Oft' if the Muse presage shall he be seen By Rosamonda fleeting o'er the green, In dreams be hail'd by heroes' mighty shades, And hear old Chaucer warble thro' the glades; O'er the fam'd echoing vaults his name shall bound, And hill to hill reflect the fav'rite sound. Here, here at least thy love for arms give o'er, Nor one world conquer'd fondly wish for more; Vice of great souls alone! O thirst of fame! The Muse admires it while she strives to blame. Thy toils be now to chase the bounding deer, Or view the coursers stretch in wild career. This lovely scene shall sooth thy soul to rest, And wear each dreadful image from thy breast;

With pleasure by thy conquests shalt thou see Thy queen triumphant and all Europe free: No cares henceforth shall thy repose destroy, But what thou giv'st the world thyself enjoy. Sweet Solitude! when life's gay hours are past Howe'er we range in thee we fix at last: Tost thro' tempest'ous seas (the voyage o'er) Pale we look back and bless thy friendly shore: Our own strict judges our past life we scan, And ask if glory hath enlarg'd the span? If bright the prospect we the grave defy, Trust future ages, and contented die. When strangers from far distant climes shall come To view the pomp of this triumphant dome, Where rear'd aloft dissembled trophies stand, And breathing labours of the sculptor's hand, Where Kneller's art shall paint the flying Gaul, And Bourbon's woes shall fill the story'd wall, Heirs of thy blood shall o'er their bounteous board Fix Europe's guard, thy monumental sword, Banners that oft' have wav'd on conquer'd walls, And trumps that drown'd the groans of gasping Gauls; Fair dames shall oft' with curious eye explore The costly robes that slaughter'd gen'rals wore, Rich trappings from the Danube's whirlpools brought, (Hesperian nuns the gorgeous broid'ry wrought) Belts stiff with gold, the Boian horseman's pride, And Gaul's fair flow'rs in human crimson dy'd.

Of Churchill's race perhaps some lovely boy Shall mark the burnish'd steel that hangs on high, Shall gaze transported on its glitt'ring charms, And reach it struggling with unequal arms, By signs the drum's tumult'ous sound request, Then seek in starts the hushing mother's breast. So in the painter's animated frame, Where Mars embraces the soft Paphian dame, The little Loves in sport his falchion wield, Or join their strength to heave his pond'rous shield; One strokes the plume in Tityon's gore imbru'd, And one the spear that reeks with Typhon's blood, Another's infant brows the helm sustain, He nods his crest, and frights the shrieking train. Thus the rude tempest of the field o'erblown Shall whiter rounds of smiling years roll on, Our victors blest in peace forget their wars, Enjoy past dangers and absolve the stars. But, oh! what sorrows shall bedew your urns, Ye honour'd Shades! whom widow'd Albion mourns? If your thin forms yet discontented moan, And haunt the mangled mansions once your own, Behold what flow'rs the pious Muses strow, And tears which in the midst of triumph flow; Cypress and bays your envy'd brows surround, >>> Your names the tender matron's heart shall wound, And the soft maid grow pensive at the sound!

Accept, great Anne! the tears their mem'ry draws Who nobly perish'd in their sov'reign's cause; For thou in pity bidst the war give o'er, Mournst thy slain heroes, nor wilt venture more. A Vast price of blood on each victorious day! (But Europe's freedom doth that price repay.) Lamented triumphs! when one breath must tell That Marlb'rough conquer'd and that Dormer fell. Great Queen! whose name strikes haughty monarchs pale, On whose just sceptre hangs Europa's scale, Whose arm like Mercy wounds, decides like Fate, On whose decree the nations anxious wait; From Albion's cliffs thy wide extended hand Shall o'er the main to far Peru command; So vast a track whose wide domain shall run Its circling skies shall see no setting sun! Thee, thee an hundred languages shall claim, And savage Indians swear by Anna's name; The line and poles shall own thy rightful sway, And thy commands the sever'd globe obey. Round the vast ball thy new dominions chain The wat'ry kingdoms and control the main; Magellan's straits to Gibraltar they join, Across the seas a formidable line. The sight of adverse Gaul we fear no more, But pleas'd see Dunkirk now a guiltless shore.

In vain great Neptune tore the narrow ground, And meant his waters for Britannia's bound; Her giant Genius takes a mighty stride, And sets his foot beyond th' encroaching tide; On either bank the land its master knows, And in the midst the subject ocean flows. So near proud Rhodes across the raging flood, Stupendous form! the vast Colossus stood, (While at one foot their thronging gallies ride) A whole hour's sail scarce reach'd the further side, Betwixt his brazen thighs in loose array Ten thousand streamers on the billows play. By Harley's counsels Dunkirk now restor'd To Britain's empire owns her ancient lord: In him transfus'd his godlike father reigns, Rich in the blood which swell'd that patriot's veins, Who boldly faithful met his sov'reign's frown, And scorn'd for gold to yield th' important town. His son was born the ravish'd prey to claim, And France still trembles at an Harley's name. A fort so dreadful to our English shore Our fleets scarce fear'd the sands or tempests more, Whose vast expenses to such sums amount, That the tax'd Gaul scarce furnish'd out th' account, Whose walls such bulwarks such vast tow'rs restrain, Its weakest ramparts are the rocks and main. His boast great Louis yields, and cheaply buys Thy friendship, Anna! with the mighty prize.