Though like Flora thou array thee,
Finer than the painted bow;
Carolina fhall repay thee
All thy fweetness, all thy fhow.
VII.
She herself a glory greater
Than thy golden fun discloses;
And her smiling offspring fweeter
Than the bloom of all thy roses.
ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1717.
WINTER! thou hoary venerable fire,
All richly in thy furry mantle clad;
What thoughts of mirth can feeble age infpire,
To make thy careful wrinkled brow fo glad!
Now I fee the reason plain,
Now I fee thy jolly train:
Snowy-headed Winter leads,
Spring and Summer next fucceeds;
Yellow Autumn brings the rear,
Thou art father of the year.
While from the frofty mellow'd earth
Abounding plenty takes her birth,
The confcious fire exulting fees
The feafons fpread their rich increase;
So dufky night and chaos fmil'd
On beauteous form their lovely child.
What blifs thou doft fupply!
The foul brings forth the fair
To deck the changing year.
When our old pleasures die,
Some new one still is nigh;
Oh! fair variety!
Our paffions, like the feafons, turn;
And now we laugh, and now we mourn.
Britannia late opprefs'd with dread,
Hung her declining drooping head:
A better visage now she wears,
And now at once fhe quits her fears :
Strife and war no more she knows,
Rebel fons nor foreign foes.
Safe beneath her mighty master,
In fecurity fhe fits;
Plants her loose foundations fafter,
And her forrows past forgets.
Happy ifle! the care of heaven,
To the guardian hero given,
Unrepining still obey him,
Still with love and duty pay him.
Though he parted from thy fhore,
While contefting kings attend him;
Could he, Britain, give thee more
Than the pledge he left behind him?
ODE TO PEACE, FOR THE YEAR 1718.
HOU faireft, fweetest daughter of the skies, Indulgent, gentle, life-restoring Peace! With what aufpicious beauties doft thou rise, And Britain's new-revolving Janus bless!
Hoary winter fmiles before thee,
Dances merrily along :
Hours and feafons all adore thee,
And for thee are ever young:
Ever, goddess, thus appear,
Ever lead the joyful year.
In thee the night, in thee the day is bleft;
In thee the dearest of the purple east :
'Tis thine immortal pleasures to impart,
Mirth to inspire, and raise the drooping heart:
To thee the pipe and tuneful string belong,
Thou theme eternal for the poet's fong.
Awake the golden lyre,
Ye Heliconian choir;
Swell every note ftill higher,
And melody infpire
At heaven and earth's defire.
Hark, how the founds agree,
With due complacency!
Sweet Peace, 'tis all by thee,
For thou art harmony.
Who, by nature's faireft creatures,
Can defcribe her heavenly features?
What comparison can fit her ?
Sweet are roses, she is sweeter;
Light is good, but Peace is better.
Would you fee her fuch as Jove
Form'd for univerfal love,
Blefs'd by men and gods above?
Would you every feature trace,
Every sweetly smiling grace?
Seek our Carolina's face.
Peace and the are Britain's treasures,
Fruitful in eternal pleasures :
Still their bounty fhall increase us,
Still their finiling offspring blefs us.
Happy day, when each was given
By Cæfar and indulging Heaven.
G
Hail, ye celestial pair!
Still let Britannia be your care,
And Peace and Carolina crown the year.
ODE FOR THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY, 1718.
H touch the ftring, celestial Muse, and say,
Why are peculiar times and seasons bleft?
Is it in Fate, that one distinguish'd day
Should with more hallow'd purple paint the East?
Look on ife and nature's race!
How the careless minutes pafs,
How they wear a common face:
One is what another was!
Till the happy hero's worth
Bid the festival stand forth;
Till the golden light he crown,
Till he mark it for his own.
How had this glorious morning been forgot,
Unthought-of as the things that never were ;
Had not our greatest Cæfar been its lot,
And call'd it from amongst the vulgar year!
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