Now, Nature, be gay
In the pride of thy May,
To court let thy graces repair:
Let Flora bestow
The crown from her brow,
For our brighter Britannia to wear.
V.
Through every language of thy peopled earth,
Far as the fea's or Cæfar's influence goes,
Let thankful nations celebrate his birth,
And blefs the author of the world's repofe.
Let Volga tumbling in cascades,
And Po that glides through poplar fhades,
And Tagus bright in fands of gold,
And Arethufa, rivers old,
Their great deliverer sing.
Not, Danube, thou whofe winding flood
So long has blufh'd with Turkish blood,
To Cæfar fhall refure a ftrain,
Since now thy ftreams without a ftain
Run cryftal as their spring.
CHOR US.
To mighty George, that heals thy wounds,
That names thy kings and marks thy bounds,
The joyful voice, O Europe, raise :
In the great Mediator's praise
Let all thy various tongues combine,
And Britain's feftival be thine.
ODE TO THE THAMES, FOR THE YEAR 1719.
ING of the Floods, whom friendly stars ordain
To fold alternate in thy winding trair,
The lofty palace and the fertile vale;
King of the Floods, Britannia's darling, hail!
Hail with the year so well begun,
And bid his each revolving fun,
Taught by thy ftreams, in smooth fucceffion run.
From thy never-failing urn
Flowers, bloom and fair increafe
With the feafons take their turn;
From thy tributary feas
Tides of various wealth attend thee;
Seas and feasons all befriend thee.
Here on thy banks, to mate the skies,
Augufta's hallow'd domes arise ;
And there thy ample bofom pours
Her numerous fouls and floating towers;
Whofe terrors late to vanquifh'd Spain were known, And Etna fhook with thunder not her own.
Fulleft flags thou dost sustain,
While thy banks confine thy course;
Emblem of our Cæfar's reign,
Mingling clemency and force.
So may'st thou ftill, fecur'd by diftant wars,
Ne'er ftain thy crystal with domestic jars :
As Cæfar's reign, to Britain ever dear,
Shall join with thee to blefs the coming year.
On thy fhady margin,
Care its load discharging,
Is lull'd to gentle rest:
Britain thus difarming,
Nor no more alarming,
Shall fleep on Cæfar's breast.
VII.
Sweet to distress is balmy sleep,
To fleep aufpicious dreams,
Thy meadows, Thames, to feeding sheep,
To thirst, thy filver streams:
More fweet than all, the praise
Of Cæfar's golden days:
Cæfar's praife is sweeter;
Britain's pleasure greater;
Still may Cæfar's reign excel;
Sweet the praife of reigning well.
CHORU S.
Gentle Janus, ever wait,
As now, on Britain's kindeft fate;
Crown all our vows, and all thy gifts beftow;
Till Time no more renews his date,
And Thames forgets to flow.
THE STORY OF GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA. FROM OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, BOOK XIII.
ERE ceas'd the nymph; the fair affembly broke;
The fea-green Nereids to the waves betook :
While Scylla, fearful of the wide-spread main,
Swift to the fafer fhore returns again.
There o'er the fandy margin, unarray'd,
With printlefs footsteps flies the bounding maid;
Or in fome winding creek's fecure retreat
She bathes her weary limbs,and fhuns the noonday's heat,
Her Glaucus faw, as o'er the deep he rode,
New to the feas, and late receiv'd a god.
He faw, and languish'd for the virgin's love,
With many an artful blandifhment he ftrove
Her flight to hinder, and her fears remove.
The more he fues, the more fhe wings her flight,
And nimbly gains a neighbouring mountain's height,
Steep fhelving to the margin of the flood,
A neighbouring mountain bare and woodless stood
Here, by the place fecur'd, her steps she stay'd,
And, trembling ftill, her lover's form furvey'd.
His fhape, his hue, her troubled sense appall,
And dropping locks that o'er his fhoulders fall;
She fees his face divine, and manly brow,
End in a fish's wreathy tail below:
She fees, and doubts within her anxious mind,
Whether he comes of god, or monster kind.
This Glaucus foon perceiv'd; and, Oh! forbear
(His hand fupporting on a rock lay near)
Forbear, he cry'd, fond maid, this needlefs fear.
Nor fish am I, nor monster of the main,
But equal with the watery gods I reign;
Nor Proteus nor Palæmon me excell,
Nor he whose breath inspires the founding thell.
My birth, 'tis true, I owe to mortal race,
And I myself but late a mortal was:
Ev'n then in feas, and feas alone, I joy'd;
The feas my hours, and all my cares, employ'd.
In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew ;
Now skilfully the flender line I threw,
And filent fate the moving float to view.
Not far from shore, there lies a verdant mead,
With herbage half, and half with water spread :
There, nor the horned heifers browsing stray,
Nor fhaggy kids nor wanton lambkins play;
There, nor the founding bees their nectar cull,
Nor rural fwains their genial chaplets pull;
Nor flocks, nor herds, nor mowers, haunt the place,
crop the flowers, or cut the bushy grafs :
Thither, fure firft of living race came I,
And fat by chance, my dropping nets to dry.
My fcaly prize, in order all difplay'd,
By number on the greenfword there I lay'd,
My captives, whom or in my nets I took,
Or hung unwary on my wily hook.
Strange to behold! yet what avails a lye?
I faw them bite the grafs, as I fate by;
Then fudden darting o'er the verdant plain,
They spread their finns, as in their native main:
I paus'd, with wonder ftruck, while all my prey
Left their new mafter, and regain'd the fea.
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