The squirrel here his hoard provides,

Aware of wintry storms,
And woodpeckers explore the sides

Of rugged oaks for worms.

The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn

With frictions of her fleece; And here I wander eve and morn,

Like her, a friend to peace.

Ah !—I could pity thee exiled

From this secure retreat— I would not lose it to be styled

The happiest of the great.

But thou canst taste no calm delight;

Thy pleasure is to show Thy magnanimity in fight,

Thy prowess—therefore, go—

I care not whether east or north,

So I no more may find thee;
The angry Muse thus sings thee forth,

And claps the gate behind thee.



I Ransacked, for a theme of song,

Much ancient chronicle, and long;

I read of bright embattled fields,

Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,

Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast

Prowess to dissipate a host;

Through tomes of fable and of dream

I sought an eligible theme,

But none I found, or found them shared

Already by some happier bard.

To modern times, with truth to guide
My busy search I next applied;
Here cities won and fleets dispersed
Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed,
Deeds of unperishing renown,
Our fathers' triumphs and our own.

Thus as the bee, from bank to bower,
Assiduous sips at every flower,
But rests on none till that be found
Where most nectareous sweets abound,
So I, from theme to theme display'd
In many a page historic stray'd,
Siege after siege, fight after fight,

Contemplating with small delight
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view),
Till, settling on the current year,
I found the far-sought treasure near.
A theme for poetry divine,
A theme to ennoble even mine,
In memorable Eighty-nine.

The spring of Eighty-nine shall be
An eera cherish'd long by me,
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of Eighty-eight,
That threaten'd England's trembling state
With loss of what she least could spare,
Her sovereign's tutelary care,
One breath of Heaven, that cried—Restore!
Chased, never to assemble more:
And far the richest crown on earth,
If valued by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign,
Sat fast on George's brows again.

Then peace and joy again possess'd
Our Queen's long-agitated breast;
Such joy and peace as can be known
By sufferers like herself alone,
Who losing, or supposing lost,
The good on earth they valued most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below,

Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!

O Queen of Albion, queen of isles!
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,
The eyes, that never saw thee, shine
With joy not unallied to thine,
Transports not chargeable with art
Illume the land's remotest part,
And strangers to the air of courts,
Both in their toils and at their sports,
The happiness of answer'd prayers,
That gilds thy features, show in theirs.

If they who on thy state attend,
Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,
'Tis but the natural effect
Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than queen
Who is beloved where never seen.



Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer,

In Heaven thy dwelling place, From infants made the public care,

And taught to seek thy face.

Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,

And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play

Thy holy sabbaths more.

Thanks that we hear,—but O impart

To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,

And learn as well as hear.

For if vain thoughts the minds engage

Of older far than we, What hope, that, at our heedless age,

Our minds should e'er be free?

Much hope, if thou our spirits take

Under thy gracious sway,
Who canst the wisest wiser make,

And babes as wise as they.

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows,

A sun that ne'er declines, And be thy mercies shower'd on those

Who placed us where it shines.

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