Not for herself my Mufe is griev'd, She never afk'd, nor e'er receiv'd, One ministerial boon. Hath fome peculiar ftrange offence, Uncheck'd by fhame, unaw'd by dread, The evil angel stalks at large, The good fubmits, refigns his charge, The fame fad morn to church and state, (So for our fins 'twas fix'd by fate) A double ftroke was giv❜n; The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the works of a late Lord, and the death of Mr. Pelham. Black Black as the whirlwinds of the north, By angels watch'd in Eden's bow'rs, The hell-born train of mortal fin, The heav'nly guards withdrew. Look down, much honour'd shade, below, Still let thy pity aid our woe; Stretch out thy healing hand; Resume those feelings, which on earth Search with thy more than mortal eye, See if thy unfufpecting heart, In some for truth mistook not art, For principle, profeffion, From From thefe, the pests of human kind, Whom royal bounty cannot bind, Unmask their treach'ry to his fight, If fuch his truft and honours fhare, Each venom'd heart difclofe; On Him, on Him, our all depends, Whoe'er fhall at the helm prefide, Still let thy prudence be his guide, To stem the troubled wave; But chiefly whisper in his ear, "That GEORGE is open, just, sincere, "And dares to fcorn a knave." No selfish views t' opprefs mankind, To purchase fame with blood I Thy Thy bofom glow'd with purer heat; To hear no lawless paffion's call, To serve thy King, yet feel for all, Wisdom with gen❜rous love took part, Unite, ye kindred fons of worth; VERSE S Written at MONTAUBAN in FRANCE, 1750. By the Rev. Mr. JOSEPH WARton. ARN, how delightful wind thy willow'd waves, TAR But ah! they fructify a land of slaves! In vain thy bare-foot, fun-burnt peasants hide With luscious grapes yon' hill's romantic fide; No cups nectareous fhall their toils repay, The priest's, the foldier's, and the fermier's prey: Alluding to the perfecutions of the proteftants, and the wars of the Saracens, carried on in the Southern provinces of France. By |