AN
EPISTLE
,
[
TO
Mrs.
WALLUP
]
&c.
MADAM
,
What
Muse
can
speak
,
what
Pen
display
Britannia's
Pomp
upon
that
happy
Day
,
When
Royal
George
our
City
dain'd
to
Grace
,
And
from
impending
Slav'ry
freed
her
Race
?
His
grateful
Subjects
round
his
Chariot
hung
,
Long
live
the
King
was
heard
from
ev'ry
Tongue
:
Transporting
Raptures
all
their
Sense
employ
,
And
Babes
unborn
,
by
Instinct
leap'd
for
Joy
;
Ev'n
those
whom
Death
stood
ready
to
release
,
Blest
the
Deliverer
,
and
dy'd
in
Peace
.
As
Roman
Sages
charg'd
their
Sons
to
tell
That
at
their
Deaths
they
left
Augustus
well
:
So
shall
those
Patriots
who
with
Care
and
Toil
,
Rescu'd
the
Charters
of
our
British
Isle
,
At
Fate's
first
Summons
willingly
obey
,
And
to
their
weeping
Wives
and
Children
say
,
Cease
,
cease
your
Tears
,
no
more
of
Grief
be
shown
,
We
leave
you
Free
,
and
George
upon
the
Throne
.
This
Madam
,
we
may
write
,
but
who
can
tell
What
mighty
Transports
in
your
Bosom
dwell
,
To
see
the
Scepter
by
that
Hero
sway'd
,
To
whom
long
since
your
ardent
Vows
were
paid
.
When
your
unweary'd
Zeal
thrice
crost
the
Sea
,
Nor
fear'd
what
Dangers
might
obstruct
your
Way
:
Not
led
by
Int'rest
,
or
Intrigues
of
State
,
(
Avarice
and
Pride
!
Faults
of
the
meanly
great
:
)
No
private
End
by
you
was
understood
,
But
all
your
Wishes
were
the
Publick
Good
.
Oh
may
the
Princess
you
so
oft
have
prais'd
,
And
great
Ideas
of
her
Vertues
rais'd
,
Give
you
that
Preference
due
to
your
Desert
,
And
place
you
foremost
in
her
Royal
Heart
.
The
Princess
,
said
I
?
Oh
that
charming
Name
,
She
comes
!
Who
can
th'
exulting
Joy
sustain
?
The
Heroes
did
such
mighty
Transports
give
,
We
scarce
can
view
the
Heroine
,
and
Live
.
Oh
Happy
Britain
!
Oh
propitious
Day
!
That
shall
this
Lady
to
thy
Isle
convey
:
From
her
may
such
a
Race
of
Princes
flow
,
'Till
Heralds
barren
of
new
Titles
grow
.
Come
Royal
Dame
,
and
bless
our
longing
Eyes
,
Fulfil
our
Hopes
,
consummate
all
our
Joys
.
Your
Glorious
Offspring
let
Britannia
see
,
And
make
her
happy
,
as
you
made
her
free
.
Those
Babes
are
for
our
Church's
Safety
given
,
The
Darling
Hostages
'twixt
her
and
Heaven
.
Britannia's
Court
shall
in
full
Lustre
shine
,
As
heretofore
in
Bright
Maria's
time
:
Maria's
Name
still
sounds
in
British
Ears
,
Like
Musick
tun'd
from
the
Celestial
Spheres
.
With
thousand
Beauties
was
Maria
grac'd
,
A
thousand
Vertues
in
her
Soul
were
plac'd
;
Such
was
her
Form
,
and
such
her
mighty
Mind
,
That
scarcely
Angels
cou'd
be
more
refin'd
:
She
wanted
only
Immortality
,
To
make
the
Angel
with
the
Saint
agree
.
The
Sun
which
set
in
fair
Maria's
Eyes
,
In
Carolina's
does
triumphant
rise
,
In
her
you'll
find
Maria's
Loss
retriev'd
,
That
Charming
Queen
for
whom
so
much
we
griev'd
.
As
when
some
happy
Nuptial
Knot's
unty'd
,
And
Death
uncourteous
does
the
Pair
divide
,
The
poor
Wife
,
o'erpower'd
by
the
Stroke
of
Fate
,
Mourns
like
a
Turtle
her
departed
Mate
,
Stretch'd
on
the
Breathless
Trunk
her
Tears
she
vents
,
And
utters
to
the
Lifeless
Clay
Complaints
:
To
draw
her
thence
all
Arguments
are
try'd
,
Nothing
can
raise
her
from
her
Husband's
Side
,
Till
some
one
Friend
more
lucky
than
the
rest
,
Lays
the
surviving
Infant
on
her
Breast
:
She
views
each
Feature
,
dwells
on
ev'ry
Grace
,
And
in
the
Child
surveys
the
Father's
Face
;
Then
the
dear
Relick
snatches
to
her
Arms
,
And
all
the
Mother
instantly
returns
.
So
,
when
the
beautious
,
fair
Maria
dy'd
,
Sorrow
o'erwhelm'd
us
like
a
rising
Tyde
,
Till
Godlike
WILLIAM
studying
our
Repose
,
Fix'd
the
Succession
,
and
reliev'd
our
Woes
.
Whate'er
th'
Almighty
gives
to
bless
Mankind
,
We
,
or
in
Spring
,
or
in
the
Autumn
find
,
The
Spring
revives
what
Winter
has
decay'd
,
And
in
New
Livery
all
the
Earth's
array'd
.
But
tho'
the
Spring
a
Thousand
Sweets
disclose
,
Th'
Indian
Jessamine
,
and
Syrian
Rose
;
The
various
Product
of
each
fertile
Soil
,
'Tis
the
Rich
Autumn
Crowns
the
Peasant's
Toil
.
So
,
tho'
we
see
a
New-Created
Spring
,
And
ev'ry
Joy
reviving
in
the
KING
;
YOU
in
the
PRINCESS
will
our
Harvest
bring
.
FINIS
.