VERSES ON THE EXPECTED ARRIVAL OF QUEEN CHARLOTTE, IN AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, 1761.

BY —.

YES — every hopeful son of rhyme
 Will surely seize this happy time,
 Vault upon Pegasus's back,
 Now grown an academic hack,
 And sing the beauties of a Queen,
 (Whom, by the by, he has not seen)
 Will swear her eyes are black as jet,
 Her teeth in pearls as coral set,
 Will tell us that the rose has lent
 Her cheek its bloom, her lips its scent,
 That Philomel breaks off her song,
 And listens to her sweeter tongue;
 That Venus and the Graces join'd
 To form this Phoenix of her kind,
 And Pallas undertook to store
 Her mind with Wisdom's chiefest lore;
 Thus form'd, Jove issues a decree
 That George's consort she shall be:
 Then Cupid (for what match is made
 By poets without Cupid's aid?) 
Picks out the swiftest of his darts,
 And pierces instant both their hearts. 

Your fearful Prose-men here might doubt
 How best to bring this match about,
 For winds and waves are ill-bred things,
 And little care for Queens and Kings;
 But as the Gods assembled stand,
 And wait each youthful bard's command,
 All fancy'd dangers they deride
 Of boisterous winds, and swelling tide;
 Neptune is call'd to wait upon her,
 And sea-nymphs are her maids of honour;
 Whilst we, instead of eastern gales,
 With vows and praises fill the sails,
 And when, with due poetic care
 They safely land the Royal Fair,
 They catch the happy simile
 Of Venus rising from the sea. 
Soon as she moves, the hill and vale
 Responsive tell the joyful tale;
 And wonder holds th' enraptur'd throng
 To see the Goddess pass along;
 The bowing forests all adore her,
 And flowers spontaneous spring before her,
 Where you and I all day might travel,
 And meet with nought but sand and gravel;
 But poets have a piercing eye,
 And many pretty things can spy,
 Which neither you nor I can see,
 But then the fault's in you and me. 
The King astonish'd must appear,
 And find that Fame has wrong'd his dear;
 Then Hymen, like a bishop, stands,
 To join the lovers' plighted hands;
 Apollo and the Muses wait,
 The nuptial song to celebrate. 

But I, who rarely spend my time
 In paying court or spinning rhyme,
 Who cannot from the high abodes
 Call down; at will, a troop of Gods,
 Must in the plain prosaic way
 The wishes of my soul convey. 
May Heaven our Monarch's choice approve,
 May he be blest with mutual love,
 And be as happy with his Queen
 As with my Chloe I have been,
 When wandering thro' the beechen grove,
 She sweetly smil'd and talk'd of love! 
And O! that he may live to see
 A son as wise and good as he;
 And may his consort grace the throne
 With virtues equal to his own! 
Our courtly bards will needs be telling,
 That she's like Venus, or like Helen;
 I wish that she may prove as fair
 As Egremont and Pembroke are;
 For tho' by sages 'tis confest,
 That beauty's but a toy at best;
 Yet 'tis, methinks, in married life,
 A pretty douceur with a wife:
 And may the minutes as they fly
 Strengthen still the nuptial tye,
 While hand in hand thro' life they go,
 Till love shall into friendship grow;
 For tho' these blessings rarely wait
 On regal pomp, and tinsel'd state,
 Yet happiness is virtue's lot,
 Alike in palace and in cot:
 'Tis true, the grave affairs of state
 With little folks have little weight;
 Yet I confess my patriot heart
 In Britain's welfare bears its part;
 With transport glows at George's name,
 And triumphs in its country's fame:
 With hourly pleasure I can sit
 And talk of Granby, Hawke, and Pitt;
 And whilst I praise the good and brave,
 Disdain the coward and the knave. 
At growth of taxes others fret,
 And shudder at the nation's debt;
 I ne'er the fancied ills bemoan,
 No debts disturb me, but my own. 
What! tho' our coffers sink, our trade
 Repairs the breach which war has made;
 And if expences now run high,
 Our minds must with our means comply. 
Thus far my politics extend,
 And here my warmest wishes end,
 May Merit flourish, Faction cease,
 And I and Europe live in Peace!