won,
  Our arms would then triumphantly advance,
  Nor Henry be the last that conquered France!
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  What might not England hope, if such abroad
  Purchased their country’s honour with their blood: 
  When such, detained at home, support our state
  In William’s stead, and bear a kingdom’s weight,
  The schemes of Gallic policy o’erthrow,
  And blast the counsels of the common foe;
  Direct our armies, and distribute right,
  And render our Maria’s loss more light. 
     But stop, my Muse, the ungrateful sound forbear,
  Maria’s name still wounds each British ear: 
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  Each British heart Maria still does wound,
  And tears burst out unbidden at the sound;
  Maria still our rising mirth destroys,
  Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys. 
     But see, at length, the British ships appear! 
  Our Nassau comes! and, as his fleet draws near,
  The rising masts advance, the sails grow white,
  And all his pompous navy floats in sight. 
  Come, mighty prince, desired of Britain, come! 
  May heaven’s propitious gales attend thee home!
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  Come, and let longing crowds behold that look
  Which such confusion and amazement strook
  Through Gallic hosts:  but, oh! let us descry
  Mirth in thy brow, and pleasure in thy eye;
  Let nothing dreadful in thy face be found;
  But for awhile forget the trumpet’s sound;
  Well-pleased, thy people’s loyalty approve,
  Accept their duty, and enjoy their love. 
  For as, when lately moved with fierce delight,
  You plunged amidst the tumult of the fight,
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  Whole heaps of dead encompassed you around,
  And steeds o’erturned lay foaming on the ground: 
  So crowned with laurels now, where’er you go,
  Around you blooming joys and peaceful blessings flow.

A TRANSLATION OF ALL

VIRGIL’S FOURTH GEORGIC,

EXCEPT THE STORY OF ARISTAEUS.

  Ethereal sweets shall next my Muse engage,
  And this, Maecenas, claims your patronage. 
  Of little creatures’ wondrous acts I treat,
  The ranks and mighty leaders of their state,
  Their laws, employments, and their wars relate. 
  A trifling theme provokes my humble lays. 
  Trifling the theme, not so the poet’s praise,
  If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine
     First, for your bees a proper station find,
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  That’s fenced about, and sheltered from the wind;
  For winds divert them in their flight, and drive
  The swarms, when loaden homeward, from their hive. 
  Nor sheep, nor goats, must pasture near their stores,
  To trample underfoot the springing flowers;
  Nor frisking heifers bound about the place,
  To spurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rising grass;
  Nor must the lizard’s painted brood appear,
  Nor wood-pecks, nor the swallow, harbour near. 
  They waste the swarms, and, as they fly