HE, young in Years, yet very old in Arms,
Guards her from Foreign or Domeſtick Harms,
His faithful Aids new vig'rous Life afford,
And boldly draws Hereditary Sword.
Stuart ancient as the Hills from which they ſprung
The Mountains ſtill do to the Name belong;
From hence they branch to ev'ry high Degree:
And Foreign Courts embrace the Progeny.
The riſing Stem with thirſt of Glory fir'd,
Not he to th'Crown, the Crown to him aſpir'd;
His high attracting Fame the Nation drew,
They gave old Crowns, and Fate ſupply'd the new.
Thy Scepter Caledonia in their Hand,
Firſt raiſ'd the real Glory of the Land;
And ſeven ſucceſſive Branches held the Crown,
Till Britain vail'd, and made the Stuarts her own.
What Blood, what Wars, what ſtrong convulſive Throws,
Britania fill'd with inbred Vapour knows?
How oft the interveening Hand of Blood,
Has their ſucceſſive Happineſs withſtood?
Spread the dark Vail, let's hide the diſmal Scene,
Let others paint the Horrid-draught, our Pen
Shall ſhow the bright, and wiſh the reſt unſeen.
