An ODE to his MAJESTY, for the NEW-YEAR, 1730/31.

ONCE more, the ever circling Sun,
Through the Celestial Signs has run:
Again old Time inverts his Glass,
And bids the Annual Seasons pass.
The Youthful Spring shall call for Birth;
And glad, with opening Flowers the Earth;
Fair Summer load, with Sheaves, the Field,
And golden fruit shall Autumn yield:
Each, to the Winter’s want, their stores shall bring,
‘Till warmer genial Suns recall the spring

Ye grateful Britons, bless the year,
That kindly yields Increase;
While Plenty, that might feed a War,
Enjoys the Guard of Peace

Your plenty, to the Skies, you owe;
Peace is your Monarch’s Care;
Thus Bounteous JOVE, and GEORGE below,
Divided Empire share.

Britannia, pleas’d, looks round her Realms, to see
Your various Causes of Felicity!
To Glorious War, a Glorious Peace succeeds,
(For most we Triumph when the Farmer feeds.)
Then truly are we Great, when Peace supplys
Our Blood, our Treasure drain’d by Victorys.

Turn, happy Britons, to the Throne, your Eyes,
And in the Royal Offspring see
How amply Bounteous Providence supplys
The Source of your Felicity.

Behold! in ev’ry Face
Imperial Graces shine!
All native to the Race
Of GEORGE and CAROLINE.

In each young Hero we admire
The Blooming Virtues of his Sire ;
In each Maturing Fair we find
Maternal Charms, of softer Kind.

In vain, through Ages past has Phoebus roll’d,
E’re such a Sight Blest Albion could behold :
Thrice happy Mortals! if your State you knew!
Where does the Globe so Blest a Nation shew?
All that of You, Indulgent Heaven requires,
Is Loyal Hearts, to reach your own Desires.
Let Faction, then, her self-born Views lay down,
And Hearts United, Thus, Address the Throne.

Hail ! Royal Caesar, Hail !
Like This, may every Annual Sun
Add brighter Glories to thy Crown,
‘Till Suns themselves shall fail.
May Heaven thy peaceful Reign prolong,
Not let, to thy great Empire’s Wrong,
Foreign, or native Foes prevail.