126
Epistles.
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And strive to hate their innocence in vain.
O Princess! happy by thy foes confest, 175
Blest in thy husband, in thy children blest,
As they from thee, from them new beauties born
While Europe lasts shall Europe's thrones adorn;
Transplanted to each court, in times to come
Thy smile celestial and unfading bloom 180
Great Austria's sons with softer lines shall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race:
The fair descendants of thy sacred bed
Wide branching o'er the western world shall spread
Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot 185
To earthward bending of itself takes root,
Till like their mother plant ten thousand stand
In verdant arches on the fertile land;
Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove,
Or hunt at large thro' the wide echoing grove. 190
O thou! to whom these mournful lines I send,
My promis'd husband and my dearest friend,
Since Heav'n appoints this favour'd race to reign,
And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain,
Must I be wretched, and thy flight partake? 195
Or wilt not thou for thy lov'd Chloe's sake,
Tir'd out at length, submit to Fate's decree?
If not to Brunswick, O return to me!
Prostrate before the victor's mercy bend; 199
What spares whole thousands may to thee extend.
And strive to hate their innocence in vain.
O Princess! happy by thy foes confest, 175
Blest in thy husband, in thy children blest,
As they from thee, from them new beauties born
While Europe lasts shall Europe's thrones adorn;
Transplanted to each court, in times to come
Thy smile celestial and unfading bloom 180
Great Austria's sons with softer lines shall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race:
The fair descendants of thy sacred bed
Wide branching o'er the western world shall spread
Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot 185
To earthward bending of itself takes root,
Till like their mother plant ten thousand stand
In verdant arches on the fertile land;
Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove,
Or hunt at large thro' the wide echoing grove. 190
O thou! to whom these mournful lines I send,
My promis'd husband and my dearest friend,
Since Heav'n appoints this favour'd race to reign,
And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain,
Must I be wretched, and thy flight partake? 195
Or wilt not thou for thy lov'd Chloe's sake,
Tir'd out at length, submit to Fate's decree?
If not to Brunswick, O return to me!
Prostrate before the victor's mercy bend; 199
What spares whole thousands may to thee extend.
