If what we feel of Joy cou'd be express'd,
It were unworthy of our Royal Guest:
Great Blessings, when bestow'd above Desert,
Suppress the Speech, tho' they inspire the Heart.
Thus, tho' the Muse her grateful Homage pays,
She dares not strive her trembling Voice to raise,
And pay unequal Thanks, or disproportion'd Praise.
Such Awe there is in all sublime Delight;
And so severe is Joy when Exquisite.
Our sickly Clime, which has for ten Years past,
With one continu'd Winter been o'er-cast:
Has this new Age with wonted Health begun,
Reviv'd and chear'd by the relenting Sun.
Again, the Spring does early Blossoms yield,
And Nature laughs in ev'ry living Field.
The Stage alone remains a frozen Soil,
And fruitless mocks the weary Lab'rers Toil;
But this bright Presence darts enliv'ning Fires,
And ev'ry Muse with Genial Warmth inspires:
Health to the World, the Sun's kind Heat assures;
That lives by his, but we survive by yours.