Annus Memorabilis, 1789. Written In Commemoration Of His Majestys Happy Recovery.

I ransackd for a theme of song,     Much ancient chronicle, and long;     I read of bright embattled fields,     Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields,     Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast     Prowess to dissipate a host;     Through tomes of fable and of dream     I sought an eligible theme,     But none I found, or found them shared     Already by some happier bard.     To modern times, with truth to guide     My busy search, I next applied;     Here cities won, and fleets dispersed,     Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed,     Deeds of unperishing renown,     Our fathers triumphs and our own.     Thus as the bee, from bank to bower,     Assiduous sips at every flower,     But rests on none till that be found     Where most nectareous sweets abound,     So I, from theme to theme displayd     In many a page historic, strayd,     Siege after siege, fight after fight,     Contemplating with small delight     (For feats of sanguinary hue     Not always glitter in my view),     Till, settling on the current year,     I found the far-sought treasure near,     A theme for poetry divine,     A theme to ennoble even mine,     In memorable eighty-nine.     The spring of eighty-nine shall be     An ra cherishd long by me,     Which joyful I will oft record,     And thankful at my frugal board;     For then the clouds of eighty-eight,     That threatend Englands trembling state     With loss of what she least could spare,     Her sovereigns tutelary care,     One breath of heaven, that criedRestore!     Chased, never to assemble more:     And for the richest crown on earth,     If valued by its wearers worth,     The symbol of a righteous reign     Sat fast on Georges brows again.     Then peace and joy again possessd     Our Queens long-agitated breast;     Such joy and peace as can be known     By sufferers like herself alone,     Who losing, or supposing lost,     The good on earth they valued most,     For that dear sorrows sake forego     All hope of happiness below,     Then suddenly regain the prize,     And flash thanksgivings to the skies!     O Queen of Albion, queen of isles!     Since all thy tears were changed to smiles,     The eyes, that never saw thee, shine     With joy not unallied to thine;     Transports not chargeable with art     Illume the lands remotest part,     And strangers to the air of courts,     Both in their toils and at their sports,     The happiness of answerd prayers,     That gilds thy features, show in theirs.     If they who on thy state attend,     Awe-struck, before thy presence bend,     Tis but the natural effect     Of grandeur that ensures respect;     But she is something more than queen     Who is beloved where never seen.