To

Apollo bids the muses rove, The lonely path the silent grove: He bids the graces oft resort, To festive scenes and splendid court, Yet will he let the muse repair, To where Charlotta guards her heir; Unblam'd the royal babe approach, And strew fresh flow'rets o'er his couch, As on his cheek buds nature's rose, With virtue's bud his bosom glows; Whose foliage opening into day, Shall each parental streak display: And when the coming spring prevails With sweets maternal, scent the gales.

Your choicest wreath, ye fairies bring, To crown the little embrio king: Behold that hand with gewgaws play, Which shall Britannia's scepter sway: Attentive o'er the nurs'ry plain, Behold him range his mimic men: Unconscious of the future hour, When vested with imperial pow'r, He, Hero-like, shall lead his train, To combat on a real plain; While victory shall bless the war, And scatter laurels from her car:—

Illustrious babe, tho' deaf to praise, For thee I frame these humble lays: The day will come (but may kind fate Keep back that day 'till very late) When thou thy much-lov'd father's heir, Like him shal't grace the regal chair; Shalt hold, approv'd th' imperial helm, And bless, like him, a grateful realm. Oh! then shall praise ring out her peal, And flatt'ry her bright flow'rets deal: Ah, if thine eye in future time Shou'd chance to mark this artless rhyme, When stretch'd beneath the fun'ral ground, This frame shall lay with osier bound; Thou'lt find one of the muse's train, For thee awak'd his gentle strain: What time unconscious of the theme, That did unfold thy future fame; Thou cou'd'st not with a smile reward The numbers of th' unvenal bard: While they who shall these lines peruse, If lines like these survive their muse; Shall own, when they look up to you, That he was bard and prophet too.