A BIRTH-DAY ODE: Performed in DUBLIN

HARK—how the soul of music reigns, As when the first great birth of nature sprung, When chaos burst his massy chains, 'Twas thus the Cherubs sung:

Hail—hail, from this auspicious morn Shall British glories rise! Now are the mighty treasures born, That shall Britannia's fame adorn, And lift her to the skies.

Let George's mighty banners spread, His lofty clarions roar; Till warlike echo fills with dread The hostile Gallic shore.

Mark—how his name with terror fills! The magic sound rebellion kills, And brightens all the northern hills, Where pallid treasons dwell; The monster shall no more arise, Upon the ground she panting lies! Beneath his William's foot she dies, And now, she sinks to hell.

Haste—let Jerne's harp be newly strung, And after mighty George be William sung.

Talk no more of Grecian glory, William stands the first in story: He, with British ardour glows! See—the pride of Gallia fading! See—the youthful warrior leading Britons, vengeful, to their foes!

Fair is the olive branch Hibernia boasts, Nor shall the din of war disturb her coasts; While Stanhope smiles, her sons are blest, In native loyalty confest!

See—O see, thrice happy isle! See what gracious George bestow'd; Twice you've seen a Stanhope smile, These are gifts become a god!

How the grateful island glows! Stanhope's name shall be rever'd; Whilst by subjects, and by foes, Sacred George is lov'd and fear'd.

Like Persians to the rising sun, Respectful homage pay; At George's birth our joys begun: Salute the glorious day!