Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour's Charms,
To tread his Uncle's Steps, and shine in Arms:
See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War!
Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar,
What Blood! what Ruin! Thrice unhappy They
Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day.
_Edwards_ and _Harry's_ to his Eyes appear
In Warlike form, and shake the glitt'ring Spear.
At _Agincourt_ so terrible they stood,
So when _Pictavian_ Fields were dy'd with Blood.
The Royal Youth with Emulation glows,
And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes.
Troops of Commission'd Angels from the Sky,
Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly.
O'er _England's_ Hopes their flaming Swords they hold,
And wave them, as o'er Paradise of Old.
Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep,
But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep.
Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread,
Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed,
Defend the Sacred Youth's Imperial Head.

[8] _The Duke of_ Glouceiter. _Here the Author laments he
prov'd so bad a Prophet_.

After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate,
The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait.
The Streams of _Thamisis_, exulting, Ring,
When fair _Augusta's_ lofty _Clio's_ Sing
_Granta_ and _Rhedycina's_ Tuneful Throng