Original - Duke Divinity School

They lick the Spittle which the Whigs have thrown;
Embrace the authors of their former Fears,
Forgetting in an hour the Spoil of Years:
Reserved and Silent you at distance stand,
Nor hast to kiss the oft-extended hand.
Their Compliments and Hopes let others show;
And if you must be laugh’d at, Be it so.
If G[eorge], ascending his Imperial Throne,
With decent grief a Father may bemoan,
Let not his partial greatness e’er require
That duteous Oxford should neglect his Sire;
A Sire who left a Heritage more fair
Than hoarded wealth or scepters to his Heir.
A Harley seldom treads this mortal Stage;
But Kings and Misers rise in every age.
He used for public good the public Store,
Still daring to be Just and to be Poor;
Firm to his Country’s and Religion’s cause,
True to our ancient Faith and ancient Laws.
He due regard to Learning’s Seat profess’d;
Nor awed with Threatenings, nor with Troops oppress’d;
Skilfull through suppliant Crowds to force his way,
And call retiring merit into Day.
No narrow Views his mighty Soul confined,
Friend to the World, and Patron to Mankind.
He join’d in glorious Peace contending kings,
And pluck’d the Austrian Eagle’s spreading Wings.
He knew the Rage of Faction’s Tide to stem,
And gave the B[runswic]k Race their Diadem.
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