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Be Qs ot Tks a 
ODE fer the NEW YEAR. 
By H. J. Pye, Esq. Poet-Laureat. 
Ts 
HERE is immortal Virtue’s meed, 
Th’ unfading wreath of true renown, 
Best recompense by Heaven decreed 
For all the cares that wait a crown; 
If Industry, with anxious zeal, | 
Still watehful o’er the Public Weal ; 
If equal Justice’ awful arm, 
Tempered by Mercy’s seraph charm, 
Are ineffectual to assuage | 
Remorseless Faction’s harpy rage? 
But the fell Demons, urg’d by Hell’s behest, : 
Threaten, with frantic arm, the royal Patriot’s breast ! 
aT: 
Yet not, Imperial George, at thee, 
Was the rude bolt of Malice sped, 
E’en fiends that Crown with rev’rence see 
Where Virtue consecrates th’ anointed head— 
No—at thy bosom’s fondest claim, 
Thy Britain’s peace, their shafts they aim. 
Pale Envy, while o’er half the world 
War’s bloody banners are unfurl’d, 
Beheld our coasts from ravage free, 
Protected by the guardian sea, 
Where Commerce spreads her golden stores, 
Where fleets waft triumph to our shores : 
She saw, and sick’ning at the sight, 
Wish’d the fair prospect of our hopes to blight ; 
Sought out the object of our dearest care, 
Found whese we most could feel, and try’d to wound us there. 
The 
