In air exalted high, behold! Fierce, noisy, boisterous, and bold, Swol'n, like the king of frogs, that fed On mangled limbs of victims dead, With larger bellows in his hand, Than e'er a blacksmith's in the land, The flames that waste the world to blow, He points unto the mob below: 'Look, _Britons_, what a bonfire there! Halloo, be d----'d, and rend the air.' Aldermen, marrow-bones and cleavers, Brokers, stock-jobbers, and coal-heavers, _Templars_, and knaves of ev'ry station, The dregs of _London_, and the nation; Contractors, agents, clerks, and all Who share the plunder, great and small, Join in the halloo at his call. Higher they raise the stilts that bore The shapeless idol they adore: He, to increase his weight, had slung A _Mill-stone_ round his neck, which hung With bulk enormous to the ground, And adds thereto _Three Thousand Pound_; That none may dare to say henceforth, He wanted either weight or worth. He blows,--the flames triumphant rise, Devour the earth, and threat the skies. When lo! in peaceful mien appears, In bloom of life, and youthful years, GEORGE, Prince of Men; a smile benign That goodness looks, prognostic sign Of soul etherial, seems to bode, A world's deliv'rer sent from God. Array'd in Majesty serene, Like heav'nly spirits when they deign, In pity to mankind, to come, And stop avenging judgement's doom; Behold, and bless! just not too late T' avert a sinking nation's fate, He comes, with friendly care to stay Those flames that made the world their prey. Born to reform and bless the age, Fearless of _faction's_ madd'ning rage, Which, with united malice, throngs, To reap the harvest of our wrongs, He labours to defeat our foes, Secure our peace, and ease our woes. Before him _Faction_ dare not shew Her ghastly face and livid hue, But back retires to _Temple-Bar_, Where the spectator sees from far Many a traitor's head erect, To shew what traitors must expect. Upon that _barefac'd_ figure look, With empty scull and full peruke; For man or statue it might pass; _Cæsar_ would call't a golden ass. Behold the vain malicious thing, Squirting his poison at his king, And pointing, with infernal art, Th' envenom'd rancour of his heart.