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For She her self had made his Count'nance

bright,

Enough of Early Saints one womb has giv'n;

Breath'd honour on his eyes, and her own Enough encreas'd the Family of Heav'n :
Purple Light.
Let them for his and our Attonement go;
And Reigning blest above, leave him to
Rule below.

m

If our Victorious Edward, as they say, Gave Wales a Prince on that Propitious Day,

Why may not Years revolving with his Fate
Produce his Like, but with a longer Date?
One who may carry to a distant shore
The Terrour that his Fam'd Forefather
bore.

But why shou'd James or his Young Hero stay

140

For slight Presages of a Name or Day?
We need no Edward's Fortune to adorn
That happy moment when our Prince was
born:

Our Prince adorns his Day, and Ages hence
Shall wish his Birth-day for some future
Prince.

"Great Michael, Prince of all th' Ætherial Hosts,

And what e're In-born Saints our Britain boasts;

And thou, th' adopted Patron of our Isle, With chearful Aspects on this Infant smile: The Pledge of Heav'n, which dropping from above 150

Secures our Bliss and reconciles his Love. Enough of Ills our dire Rebellion wrought, When, to the Dregs, we drank the bitter draught;

Then airy Atoms did in Plagues conspire, Nor did th' avenging Angel yet retire, But purg'd our still encreasing Crimes with Fire.

Then perjur'd Plots, the still impending Test,

And worse; but Charity conceals the Rest: Here stop the Current of the sanguine flood; Require not, Gracious God, thy Martyrs Blood;

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And frighten'd birds in Woods forgot to sing;

The Strong-limb'd Steed beneath his harness faints,

And the same shiv'ring sweat his Lord attaints.

When will the Minister of Wrath give o're ? Behold him; at P Araunah's threshing-floor. He stops, and seems to sheathe his flaming brand;

Pleas'd with burnt Incense, from our David's hand.

David has bought the Jebusites abode,
And rais'd an Altar to the Living God. 180
Heav'n, to reward him, make his Joys
sincere ;

No future Ills, nor Accidents appear
To sully and pollute the Sacred Infants
Year.

Five Months to Discord and Debate were giv❜n:

He sanctifies the yet remaining Sev'n. Sabbath of Months! henceforth in Him be blest,

And prelude to the Realms perpetual Rest!
Let his Baptismal Drops for us attone;
Lustrations for Offences not his own.
Let Conscience, which is Int'rest ill disguis'd,
In the same Font be cleans'd, and all the
Land Baptiz'd.
191

160 Is

But let their dying pangs, their living toyl,
Spread a Rich harvest through their Native
Soil:

A Harvest ripening for another Reign,
Of which this Royal Babe may reap the

Grain.

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Un-nam'd as yet; at least unknown to
Fame:

there a strife in Heav'n about his
Name ?

Where every Famous Predecessour vies, And makes a Faction for it in the Skies?

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Or must it be reserv'd to thought alone? Such was the Sacred Tetragrammaton. Things worthy silence must not be reveal'd: Thus the true Name of Rome was kept conceal'd, 199

To shun the Spells, and Sorceries of those
Who durst her Infant Majesty oppose.
But when his tender strength in time shall
rise

To dare ill Tongues, and fascinating eyes;
This Isle, which hides the little Thund'rer's
Fame,

Shall be too narrow to contain his Name : Th' Artillery of Heav'n shall make him known;

"Crete could not hold the God, when Jove was grown.

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As Joves Increase, who from his Brain was born,

Whom Arms and Arts did equally adorn, Free of the Breast was bred, whose milky

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Minerva's Name to Venus had debas'd;
So this Imperial Babe rejects the Food
That mixes Monarchs with Plebeian blood:
Food that his inborn Courage might con-
troul,

Extinguish all the Father in his Soul,

And for his Estian Race, and Saxon Strain, Might re-produce some second Richard's Reign.

Mildness he shares from both his Parents blood:

But Kings too tame are despicably good : Be this the Mixture of this Regal Child, 220 By Nature Manly, but by Virtue Mild.

Thus far the Furious Transport of the News

Had to Prophetick Madness fir'd the
Muse;

Madness ungovernable, uninspir'd,
Swift to foretel whatever she desir'd;
Was it for me the dark Abyss to tread,
And read the Book which Angels cannot
read?

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So e're the Shunamite a Son conceiv'd, The Prophet promis'd, and the Wife believ'd; A Son was sent, the Son so much desir'd, But soon upon the Mother's Knees expir'd. The troubled Seer approach'd the mournful Door,

Ran, prayed, and sent his Past'ral-Staff before,

Then stretch'd his Limbs upon the Child, and mourn'd,

Till Warmth, and breath, and a new Soul return'd.

The sudden false Report of the Prince's Death. 1 Those Grants are feign'd to have grown 15 Ells every day.

a In the second Book of Kings, chap. 4th.

Thus Mercy stretches out her hand, and

saves

Desponding Peter sinking in the Waves.

As when a sudden Storm of Hail and Rain Beats to the ground the yet unbearded Grain. 260

Think not the hopes of Harvest are destroy'd On the flat Field, and on the naked void; The light unloaded stem, from tempest free'd, Will raise the youthful honours of his head; And, soon restor'd by native vigour, bear The timely product of the bounteous Year. Nor yet conclude all fiery Trials past, For Heav'n will exercise us to the last; Sometimes will check us in our full carreer, With doubtful blessings, and with mingled fear; 270

That, still depending on his daily Grace, IIis every mercy for an alms may pass ; With sparing hands will Dyet us to good; Preventing Surfeits of our pampered blood. So feeds the Mother-bird her craving young With little Morsels, and delays 'em long. True, this last blessing was a Royal Feast, But where's the Wedding Garment on the Guest?

Our Manners, as Religion were a Dream, Are such as teach the Nations to Blaspheme. In Lusts we wallow, and with Pride we swell, 281

And Injuries, with Injuries repell;
Prompt to Revenge, not daring to forgive,
Our Lives unteach the Doctrine we believe;
Thus Israel Sind, impenitently hard,
And vainly thought the present Ark their
Guard;

But when the haughty Philistims appear, They fled abandoned to their Foes and fear;

Their God was absent, though his Ark was there.

Ah! lest our Crimes shou'd snatch this Pledge away,

290

And make our Joys the blessing of a day! For we have sin'd him hence, and that he lives,

God to his promise, not our practice, gives. Our Crimes wou'd soon weigh down the guilty Scale,

But James, and Mary, and the Church prevail.

Sam. 4th. v, 10th.

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From your mild Heav'n to rule our rugged
Sphere,

Beyond the Sunny walks and circling Year.
You, who your Native Clymate have bereft
Of all the Virtues, and the Vices left;
Whom Piety, and Beauty make their boast,
Though Beautiful is well in Pious lost; 310
So lost as Star-light is dissolv'd away,
And melts into the brightness of the day,
Or Gold about the Regal Diadem,
Lost to improve the lustre of the Gem.
What can we add to your Triumphant Day?
Let the Great Gift the beautious Giver pay;
For shou'd our thanks awake the rising
Sun,

And lengthen, as his latest shadows run, That, tho' the longest day, wou'd soon, too soon, be done.

Let Angels voices with their harps conspire, But keep th' auspicious Infant from the Quire; 321

Late let him sing above, and let us know No sweeter Musick than his Cryes below.

Nor can I wish to you, Great Monarch,

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Of all the Greeks, 'twas but one Hero's due,
And, in him, Plutarch Prophecy'd of you.
A Prince's favours but on few can fall,
But Justice is a Virtue shar'd by all.

Some Kings the name of Conq'rors have assum'd, 339 Some to be Great, some to be Gods presum’d; But boundless pow'r and arbitrary Lust Made Tyrants still abhor the Name of Just They shun'd the praise this Godlike Virtue gives,

And fear'd a Title that reproach'd their Lives.

The Pow'r from which all Kings derive their state,

Whom they pretend, at least, to imitate,
Is equal both to punish and reward;

d Aristides, see his Life in Plutarch.

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350

Resistless Force and Immortality Make but a Lame, Imperfect Deity; Tempests have force unbounded to destroy, And Deathless Being ev'n the Damn'd enjoy, And yet Heav'ns Attributes both last and first,

One without life, and one with life accurst; But Justice is Heav'ns self, so strictly He That cou'd it fail, the God-head cou'd not be. This Virtue is your own; but Life and State Are One to Fortune subject, One to Fate: Equal to all, you justly frown or smile, Nor Hopes, nor Fears your steady Iland beguile; 360 Your self our Ballance hold, the Worlds our Isle.

361 Worlds] Worlds, 1688.

EPISTLES AND

COMPLIMENTARY ADDRESSES.

TO JOHN HODDESDON,

ON HIS DIVINE EPIGRAMS.

grace

To look the sunne of righteousnesse ith' face.
What may we hope, if thou go'st on thus fast!
Scriptures at first, Enthusiasmes at last!
Thou hast commenc'd, betimes, a saint: go

THou hast inspired me with thy soul, and I, | And, making heaven thy aim, hast had the
Who ne're before could ken of poetry,
Am grown so good proficient I can lend
A line in commendation of my friend;
Yet 'tis but of the second hand; if ought
There be in this, 'tis from thy fancy brought.
Good thief who dar'st Prometheus-like
aspire,

And fill thy poems with Celestiall fire, Enliven'd by these sparks divine, their rayes

Adde a bright lustre to thy crown of bayes.
Young eaglet, who thy nest thus soon for-
sook,

So lofty and divine a course hast took
As all admire, before the down begin
To peep, as yet, upon thy smoother Chin;

II

on,

Mingling Diviner streams with Helicon, 20
That they who view what Epigrams here be,
May learn to make like, in just praise of thee.
Reader, I've done, nor longer will withhold
Thy greedy eyes; looking on this pure gold
Thou'lt know adult'rate copper, which, like
this,

Will onely serve to be a foil to his.

J. DRYDEN, of Trin. C.

To my Honored Friend SIR ROBERT HOWARD
On his Excellent Poems.

As there is Musick uninform'd by Art
In those wild Notes, which with a merry heart
The Birds in unfrequented shades expresse,
Who better taught at home, yet please us
lesse:

So in your Verse, a native sweetnesse dwells,
Which shames Composure, and its Art excells.
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
Then Paint adds charms unto a beauteous
Face.

Yet as when mighty Rivers gently creep,
Their even calmnesse does suppose them
deep,

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Such is your Muse: no Metaphor swell'd high
With dangerous boldnesse lifts her to the sky;
Those mounting Fancies, when they fallagain,
Shew sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength and yet withall so sweet,
Did never but in Sampson's Riddle meet.

TO JOHN HODDESDON. Text from the original prefixt to Hoddesdon's Sion and Parnassus, 1650. 16 ith'] Editors wrongly give i' the or in the

'Tis strange each line so great a weight
should bear,

And yet no signe of toil, no sweat appear.
Either your Art hides Art, as Stoicks feign
Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain;
And we, dull souls, admire but cannot see 21
What hidden springs within the Engine be
Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your gracefull Muse.
Or is it Fortune's work, that in your head
The curious *Net that is for

fancies spread,
Lets through its Meshes every
meaner thought

{

Rete Mirabile.

While rich Idea's there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of Chance, and not of Care.

TO SIR ROBERT HOWARD. Text from the original of 1661.

8 Then] The editors change the spelling to Than 27 Lets] Let's 1661.

28 caught? caught. 1661.

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