Calm were the' elements, Night's silence deep, The waves scarce murmuring, and the winds asleep; Yet Fate for ruin takes so still an hour,

And treacherous sands the princely bark devour;
Then Death, unworthy, seized a generous race,
To virtue's scandal, and the stars' disgrace!
Oh! had the' indulgent powers vouchsafed to yield,
Instead of faithless shelves, a listed field,
A listed field of Heaven's and David's foes,
Fierce as the troops that did his youth oppose,
Each life had on his slaughter'd heap retired,
Not tamely, and unconquering, thus expired;
But Destiny is now their only foe,

And dying, e'en o'er that they triumph too;
With loud last breaths their master's 'scape ap-

plaud,

Of whom kind Force could scarce the Fates defraud;
Who for such followers lost, O matchless mind!
At his own safety now almost repined!
Say, Royal Sir, by all your fame in arms,
Your praise in peace, and by Urania's charms,
If all your sufferings past so nearly press'd,
Or pierced with half so painful grief your breast?
Thus some diviner Muse her hero forms,
Not sooth'd with soft delights, but toss'd in storms;
Nor stretch'd on roses in the myrtle grove,
Nor crowns his days with mirth,his nights with love;
But far removed in thundering camps is found,
His slumbers short, his bed the herbless ground;
In tasks of danger always seen the first,

Feeds from the hedge, and slakes with ice his thirst:
Long must his patience strive with Fortune's rage,
And long opposing gods themselves engage,

Must see his country flame, his friends destroy'd,
Before the promised empire be enjoy'd:

Such toil of fate must build a man of fame,
And such to Israel's crown the godlike David came.
What sudden beams dispel the clouds so fast,
Whose drenching rains laid all our vineyards waste?
The Spring, so far behind her course delay'd,
On the' instant is in all her bloom array'd;
The winds breathe low, the element serene,
Yet mark what motion in the waves is seen!
Thronging and busy as Hyblæan swarms,
Or straggled soldiers summon'd to their arms,
See where the princely bark in loosest pride,
With all her guardian fleet, adorns the tide :
High on her deck the Royal lovers stand,
Our crimes to pardon ere they touch'd our land.
Welcome to Israel and to David's breast!
Here all your toils, here all your sufferings, rest.
This year did Ziloah rule Jerusalem,
And boldly all Sedition's syrtes stem,
Howe'er encumber'd with a viler pair
Than Ziph and Shimei to assist the chair:
Yet Ziloah's loyal labours so prevail'd
That Faction at the next election fail'd,
When e'en the common cry did Justice sound,
And Merit by the multitude was crown'd:
With David then was Israel's peace restored,
Crowds mourn'd their error, and obey'd their lord.

81

MAC-FLECNOE.

1682.

ALL human things are subject to decay,
And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecnoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long;
In prose and verse was own'd, without dispute,
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And bless'd with issue of a large increase,
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To settle the succession of the state;
And, pondering which of all his sons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit,
Cried- 'Tis resolved; for Nature pleads that he
Should only rule who most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years;
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity:
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty:

Thoughtless as monarch-oaks that shade the plain,
And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of Tautology.
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute 1 whilom strung,
When to King John of Portugal I sung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-timed oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The Trebles squeak for fear, the Basses roar:
Echoes from Pissing Alley Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they resound from Aston Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not e'en the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme;
Though they in number as in sense excel;
So just, so like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and sword which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.'

Here stopp'd the good old sire, and wept for joy, In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.

All arguments, but most his plays, persuade
That for anointed Dulness he was made.

Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augusta, much to fears inclined)
An ancient fabric, raised to' inform the sight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight;
A watch-tower once; but now, so Fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains:
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep,
And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep'.
Near these a nursery erects its head,

Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred;
Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try2,
And little Maximins the gods defy.

Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds:
Pure clinches the suburban muse affords,
And Panton, waging harmless war with words.
Here Flecnoe, as a place to fame well known,
Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne:
For ancient Decker prophesied long since,
That in this pile should reign a mighty prince,
Born for a scourge of wit and flail of sense:

1 Parodies on these lines of Cowley, (Davideis, Book I.)
Where their vast courts the mother-waters keep,
And, undisturb'd by moons, in silence sleep.

2

Where unfledged tempests lie,

And infant Winds their tender voices try.