Ah! left our crimes fhould fnatch this pledge away,
And make our joys the bleffings of a day!
For we have finn'd him hence; and that he lives,
God to his promise, not our practice gives.

Our crimes would foon weigh down the guilty fcale,
But James and Mary, and the church, prevail.
Nor Amalek can rout the chofen bands,
While Hur and Aaron hold up Mofes' hands.
By living well, let us fecure his days,
Moderate in hopes, and humble in our ways.
No force the free-born fpirit can constrain,
But charity, and great examples gain.
Forgiveness is our thanks for such a day.
'Tis god-like God in his own coin to pay.

But you, propitious queen, tranflated here,
From your mild heaven, to rule our rugged sphere,
Beyond the funny walks, and circling year:
You, who your native climate have bereft
Of all the virtues, and the vices left;
Whom piety and beauty make their boast,
Though beautiful is well in pious loft;
So loft as ftar-light is diffolv'd away,
And melts into the brightness of the day;
Or gold about the royal diadem,
Loft to improve the luftre of the gem.
What can we add to your triumphant day?
Let the great gift the beauteous giver pay.
For fhould our thanks awake the rifing fun,
And lengthen, as his latest shadows run,

That, though the longest day, would foon, too foon

be done.

Let

Let angels voices with their harps confpire,
But keep th' aufpicious infant from the choir;
Late let him fing above, and let us know
No fweeter music than his cries below.

Nor can I wish to you, great monarch, more
Than fuch an annual income to your ftore
The day which gave this unit, did not shine
For a lefs omen, than to fill the trine.
After a prince, an admiral beget;

The Royal Sovereign wants an anchor yet.
Our ifle has younger titles still in store,
And when th' exhaufted land can yield no more.
Your line can force them from a foreign fhore.

The name of great your martial mind will fuit ;
But juftice is your darling attribute:

Of all the Greeks, 'twas but one hero's due,
And, in him, Plutarch prophefy'd of you.
A prince's favours but on few can fall,
But juftice is a virtue fhar'd by all.

Some kings the name of conquerors have affum'd, Some to be great, fome to be gods prefum'd;

But boundless power, and arbitrary lust,

Made tyrants still abhor the name of just`;
They fhunn'd the praise this godlike virtue gives,
And fear'd a title that reproach'd their lives.

The power, from which all kings derive their state, Whom they pretend, at least, to imitate,

Is equal both to punish and reward;

For few would love their God, unless they fear'd.

Refiftless

Refiftless force and immortality
Make but a lame, imperfect, deity:
Tempefts have force unbounded to destroy,
And deathless being even the damn'd enjoy ;
And yet heaven's attributes, both last and first,
One without life, and one with life accurft:
But juftice is heaven's self, so strictly he,
That could it fail, the Godhead could not be.
This virtue is your own; but life and state
Are one to fortune fubject, one to fate :
Equal to all, you justly frown or finile;

Nor hopes nor fears your steady hand beguile;
Yourself our balance hold, the world's our ifle.

MAC FLECK NO E.

ALL human things are subject to decay,

And when fate fummons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found, who, like Auguftus, 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 Nonfenfe, abfolute.
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And bleft with iffue of a large increase ;
Worn out with business, did at length debate
To fettle the fucceffion of the state:

And, pondering, which of all his fons was fit
To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
Cry'd, 'Tis refolv'd; for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule, who most resembles me.

5

}

Shadwell

Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulnefs from his tender years:
Shadwell alone, of all my fons, is he,
Who ftands confirm'd in full ftupidity.
The reft to fome faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into fenfe.
Some beams of wit on other fouls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rifing fogs prevail upon the day.
Befides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And feems defign'd for thoughtless majesty :
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
And spread in folemn ftate fupinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou laft great prophet of tautology!
Ev'n I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was fent before but to prepare thy way;
And, coarfely clad in Norwich drugget, came
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom ftrung,
When to king John of Portugal I fung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on filver Thames didft cut thy way,
With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celeftial charge;
And, big with hymn, commander of an hoft,
The like was ne'er in Epfom blankets toft.
Methinks I fee the new Arion fail,
The lute ftill trembling underneath thy nail.

At

At thy well-fharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The trebles fqueak for fear, the bases roar :
Echoes from Piffing-Alley Shadwell call,
And Shadwell they refound from Afton-Hall.
About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou weild'ft thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time,
Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme :
Though they in number as in fenfe excel;
So juft, fo like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forfwore
The lute and fword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.
Here ftopt the good old fire, and wept for joy,
In filent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, perfuade,
That for anointed dulnefs he was made.

Clofe to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augufta much to fears inclin'd)
An ancient fabric rais'd t'inform the fight,
There ftood of yore, and Barbican it hight:
A watch-tower once; but now, fo fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains :
From its old ruins brothel-houfes rife,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,

Where their vaft courts the mother-strumpets keep,
And, undisturb'd by watch, in filence fleep.

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