« السابقةمتابعة »
The Father of the people open'd wide
His stores, and all the poor with plenty fed: Thus God's anointed God's own place supplied,
And filld the empty with his daily bread.
This royal bounty brought its own reward,
And in their minds so deep did print the sense, That if their ruins sadly they regard,
'Tis but with fear the sight might drive him thence.
But so may he live long that Town to sway,
Which by his auspice they will pobler make, As he will hatch their ashes by his stay,
And not their humble ruins now forsake.
They have not lost their loyalty by fire;
Nor is their courage or their wealth so low, That from his wars they poorly would retire,
Or beg the pity of a vanquish'd foe.
Not with more constancy the Jews of old,
By Cyrus from rewarded exile sent, Their royal city did in dust behold,
Or with more vigour to rebuild it went.
The utmost malice of the stars is past, [Town,
And two dire comets, which have scourg'd the In their own plague and fire have breath'd their last,
Or, dimly, in their sinking sockets frown.
Now frequent trines the happier lights among,
And high-rais'd Jove from his dark prison freed, (Those weights took off that on his planet hung)
Will gloriously the new-laid works succeed.
Methinks already, from this chemic flame,
I see a city of more precious mould: Rich as the towns which gives the Indies name,
With silver pav'd, and all divine with gold. Already, labouring with a mighty fate,
She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow. And seems to have renew'd her charter's date,
Which Heav'n will to the death of Time allow.
More great than human, now, and more august,
New deified she from her fires does rise ; Her widening streets on new foundations trust,
And, opening, into larger parts she flies.
Who sat to bathe her by a river's side;
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride. Now, like a maiden queen, she will behold,
From her high turrets, hourly suitors come: The East with incense, and the West with gold,
Will stand, like suppliants, to receive her doom. The silent Thames, her own domestic flood,
Shall bear her vessels, like a sweeping train ; And often wind, as of his mistress proud,
With longing eyes to meet her face again. . The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine,
The glory of their towns no more shall boast, And Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join,
Shall find her lustre stain'd, and traffic lost.
The venturous merchant, who design’d more far,
And touches on our hospitable shore, Charm'd with the splendour of this northern star,
Shall here unlade him, and depart no more.
Onr powerful navy shall no longer meet
The wealth of France or Holland to invade; The Beauty of this Town, without a fleet,
From all the world shall vindicate her trade.
And while this fam'd emporium we prepare,
The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, That those who now disdain our trade to share,
Shall rob, like pirates, on our wealthy coast.
Already we have conquer'd half the war,
And the less dangerous part is left behind; Our trouble now is but to make them dare,
And not so great to vanquish as to find.
Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go,
But now the Cape once doubled, fear no more; A constant trade-wind will securely blow,
And gently tay us on the spicy shore.
ESSAY UPON SATIRE. BY MR. DRYDEN AND THE EARL OF MULGRAVE.
How dull and how insensible a beast
Against the grossest follies they declaim;
| Probably Sir Carr Scrope.