Ignobly in the laft Years Throng to rife and fer.
In this 'tis happier far than May,
Since to add Years is greater than to give a Day.
CHORUS.
Oh may the happy Days encreafe,
With Spoils of War, and Wealth of Peace.
Till Time and Age shall fwallow'd be,
May Charles ne'er quit his facred Throne,
Himfelf fucceed himself alone.
And to lengthen out his Time,
Take, God, from us and give to him.
That fo each World a Charles may know,
Father above and Son below.
Hark, the Jocund Sphears renew
Their chearful and melodious Song,
While the glad Gods are pleas'd to view
The rich and painted throng
Of happy Days, in their fair order march along.
Move on, ye profperous Hours, move on,
Finish your Courfe fo well begun ;
Let no ill Omen dare prophane
Your beauteous and harmonious Train,
Or Jealoufies or foolish Fears difturb you as you run.
See, mighty Charles, how all the Minutes prefs,
Each longing which fhall firft appear ;
Since in this renowned Year,
Not one but feels a fecret Happiness,
As big with new Events and fome unheard Success:
See how our Troubles vanifh, fee
How the tumultuous Tribes agree.
Propitious Winds bear all our Griefs away,
And Peace clears up the troubled Day.
Not a Wrinkle, not a Scar
Of Faction or difhoneft War,
But Pomps and Triumphs deck the Noble Kalendar,
SONG.
By Mr. DRYDEN.
rlvia the Fair, in the Bloom of Fifteen,
Seit an innocent Warmth, as the lay on the Green 5
She had heard of a Pleasure, and fomething the guest
By the towzing and tumbling and touching her
She faw the Men eager, but was at a Lofs, [Breaft;
What they meant by their fighing, and kiffing fo
By their praying and whining,
And clafping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And fighing and kissing,
And fighing and kiffing fo clofe..
Ah! the cry'd; ah for a languishing Maid
In a Country of Chriftians to die without aid!
Not a Whig, or a Tory, or Trimmer at leaft,
Or a Proteftant Parfon, or Catholick Prieft,
To inftruct a young Virgin, that is at a Lofs,
What they meant by their fighing, and kiffing fo
By their praying and whining,
And clafping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And fighing and kissing,
And fighing and kiffing fo close.
Cupid in Shape of a Swain did appear,
He faw the fad Wound, and in pity drew near,
Then fhow'd her his Arrow, and bid her not fear,
For the Pain was no more than a Maiden may bear;
When the Balm was infus'd fhe was not at a Lofs,
What they meant by their fighing, and kiffing fo
By their praying and whining,
[clofe,
And clafping and twining,
And panting and wishing,
And fighing and kiffing,
And fighing and kiffing fo clofe,
The Episode of the Death of CAMILLA,
Tranflated out of the Eleventh Book of Virgil's Æneids.
By Mr. STAFFORD.
N Death and Wounds Camilla looks with joy,
Freed from a Breaft, the fiercer to destroy.
Now, thick as Hail, her fatal Darts fhe flings;
The two-edg'd Ax now on their Helmets rings.
Her Shoulders bore Diana's Arms and Bow:
And if, too ftrongly preft, fhe fled before a Foc.
Her Shafts, revers'd, did death and horror bear,
And found the Rash, who durft pursue the Fair,
Near her fierce Tulla, and Tarpeia ride,
And bold Larina conquering by her fide.
These above all Camilla's Breaft did share;
For Faith in Peace, and Gallantry in War.
Such were the Thracian, Amazonian Bands,
When firft they dy'd with Blood Thermodoons Sands,
Such Troops Hippolyta her felf did head,
And fuch the bold Penthefilea led,
When Female fhouts alarm'd the trembling Fields,
And glaring Beams fhot bright from Maiden Shields,
Who, gallant Virgin, who by thee were flain?
What gafping Numbers ftrew'd upon the Piain?
Thy Spear first through Eumenius paffage found;
Whole torrents gufh'd out of his Mouth and Wound;
With gnashing Teeth, in pangs, the Earth he tore,
And rowl'd himself, half delug'd, in his Gore,
Then hapless Pagafus, and Lyris bleed:
The latter reining up his fainting Steed;
The firft as to his Aid he ftretch'd his Hand,
Both at an inftant, headlong, ftruck the Sand,
Her Arm Amaftrus next, and Tereas feel.
Then follows chromis with her lifted Steel,
Of all her Quiver not a Shaft was loft,
But each attended by a Trojan Ghost.
Strong Orphitus, (in Arms unknown before,)
In Battle an Apulian Courfer bore.
His brawny Back wrapt in a Bullock's Skin,
Upon his Head a Wolf did fiercely grin,
Above the reft his mighty Shoulders show,
And he looks down upon the Troops below:
Him (and 'twas eafie, while his Fellows fled):
She ftruck along, and thus fhe triumph'd while he bled
Some Coward Game thou didst believe to chace,
But, Hunter, fee a Woman ftops thy Race.
Yet to requiring Ghofts this Glory bear,
Thy Soul was yielded to Camilla's Spear.
The mighty Butes next receives her Lance,
(While Breaft to Breaft the Combatants advance,)
Clanging between his Armour's joints it rung,
While on his Arm his useless Target hung.
Then from Orfilochus in Circle runs,
And follows the Purfuer, while the fhuns.
For ftill with craft a narrow Ring fhe wheels,
And brings her felf up to the Chafer's Heels.
Her Ax, regardless of his Prayers and Groans,
She crashes thro' his Armour and his Bones.
Redoubled Stroaks the vanquish'd Foe fuftains,
His reeking Face befpatter'd with his Brains.
Chance brought unhappy Aunus to the Place:
Who ftopping short, ftar'd wildly in her Face.
Of all to whom Liguria Fraud imparts,
While Fate allow'd that fraud, he was of subtlest Arts
Who, when he faw he cou'd not shun the Fight,
Strives to avoid the Virgin by his fleight;
And cries aloud, What Courage can you show,
By cunning Horfemanship to cheat a Foe?
Forego your Horse, and strive not to betray,
But dare to combat, a more equal way :
'Tis thus we see who merits Glory beft.
So bray'd, fierce Indignation fires her Breaft;
Difmounted from her Horfe, in open Field,
Now, firft fhe draws her Sword, and lifts her Shield.
He, thinking that his Cunning did fucceed,
Reins round his Horse, and urges all his speed,
His golden Rowels hidden in his Sides:
When thus his ufelefs Fraud the Maid derides:
Poor Wretch, that fwell'ft with a deluding Pride,
In vain thy Country's little Arts are try'd.
No more the Coward fhall behold his Sire;
Then plies her Feet, quick as the nimble Fire,
And up before his Horfe's Head the ftrains;
When feizing, with a furious Hand, his Reins,
She wreaks her Fury on his spouting Veins.
So, from a Rock, a Hawk foars high above,
And in a Cloud with cafe o'ertakes a Dove;
His Pounces fo the grappled Foe affail,
And Blood and Feathers mingle in a Hail.
Now Jove, to whom Mankind is still in fight,
With more than ufual Care beholds the Fight.
And urging Tarchon on, to rage inspires
The furious Deeds to which his Blood he fires.
He fpurs through Slaughter, and his failing Troops,
And with his Voice lifts every Arm that droops.
He shouts his Name in every Soldiers Ears;
Reviling thus the Spirits which he chears.
Ye fham'd, and ever branded Tyrrhene Race,From whence this Terror, and your Souls fo bafe? When tender Virgins triumph in the Field, Let every brawny Arm let fall his Shield, And break the coward Sword he dare not wield.. Not thus you fly the daring She by Night; Nor Goblets, that your drunken Throats invite. This is your Choice, when with lewd Bacchanals, Y're call'd by the fat Sacrifice,it waits not when it calls. Thus having faid----
He Spurs, with headlong Rage, among his Foes,: As if he only had his Life to lofe.
And meeting Venulus, his. Arms he clafps;
The Armour dints beneath the furious Grafps,
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