Here black Rebellion shooting from below

*

(As earth's gigantic brood by moments grow) And here the fons of God are petrified with woe: An apoplex of grief! fo low were driv'n

The faints, as hardly to defend their heav'n.

As, when pent vapours run their hollow round,
Earthquakes, which are convulfions of the ground,
Break bellowing forth, and no confinement brook,
Till the third fettles what the former shook;
Such heavings had our fouls; till, flow and late,
Our life with his return'd, and faith prevail'd on fate.
By prayers the mighty bleffing was implor'd,

To pray'rs was granted, and by pray'rs reftor'd.
So, ere the † Shunamite a fon conceiv'd,
The prophet promis'd, and the wife believ'd.
A fon was fent, the fon fo much defir'd;
But foon upon the mother's knees expir'd.

The troubled feer approach'd the mournful door,
Ran, pray'd, and sent his past'ral staff before,

Then ftretch'd his limbs upon the child and mourn'd,
Till warmth, and breath, and a new foul return'd.
Thus Mercy ftretches out her hand, and faves
Defponding Peter finking in the waves.

As when a fudden ftorm of hail and rain Beats to the ground the yet unbearded grain, Think not the hopes of harvest are destroy'd On the flat field, and on the naked void:

*Thofe giants are feigned to have grown fifteen ells every day.

In the fecond book of Kings, chap. iv.

The light, unloaded ftem from tempeft freed,
Will raife the youthful honours of his head;
And, foon reftor'd by native vigour, bear
The timely product of the bounteous year.
Nor yet conclude all fiery trials past:
For heav'n will exercife us to the laft;
Sometimes will check us in our full career,
With doubtful bleffings, and with mingled fear;
That, ftill depending on his daily grace,
His every mercy for an alms may pass,
With fparing hands will diet us to good;
Preventing furfeits of our pamper'd blood.
So feeds the mother-bird her craving young
With little morfels, and delays 'em long.

True, this laft bluffing was a royal feaft;
But, where's the wedding garment on the gucft?
Our manners, as religion, were a dream,
Are fuch as teach the nations to blafpheme.
In lufts we wallow, and with pride we fwell,
And injuries with injuries repel;

Prompt to revenge, not daring to forgive,
Our lives unteach the doctrine we believe.
Thus Ifrael finn'd, impenitently hard,

And vainly thought the * prefent ark their guard;
But when the haughty Philiftines appear,

They fled, abandon'd to their foes and fear;
Their God was abfent, tho' his ark was there.

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 promife, not our practice gives.
Our crimes wou'd foon weigh down the guilty scale,
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,
Mod'rate 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 fuch a day;
'Tis god-like God in his own coin to pay.
But you, propitious Queen, tranflated here,
From your mild heav'n, to rule our rugged fphere
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 boat,
Though beautiful is well in p ous loft;
So loft as ftar-light is difflv'd away,
And melts into the brightness of the day;
Or gold about the regal 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 thou'd our thanks awake the rising fun,
And lengthen, as his latest shadows run,
That, tho' the longest day, wou'd foon, too foon be

[done.

Let angels voices with their harps confpire,
But keep th' aufpicicus infant from the choir;

* Exod. xvii. 8.

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 store;
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 Sov'reign 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 conqu'rors have affum'd,
Some to be great, fome to be gods prefum'd;
But boundless pow'r, and arbitrary luft,
Made tyrants ftill abhor the name of Juft;
They fhunn'd the praise this god-like 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;

For few wou'd love their God, unless they fear'd.
Refiftless force and immortality

Make but a lame, imperfect, deity:

*Ariftides. See his life in Plutarch.

Tempefts have force unbounded to destroy,
And deathlefs being e'en the damn'd enjoy;
And yet Heaven's attributes, both last and first,
One without life, and one with life accurst :
But justice is Heaven's self, so strictly he,
That cou'd it fail, the Godhead cou'd 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 smile;
Nor hopes, nor fears your steady hand beguile;
Yourself our balance hold, the world's our ifle.

SATYR upon the DUTCH,

A

Written in the Year 1662.

S needy gallants, in the fcriv'ner's hands,

Court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgag'd
lands;

The first fat buck of all the feafon's fent,
And keeper takes no fee in compliment;
The dotage of fome Englishmen is fuch,
To fawn on those, who ruin them, the Dutch.
They fhall have all, rather than make a war
With thofe, who of the fame religion are.
The Straits, the Guinea-trade, the herrings too;
Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
Some are refolv'd not to find out the cheat,
But cuckold-like, love them that do the feat.