While peace from hence, and you were gone,
Your houses in that storm o'erthrown,
Those wounds which civil rage did give,
At once you pardon, and relieve.
Conftant to ENGLAND in your love,
As birds are to their wonted grove;
Tho' by rude hands their nefts are spoil'd,
There, the next spring again they build.
Accufing some malignant star,
Not BRITAIN, for that fatal war;
Your kindness banishes your fear,
Refolv'd to fix for ever here.
But what new Mine this work fupplies?
Can fuch a pile from ruin rife?
This like the first creation fhows,
As if at your command it rose.
Frugality, and bounty too,
(Thofe diff'ring virtues) meet in you;
From a confin'd, well-manag'd, ftore,
You both imploy, and feed, the poor.
Let foreign Princes vainly boaft
The rude effects of pride, and coft ;
Of vafter fabrics, to which they
Contribute nothing, but the pay.
This, by the Queen herself defign'd,
Gives us a pattern of her mind:
The state, and order, does proclaim
The genius of that Royal Dame.
Each part with just proportion grac'd,
And all to fuch advantage plac'd;
That the fair view her window yields,
The town, the river, and the fields.
Ent'ring, beneath us we defcry;
And wonder how we came fo high.
She needs no weary steps afcend;
All feems before her feet to bend :
And here, as fhe was born, fhe lies;
High, without taking pains to rise.
Of a TREE cut in PAPER.
AIR hand! that can on virgin-paper write,
Yet, from the ftain of ink, preserve it white:
Whofe travel o'er that filver field does show,
Like track of leverets in morning-fnow.
LOVE's image thus in pureft minds is wrought,
Without a fpot, or blemish, to the thought.
Strange that your fingers should the pencil foil,
Without the help of Colors, or of oil!
For, tho' a painter boughs, and leaves, can make ;
'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake ;
Whose breath falutes your new-created grove,
Like fouthern winds, and makes it gently move.
ORPHEUS could make the forest dance; but you
Can make the motion, and the forest too.
To a LADY, from whom he received the foregoing Copy, which for many years had been loft.
OTHING lies hid from radiant eyes;
All they fubdue become their fpies:
Secrets, as choicest jewels, are
Prefented to oblige the Fair:
No wonder then, that a loft thought
Should there be found, where Souls are caught.
The picture of fair VENUS, (that, For which Men say, the Goddess fat) Was loft, 'till LELY from your look Again that glorious image took.
If virtue's felf were loft, we might
From your fair mind new copies write:
All things, but one, you can restore;
The heart you get returns no more.
Of the Lady MARY, Princess of
ORANGE.
S once the lion honey gave,
Out of the strong fuch sweetness came;
A royal Hero, no less brave,
Produc'd this fweet, this lovely, dame.
To her, the Prince that did oppose
Such mighty Armies in the field,
And HOLLAND from prevailing foes
Could fo well free, himself does yield.
Not BELGIA's fleet (his high command)
Which triumphs where the fun does rise;
Nor all the force he leads by land,
Could guard him from her conqu'ring eyes.
ORANGE, with youth, experience has;
In action young, in council old:
ORANGE is, what AUGUSTUS was,
Brave, wary, provident, and bold.
On that fair tree which bears his name,
Bloffoms, and fruit, at once are found:
In him we all admire the same,
His flow'ry youth with wisdom crown'd!
Empire, and freedom, reconcil'd
In HOLLAND are, by great NAS SAW: Like those he fprung from, juft, and mild, To willing people he gives law.
Thrice-happy pair! so near ally'd,
In royal blood, and virtue too!
Now LOVE has you together ty'd,
May none this triple knot undo!
The Church fhall be the happy place,
Where ftreams which from the fame fource run,
Tho' divers lands awhile they grace,
Unite again, and are made one.
A thousand thanks the nation owes
To him that does protect us all:
For, while he thus his neece bestows,
About our Ifle he builds a wall;
A wall! like that which ATHENS had,
By th' oracle's advice, of wood:
Had theirs been fuch as CHARLES has made,
That mighty ftate 'till now had ftood.
of ENGLISH VERSE.
OETS may boast, as fafely vain,
Their work fhall with the world remain:
Both bound together, live, or die,
The verses, and the prophecy.
But who can hope his lines fhould long
Laft, in a daily-changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails;
And as that dies, our language fails.
When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we ufe ill chofen ftone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.
Poets that lafting marble feek,
Muft carve in LATIN, or in GREEK:
We write in fand, our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'er-flows.
CHAUCER his fenfe can only boast;
The glory of his numbers loft!
Years have defac'd his matchless strain;
And yet he did not fing in vain.
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