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PRESENTED TO THE RING, AT IIIS ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE DisCover Y OF THE CON's PIRACY,” MDCXCVI
Serus in coelum redeas; diuque
Laetus intersis populo Quirini:
Neve te nostris vitiis iniquum
Tollat Holt. ad Augustum.
YE careful angels, whom eternal Fate
1 This conspiracy is generally called the Assassination Plot. Sir John Fenwick was executed for being concerned in it.
Britain her safety to your guidance owns, That she can sep'rate parricides from sons; That, impious rage disarm’d, she lives and reigns, Her freedom kept by him, who broke her chains,
And thou, great minister, above the rest Of guardian spirits, be thou for ever blest; Thou, who of old wert sent to Israel’s court, With secret aid great David's strong support: To mock the frantic rage of cruel Saul, And strike the useless javelin to the wall. Thy later care o'er William's temples held, On Boyne's propitious banks, the heav'nly shield; When power divine did sovereign right declare, And cannons mark'd whom they were bid to spare.
Still, blessed angel, be thy care the same! Be William's life untouch'd, as is his fame! Let him own thine, as Britain owns his hand:
Save thou the king, as he has sav'd the land!
We angels' forms in pious monarchs view ; We reverence William ; for he acts like you; Like you, commission'd to chastise and bless, He must avenge the world, and give it peace.
Indulgent Fate our potent prayer receives; And still Britannia smiles, and William lives. The hero dear to earth, by heav'n belov’d, By troubles must be vex'd, by dangers prov’d: His foes must aid to make his fame complete, And fix his throne secure on their defeat.
So, though with sudden rage the tempest comes: Though the winds roar, and though the water foams,
Restrain'd, behind the victor's chariot tied
TO CLOE WEEPING.
SEE, whilst thou weep'st, fair Cloe, see The world in sympathy with thee. The cheerful birds no longer sing; Each droops his head, and hangs his wing. The clouds have bent their bosom lower, And shed their sorrows in a shower. The brooks beyond their limits flow; And louder murmurs speak their woe. The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares; They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears. Fantastic nymph! that grief should move *Thy heart obdurate against Love. Strange tears! whose power can soften all, But that dear breast on which they fall.
TO M R. HOWARD.1 AN ODE.
DEAR Howard, from the soft assaults of Love, Poets and painters never are secure;
Can I untouch'd the fair one's passions move? Or thou draw beauty, and not feel its power?
1 “Hugh Howard, better known by these beautiful verses to him, than by his own works, was son of Ralph Howard, doctor of physic, and was born in Dublin, February 7, 1675. His father being driven from Ireland by the troubles that followed the Revolution, brought the lad to England, who dissovering a disposition to the arts and Belles Lettres, was sent to travel in 1697; and, in his way to Italy, passed through Holland in the train of Thomas, Earl of Pembroke, one of the plenipotentiaries at the treaty of Ryswick. Mr. Howard proceeded as he had intended, and having visited France and Italy, returned home in October, 1700. “Some years he passed in Dublin: the greatest and latter part of his life he spent entirely in England, practising painting, at least with applause; but having ingratiated himself by his same and knowledge of lands with men of the first rank, particularly the Duke of Devonshire and Lord Pembroke, and by a parsimonious management of his good fortune, and of what he received with his wife, he was enabled to quit the practical part of his profession for the last twenty years of his life; the former peer having obtained for
him the posts of Keeper of the State Papers, and Paymaster of his Majesty's Palaces. In this pleasing situation he amused himself with forming a large collection of prints,