Striking her cliff the ftorm confirms her pow'r;
The waves but whiten her triumphant shore :¡
In vain they would advance, in vain retreat;
Broken they dash and perish at her feet.
For William ftill new wonders fhall be shown;
The pow'rs that refcu'd fhall preferve the throne.
Safe on his darling Britain's joyful sea,
Behold! the monarch plows his liquid way:
His fleets in thunder thro' the world declare
Whofe empire they obey, whofe arms they bear.
Blefs'd by afpiring winds, he finds the strand
Blacken'd with crowds; he fees the nation ftand,
Bleffing his fafety, proud of his command.
In various tongues he hears the captains dwell
On their great Leader's praife; by turns they tell
And liften, each with emulous glory fir'd,
How William conquer'd, and how France retir'd; 65
How Belgia freed the hero's arm confest,
But trembled for the courage which she bleft.
O Louis! from this great example know
To be at once a hero and a foe:
By founding trumpets hear, and rattling drums,
When William to the open vengeance comes;
And fee the foldier plead the monarch's right,
Heading his troops, and foremost in the fight.
Hence then clofe Ambush and perfidious War,
Down to your native feats of night repair:
And thou Bellona weep thy cruel pride,
Reftrain'd, behind the victor's chariot ty'd
In brazen knots and everlasting chains :
(So Europe's peace, fo William's fate ordains)
While on the iv'ry chair in happy state
He fits, fecure in innocence, and great
In regal clemency, and views beneath
Averted darts of rage, and pointlefs arms of death. 83
FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704, THE AUTHOR THEN
FORTY.*
LORDS, knights, and 'fquires, the num'rous band
That wear the fair Mifs Mary'st fetters,
Were fummon'd by her high command
To fhew their paffions by their letters.
My pen amongst the reft I took,
Left thofe bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The pow'r they have to be obey'd.
Nor quality nor reputation
Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
Dear five years old befriends my paffion,
And I may write till fhe can fpell.
For while fhe makes her filkworms beds,
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilft all the houfe my paffion reads
papers round her baby's hair;
may receive and own my flame,
For though the stricteft prudes fhould know it,
She'll país for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then, too, alas! when the fhall tear
The lines fome younger rival fends,
She'll give me leave to write I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
VII.
For as our different ages move,
'Tis fo ordain'd, wou'd fate but mend it,
Mr. Prior was born in the year 1664.
We prefame this young lady was one of the Dorfet family,
That I fhall be paft making love,
When the begins to comprehend it.
[TO THE COUNTESS OF EXETER.
HAT charms you have, from what high race
you fprung,
Have been the pleasing fubjects of my song:
Unfkill'd and young, yet fomething still I writ
Of Ca'ndish' beauty, join'd to Cecil's wit.
But when you please to show the lab'ring muse
What greater theme your mufic can produce,
My babbling praises I repeat no more,
But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.
The Perfians thus, firft gazing on the fun, Admir'd how high 'twas plac'd, how bright it fhone; 10 But as his pow'r was known their thoughts were rais'd, And foon they worship'd what at first they prais'd. Eliza's glory lives in Spenfer's fong,
And Cowley's verfe keeps fair Orinda* young;
That as in birth and beauty you excel,
The mufe might dictate and the poet tell:
Your art no other art can speak; and you
To fhew how well you play, must play anew:
Your mufic's pow'r your mufic must disclofe,
For what light is 'tis only light that shows.
Strange force of harmony that thus controls
Our thoughts, and turns and fanctifies our fouls.
While with its utmoft art your fex could move
Our wonder only or at beft our love,
You far above both these your god did place,
That your high pow'r might worldly thoughts destroy,
That with your numbers you our zeal might raife,
And like himself communicate your joy.
When to your native heav'n you shall repair,
And with your prefence crown the bleffings there, 30
Your lute may wind its ftrings but little higher
To tune their notes to that immortal quire.
Your art is perfect here; your numbers do
More than our books make the rude atheist know
That there's a heav'n by what he hears below.
As in fome piece while Luke his skill expreft,
A cunning angel came and drew the rest,
So when you play, fome godhead does impart
Harmonious aid; divinity helps art;
Some cherub finishes what you begun,
And to a miracle improves a tune.
To burning Rome when frantic Nero play'd,
Viewing that face, no more he had furvey'd
The raging flames, but, ftruck with strange surprise,
Confefs'd them lefs than thofe of Anna's eyes;
But, had he heard thy lute, he foon had found
His rage eluded and his crime aton'd:
Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone,
And from destruction call'd the rifing town;
Malice to mufic had been forc'd to yield,
Nor could he burn fo faft as thou couldst build.
TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET.
Written in her Milton.
EE here how bright the first born virgin fhone,
Such charming words our beauteous mother spoke,
As Milton wrote, and fuch as your's her look.
Your's the beft copy of th' orignal face,
Whofe beauty was to furnish all the race :
Such chains no author could efcape but he ;
There's no way to be safe but not to fee.
ERE reading how fond Adam was betray'd, And how by fin Eve's blafted charms decay'd, Our common lofs unjustly you complain, So fmall that part of it which you sustain. You ftill, fair mother, in your offspring trace The ftock of beauty deftin'd for the race: Kind Nature forming them, the pattern took From Heav'n's first work, and Eve's original look. 8 You, happy faint, the ferpent's pow'r control; Scarce any actual guilt defiles your foul;
And hell does o'er that mind vain triumphs boaft
Which gains a heav'n for earthly Eden loft.
With virtue ftrong as yours had Eve been arm'd,
In vain the fruit had blush'd, or ferpent charm'd;
Nor had our blifs by penitence been bought,
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.
TO MY LORD BUCKHURST,
VERY YOUNG, PLAYING WITH A CAT.
Twas by his darling Cat poffeft,
HE am'rous youth, whose tender breaft
Obtain'd of Venus his defire,
Howe'er irregular his fire:
Nature the pow'r of love obey'd,
The Cat became a blufhing maid,
And on the happy change the boy
Employ'd his wonder and his joy.
Take care, O beauteous child, take care,
Left thou prefer so rafh a pray`r,
Nor vainly hope the queen of love,
Will e'er thy fav'rite's charms improve.
O quickly from her shrine retreat,
Or tremble for thy darling's fate.
|