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; The light, unloaded stem, from tempest freed, Will raise the youthful honors of his head; And foon reftor'd by native vigor, bear The timely product of the bounteous year. Nor yet conclude all fiery trials paft: For heaven will exercise us to the last; Sometimes will check us in our full career, With doubtful bleffings, and with mingled fear; That, still depending on his daily grace, His every mercy for an alms may pass, With sparing 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 them long. True, this last bleffing was a royal feast; But where's the wedding-garment on the guest? Our manners, as religion were a dream, Are fuch as teach the nations to blaspheme. In lufts we wallow, and with pride we fwell, And injuries with injuries repel; Prompt to revenge, not daring to forgive, And vainly thought the prefent ark their guard; But James and Mary, and the church prevail. But you, propitious queen, tranflated here, From your mild heaven, to rule-ourrugged sphere, 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 boast, That tho the longest day would soon, too soon be done. Let angels voices with their harps confpire, Nor can I wish to you, great monarch, more Than fuch an annual income to your ftore; The day which gave this unit, did not shine After a prince, an admiral beget; The Royal Sov'reign wants an anchor yet. Our ifle has younger titles ftill in ftore, 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, Some kings the name of conqu'rors have affum'd, Some to be great, fome to be Gods presum'd ; Whom they pretend, at least, to imitate, For few would love their God, unless they fear'd. Make but a lame, imperfect, deity: And yet heaven's attributes, both last and first, Nor hopes nor fears your steady hand beguile; } |