Britain her safety to your guidance owns, That she can separate 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 ever bless'd: 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 heavenly 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 saved 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 Heaven beloved, By troubles must be vex'd, by dangers proved: 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, Imperial Britain on the sea looks down, And, smiling, sees her rebel subjects frown: Striking her cliff, the storm confirms her power; 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 still new wonders shall be shown; The powers that rescued shall preserve the throne. Safe on his darling Britain's joyful sea,

Behold, the monarch ploughs his liquid way:
His fleets, in thunder, through the world declare
Whose empire they obey, whose arms they bear.
Bless'd by aspiring winds, he finds the strand
Blacken'd with crowds; he sees the nation stand,
Blessing his safety, proud of his command.
In various tongues he hears the captains dwell
On their great Leader's praise; by turns they tell
And listen, each with emulous glory fired,
How William conquer'd, and how France retired;
How Belgia, freed, the hero's arm confess'd,
But trembled for the courage which she bless'd.
O Louis! from this great example know
To be at once a hero and a foe:

By sounding trumpets hear, and rattling drums,
When William to the open vengeance comes;
And see the soldier plead the monarch's right,
Heading his troops, and foremost in the fight.

Hence, then, close Ambush and perfidious War, Down to your native seats of night repair: And thou, Bellona, weep thy cruel pride, Restrain'd, behind the victor's chariot tied In brazen knots and everlasting chains: (So Europe's peace, so William's fate ordains) While on the ivory chair, in happy state He sits, secure in innocence, and great In regal clemency, and views, beneath, Averted darts of rage, and pointless arms of death.

26.

C

ΤΟ

A CHILD OF QUALITY,

FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704, THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's' fetters,
Were summon'd by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obey'd.

Nor quality nor reputation

Forbid me yet my flame to tell,

Dear five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I
may write till she can spell.

For while she makes her silk-worms' beds
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;

She

may receive and own my flame,

For though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I, for an unhappy poet.

Then, too, alas! when she shall tear

The lines some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear,

And we shall still continue friends.

'This young lady is supposed to have been one of the Dorset family.

For as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordain'd, (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love,

When she begins to comprehend it.

TO THE

COUNTESS OF EXETER',

PLAYING ON THE LUTE.

WHAT charms you have, from what high race you sprung,

Have been the pleasing subjects of my song:
Unskill'd, and young, yet something still I writ
Of Ca'ndish beauty, join'd to Cecil's wit.
But when you please to show the labouring Muse
What greater theme your music can produce,
My babbling praises I repeat no more,
But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.

The Persians thus, first gazing on the sun, Admired how high 'twas placed, how bright it shone;

But as his power was known, their thoughts were raised,

And soon they worshipp'd what at first they praised.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song,

And Cowley's verse keeps fair Orinda' young;
That as in birth, in beauty you excel,
The Muse might dictate, and the poet tell:
Your art no other art can speak; and you,
To show how well you play, must play anew:

1 Anna, daughter of William Earl of Devonshire, and sister to the first Duke. She died in 1703.

2 Mrs. Katharine Phillips.

Your music's power your music must disclose; For what light is, 'tis only light that shows.

Strange force of harmony, that thus controls
Our thoughts, and turns and sanctifies our souls.
While with its utmost art your sex could move
Our wonder only, or at best our love;
You far above both these your God did place,
That your high power might worldly thoughts
destroy,

That with your numbers you our zeal might raise;
And, like himself, communicate your joy.
When to your native heaven you shall repair,
And with your presence crown the blessings there,
Your lute may wind its strings but little higher,
To tune their notes to that immortal choir.
Your art is perfect here; your numbers do,
More than our books, make the rude atheist know
That there's a Heaven by what he hears below.
As in some piece while Luke his skill express'd,
A cunning angel came and drew the rest;
So when you play, some 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 survey'd
The raging flames, but, struck with strange surprise,
Confess'd them less than those of Anna's eyes;
But had he heard thy lute, he soon had found
His rage eluded, and his crime atoned:

Thine, like Amphion's hand, had waked the stone,
And from destruction call'd the rising town;
Malice to music had been forced to yield,
Nor could he burn so fast as thou could'st build.