Pofterity is charg'd the more,

Because the large abounding ftore

To them and to their heirs, is ftill entail'd by thee.

Succeffion of a long descent

Which chaftely in the channels ran,

And from our demi-gods began,

Equal almost to time in its extent,

Through hazards numberless and great,

Thou hast deriv'd this mighty blessing down,

And fixt the faireft gem that decks th' imperial crown:

Not faction, when it fhook thy regal feat,

Not fenates, infolently loud,

Thofe echoes of a thoughtless crowd,
Not foreign or domeftic treachery,

Could warp thy foul to their unjust decree.
So much thy foes thy manly mind mistook,
Who judg'd it by the mildness of thy look :
Like a well-temper'd fword it bent at will
But kept the native toughness of the steel.
XI.

Be true, O Clio, to thy hero's name!
But draw him ftrictly fo,

That all who view, the piece may know;
He needs no trappings of fictitious fame:
The load's too weighty: thou may't chufe
Some parts of praife, and fome refuse :

Write, that his annals may be thought more lavish than

the Mufe.

In feanty truth thou haft confin'd

The virtues of a royal mind,

Forgiving, bounteous, humble, juft, and kind:

His converfation, wit, and parts,

His knowledge in the nobleft useful arts,
Were fuch, dead authors could not give;
But habitudes of those who live;

Who, lighting him, did greater lights receive :
He drain'd from all, and all they knew ;
His apprehenfion quick, his judgment true:
That the most learn'd, with fhame, confefs
His knowledge more, his reading only lefs.

XII.

Amidst the peaceful triumphs of his reign, What wonder if the kindly beams he shed? Reviv'd the drooping arts again,

If fcience rais'd her head,

And foft humanity that from rebellion fled ?
Our ifle, indeed, too fruitful was before;
But all uncultivated lay

Out of the folar walk and heaven's high way;

With rank Geneva weeds run o’er,

And cockle, at the best, amidst the corn it bore:

The royal husbandman appear'd,

And plough'd, and fow'd, and till'd,

The thorns he rooted out, the rubbish clear'd,
And bleft th' obedient field.

When ftrait a double harvest rose ;
Such as the fwarthy Indian mows;
Or happier climates near the line,

Or paradife manur'd and drest by hands divine.

XIII. As

XIII.

As when the new-born phoenix takes his way,
His rich paternal regions to furvey,

Of airy choristers a numerous train
Attend his wondrous progrefs o'er the plain;
So, rifing from his father's urn,

So glorious did our Charles return;
Th' officious Mufes came along,

A

gay harmonious quire like angels ever young : The Mufe that mourns him now his happy triumph sung, Ev'n they could thrive in his aufpicious reign; And fuch a plenteous crop they bore

Of purest and well-winow'd grain,

As Britain never knew before.

Though little was their hire, and light their gain,
Yet fomewhat to their fhare he threw ;

Fed from his hand, they fung and flew,
Like birds of paradise that liv'd on morning dew.
Oh never let their lays his name forget!
The penfion of a prince's praise is great.
Live then, thou great encourager of arts,
Live ever in our thankful hearts;
Live bleft above, almost invok'd below;
Live and receive this pious vow,

Our patron once, our guardian angel now.
Thou Fabius of a finking ftate,

Who didft by wife delays divert our fate,
When faction like a tempeft rofe,
In death's most hideous form,
Then art to rage thou didst oppose,
To weather out the ftorm :

Not quitting thy fupreme command,

Thou held'ft the rudder with a steady hand,
Till fafely on the shore the bark did land:
The bork that all our bleffings brought,

Charg'd with thyfelf and James, a doubly royal fraught.

XIV.

Oh frail eftate of human things,

And flippery hopes below!

Now to our coft your emptiness we know :

For 'tis a leffon dearly bought,

Affure here is never to be fought.

The but, and beft-belov'd of kings,
And beft deferving to be fo,

When fearce he had cfcap'd the fatal blow
Of faction and confpiracy,

Death di his promis'd hopes deftroy:
He toil'd, he gain'd, but liv'd not to enjoy.
What mifts of Providence are thefe
Through which we cannot fee!

So faints, by fupernatural power fet free,
Are left at laft in martyrdom to die;
Such is the end of oft-repeated miracles.
Forgive me, heaven, that impious thought,

'Twas grief for Charles, to madnefs wrought,

That question'd thy fupreme decree!

Thou didit his gracious reign prolong,
Ev'n in thy faints and angels wrong,
His fellow-citzens of immortality:
For twelve long years of exile borne,

Twice twelve we number'd fince his bleft return:

So