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An hollow crystal pyramid he takes,
In firmamental waters dipt above;
Of it a broad extinguisher he makes,
And hoods the flames that to their quarry drove.
The vanquish'd fires withdraw from every place,
Or full with feeding fink into a sleep :
Each houshold genius fhews again his face,
And from the hearths the little lares creep.
Our king this more than natural change beholds;
With fober joy his heart and eyes abound:
To the All-good his lifted hands he folds,
And thanks him low on his redeemed ground.
As when fharp frofts had long constrain'd the earth,
A kindly thaw unlocks it with cold rain;
And firft the tender blade peeps up to birth,
And straight the green fields laugh with promis'd grain:
By fuch degrees the fpreading gladness grew
In every heart which fear had froze before :
The standing streets with so much joy they view,
That with lefs grief the perish'd they deplore.
The father of the people open'd wide
His fores, and all the poor with plenty fed:
Thus Cod's anointed God's own place fupply'd,
And fill'd the empty with his daily bread.
This royal bounty brought its own reward,
And in their minds fo deep did print the sense;
That if their ruins fadly they regard,
'Tis but with fear the fight might drive him thence.
But fo may he live long, that town to sway,
Which by his auspice they will nobler make,
As he will hatch their afhes by his stay,
And not their humble ruins now forfake.
They have not loft their loyalty by fire;
Nor is their courage or their wealth fo low, That from his wars they poorly would retire, Or beg the pity of a vanquifh'd foe.
Not with more conftancy the Jews, of old
By Cyrus from rewarded exile fent,
Their royal city did in duft behold,
Or with more vigour to rebuild it went.
The utmost malice of the ftars is paft,
And two dire comets, which have scourg'd the town, In their own plague and fire have breath'd the last, Or dimly in their finking fockets frown. CCXCII.
Now frequent trines the happier lights among,
And high-rais'& Jove, from his dark prison freed,
Thofe weights took off that on his planet hung,
Will gloriously the new-laid works fucceed.
Methinks already from this chemic flame,
I fee a city of more precious mold:
Rich as the town which gives the Indies name,
With filver pav'd, and all divine with gold.
Already labouring with a mighty fate,
She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow,
And feems to have renew'd her charter's date,
Which heaven will to the death of time allow.
More great than human now, and more august,
Now deify'd fhe from her fires does rife :
Her widening ftreets on new foundations truft,
And opening into larger parts fhe flies.
Before the like fome fhepherdess did show,
Who fat to bathe her by a river's fide;
Not answering to her fame, but rude and low,
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.
Now like a maiden queen she will behold,
From her high turrets, hourly fuitors come:
The Eaft with incenfe, and the Weft with gold,
Will ftand like fuppliants to receive her doom.
The filver Thames, her own domeftic flood,
Shall bear her veffels like a fweeping train; And often wind, as of his miftrefs proud, With longing eyes to meet her face again.
The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine,
The glory of their towns no more shall boast,
And Seyne, that would with Belgian rivers join,
Shall find her luftre ftain'd, and traffic loft.
The venturous merchant who defign'd more far,
And touches on our hofpitable fhore,
Charm'd with the fplendor of this northern ftar,
Shall here unlade him, and depart no more.
Our powerful navy shall no longer meet,
The wealth of France or Holland to invade :
The beauty of this town without a fleet,
From all the world fhall vindicate her trade.
And while this fam'd emporium we prepare,
The British ocean fhall fuch triumphs boaft,
That thofe, who now difdain our trade to fhare,
Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast.
Already we have conquer'd half the war,
And the lefs dangerous part is left behind :
Our trouble now is but to make them dare,
And not so great to vanquish as to find.
Thus to the eastern wealth through ftorms we go,
But now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more;
A conftant trade-wind will fecurely blow,
And gently lay us on the spicy fhore.
ESSAY UPON SATIRE.
By Mr DRYDEN, and the Earl of MULGRAVE.
How dull, and how infenfible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the reft! Philofophers and poets vainly ftrove
In every age the lumpifh mafs to move:
But thofe were pedants, when compar'd with these,
Who know not only to inftruct but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way,
Myfterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; fo that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wifer too.
Satire has always fhone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their fouleft faults;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In fatire too the wife took different ways,
To each deferving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with juft fharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into shame.
But of these two, the last fucceeded beft,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may prefume to blame our guides,
And cenfure thofe who cenfure all befides;