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The Nafeby 3, now no longer England's fhame,
But better to be loft in Charles' name,
(Like fome unequal bride in nobler sheets)
Receives her lord: the joyful London meets
The princely York, himself alone a freight;
The Swift-fure groans beneath great 4 Glofter's weight:
Secure as when the halcyon breeds, with thefe,
He that was born to drown might cross the feas.
Heav'n could not own a Providence, and take
The wealth three nations ventured at a stake.
The fame indulgence Charles his voyage blefs'd,
Which in his right had miracles confess'd.
The winds that never moderation knew,
Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;
Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge
Their ftraighten'd lungs, or confcious of their charge.
The British Amphytrite, fmooth and clear,

In richer azure never did appear;

Proud her returning prince to entertain

With the fubmitted fafces of the main.

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ND welcome now, great monarch, to your own;

It is no longer motion cheats your view,

As you meet it, the land approacheth you.
The land returns, and, in the white it wears,
The marks of penitence and forrow bears.
But you, whofe goodness your descent doth fhew,
Your heav'nly parentage and earthly too;

By that fame mildness, which your father's crown
Before did ravish, fhall fecure your own.
Not tied to rules of policy, you find
Revenge lefs fweet than a forgiving mind.

1 The fhip in which Charles the Second returned from exile. 2 Henry of Oatlands, duke of Gloucefter, third fon of Charles the firft, landed at Dover with his brother in 1660, and died of the fmall pox foon afterwards.

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Thus, when th' almighty would to Mofes give
A fight of all he could behold and live;
A voice before his entry did proclaim
Long-fuffering, goodnefs, mercy, in his name.
Your pow'r to juftice doth fubmit your caufe,
Your goodnefs only is above the laws;

Whofe rigid letter, while pronounc'd by you,
Is fofter made. So winds that tempefts brew,
When through Arabian groves they take their flight,
Made wanton with rich odours, lofe their fpite.
And as thofe lees, that trouble it, refine
The agitated foul of generous wine:

So tears of joy, for your returning, spilt;
Work out, and expiate our former guilt.
Methinks I fee thofe crouds on Dover's ftrand,
Who, in their hafte to welcome you to land,
Chok'd up the beach with their ftill growing store,
And made a wilder torrent on the fhore:

While, fpurr'd with eager thoughts of paft delight,
Those, who had feen you, court a fecond fight;
Preventing fill your fteps, and making hafte
To meet you often wherefoe'er you past.
How fhall I fpeak of that triumphant day,
When you renew'd th' expiring pomp of May!
(A month that owns an intereft in your name:
You and the flow'rs are its peculiar claim.)
That ftar that at your birth fhone out fo bright,
It ftain'd the duller fun's meridian light,
Did once again its potent fires renew,
Guiding our eyes to find and worship you.
And now Time's whiter feries is begun,
Which in foft centuries fhall fmoothly run:
Thofe clouds, that overcaft your morn, fhall fly,
Difpell'd to fartheft corners of the sky.

Our nation with united intereft bleft,
Not now content to poize, fhall fway the reft.

Abroad

Abroad your empire fhall no limits know,
But, like the fea, in boundless circles flow.

Your much-lov'd fleet fhall, with a wide command,
Befiege the petty monarchs of the land:

And as old 3 Time his offspring swallow'd down,
Our ocean in its depths all feas fhall drown.
Their wealthy trade from pirate's rapine free,
Our merchants fhall no more adventurers be:
Nor in the fartheft east those dangers fear,
Which humble Holland muft diffemble here,
Spain to your gift alone her Indies owes ;
For what the pow'rful takes not he bestows:
And France, that did an exile's presence fear,
May juftly apprehend you ftill too near.
At home the hateful names of parties cease,
And factious fouls are wearied into peace.
The difcontented now are only they,

Whofe crimes before did your juft caufe betray:
Of those your edicts fome reclaim from fin,
But moft your life and bleft example win.

Oh happy prince, whom heav'n hath taught the way,
By paying vows to have more vows to pay!

Oh happy age! Oh times like thofe alone,
By fate referv'd for great Auguftus' throne!
When the joint growth of arms and arts forefhew
The world a monarch, and that monarch you.

3 Days, months and years may be justly called the children of Time, which he daily produces and as conftantly devours.

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To His SACRED MAJESTY.

A PANEGYRIC on his CORONATION.

N that wild deluge where the world was drown'd,

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When life and fin one common tomb had found, The firft fmall prospect of a rifing hill

With various notes of joy the ark did fill:

Yet when that flood in its own depths was drown'd,
It left behind it falfe and flipp'ry ground;

And the more folemn pomp was ftill deferr'd,
'Till new-born nature in fresh looks appear'd.
Thus, royal Sir, to see you landed here,
Was caufe enough of triumph for a year:
Nor would your care thofe glorious joys repeat,
'Till they at once might be fecure and great:
"Till your kind beams, by their continu'd stay,
Had warm'd the ground, and call'd the damps away.
Such vapours, while your pow'rful influence dries,
Then fooneft vanish when they highest rife.
Had greater hafte thefe facred rites prepar'd,
Some guilty months had in your triumphs fhar'd:
But this untainted year is all your own;
Your glories may without our crimes be fhown.
We had not yet exhaufted all our store,
When you refresh'd our joys by adding more:
As heaven, of old, difpens'd celestial dew,
You gave us manna, and still give us new.

Now our fad ruins are remov'd from fight,
The feafon too comes fraught with new delight:
Time feems not now beneath his years to stoop,
Nor do his wings with fickly feathers droop:
Soft western winds waft o'er the gaudy fpring,
And open'd fcenes of flowers and bloffoms bring,

To

To grace this happy day, while you appear,
Not king of us alone, but of the year.
All eyes you draw, and with the
eyes the heart:
Of your own pomp your felf the greatest part:
Loud fhouts the nation's happiness proclaim,
And heav'n this day is feafted with your name.
Your cavalcade the fair fpectators view,
From their high ftandings, yet look up to you.
From your brave train each fingles out a prey,
And longs to date a conqueft from your day.
Now charg'd with bleffings while you feek repofe,
Officious flumbers hafte your eyes to clofe;
And glorious dreams ftand ready to restore
The pleafing fhapes of all you saw before.
Next to the facred temple you are led,

Where waits a crown for your more facred head:
How juftly from the church that crown is due,
Preferv'd from ruin, and restor'd by you!
The grateful choir their harmony employ,
Not to make greater, but more folemn joy.
Wrapt foft and warm your name is fent on high,
As flames do on the wings of incense fly:
Mufic herself is loft, in vain she brings
Her choiceft notes to praise the best of kings:
Her melting ftrains in you a tomb have found,
And lie like bees in their own fweetnefs drown'd.
He that brought peace, all difcord could atone,
His name is mufic of itfelf alone.

Now while the facred oil anoints your head,
And fragrant fcents, begun from you, are spread
Through the large dome; the people's joyful found,
Sent back, is ftill preferv'd in hallow'd ground;
Which in one bleffing mix'd defcends on you;
As heightened fpirits fall in richer dew.
Not that cur wishes do increase your store,
Full of your felf you can admit no more:

We

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