Now charg'd with bleffings while you seek repose,
Officious flumbers hafte your eyes to clofe;
And glorious dreams ftand ready to restore
The pleasing shapes of all you faw before.
Next to the facred temple you are led,
Where waits a crown for your more facred head:
How justly 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 soft and warm your name is sent on high,
As flames do on the wings of incenfe fly:
Mufic herself is loft, in vain she brings
Her choiceft notes to praise the best of kings:
Her melting strains in you a tomb have found,
And lie like bees in their own sweetness drown'd.
He that brought peace, all discord could atone,
His name is mufic of itself alone.

Now while the facred oil anoints your head,
And fragrant scents, begun from you, are spread
Through the large dome; the people's joyful found,
Sent back, is still preferv'd in hallow'd ground;
Which in one bleffing mix'd defcends on you;
As heightned spirits fall in richer dew.

Not that our wishes do increase your store,

Full of your felf you can admit no more:
We add not to your glory, but employ
Our time, like angels, in expreffing joy.
Nor is it duty, or our hopes alone,

Create that joy, but full fruition:

We know those bleffings, which we must possess,
And judge of future by past happiness.
No promise can oblige a prince fo much

Still to be good, as long to have been such.

A noble emulation heats

your breast,

And your own fame now robs

your reft.

you of Good actions still must be maintain'd with good, As bodies nourifh'd with refembling food. You have already quench'd fedition's brand; And zeal, which burnt it, only warms the land. The jealous fects, that dare not trust their cause So far from their own will as to the laws, You for their umpire and their fynod take, And their appeal alone to Cæfar make. Kind heav'n fo rare a temper did provide, That guilt repenting might in it confide. Among our crimes oblivion may be fet: But 'tis our king's perfection to forget,

Virtues unknown to these rough northern climes
From milder heav'ns you bring without their crimes.
Your calmnefs does no after-ftorms provide,
Nor feeming patience mortal anger hide.
When empire first from families did spring,
Then every father govern'd as a king :
But you, that are a fovereign prince, allay
Imperial power with your paternal fway.
From those great cares when ease your soul unbends,
Your pleasures are defign'd to noble ends?
Born to command the mistress of the feas,
Your thoughts themselves in that blue empire please.
Hither in fummer evenings you repair
To tafte the fraicheur of the purer air:
Undaunted here you ride, when winter raves,
With Cæfar's heart that rofe above the waves.
More I could fing, but fear my numbers stays;
No loyal fubject dares that courage praise.
In ftately frigates most delight you find,
Where well-drawn battles fire your martial mind.
What to your cares we owe, is learnt from hence,
When even your pleasures serve for our defence,
Beyond your court flows in th' admitted tide,
Where in new depths the wondering fishes glide;

Here in a royal bed the waters fleep;
When tir'd at sea, within this bay they creep.
Here the mistrustful fowl no harm suspects,
So fafe are all things which our king protects.
From your lov'd Thames a bleffing yet is due,
Second alone to that it brought in you;

A queen, near whose chaste womb, ordain'd by

fate,

The fouls of kings unborn for bodies wait.
It was your love before made difcord ceafe:
Your love is deftin'd to your country's peace.
Both Indies, rivals in your bed, provide
With gold or jewels to adorn your bride.
This to a mighty king prefents rich ore,
While that with incenfe does a god implore.
Two kingdoms wait your doom, and, as you choose,
This must receive a crown, or that must lose.
Thus from your royal oak, like Jove's of old,
Are answers fought, and deftinies foretold:
Propitious oracles are begg'd with vows,

And crowns that grow upon the facred boughs.
Your fubjects, while you weigh the nation's fate,
Sufpend to both their doubtful love or hate:
Chufe only, fir, that so they may possess

With their own peace their children's happiness.

TO THE

LORD-CHANCELLOR HYDE.

Prefented on NEW-YEAR'S-Day, 1662.

MY LORD,

W

HILE flattering crouds officiously appear
To give themselves, not you, an happy

year;

And by the greatness of their presents prove How much they hope, but not how well they

love;