A PANEGYRIC on his CORONATION,
IN wile whe
N that wild deluge where the world was drown'd,
When life and fin one common tomb had found, The firft fmall profpect 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 fee you landed here,
Was cause 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 ftay,
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 shown.
We had not yet exhaufted all our ftore,
When you refresh'd our joys by adding more;
As heaven, of old, difpens'd celeftial dew,
You gave us manna, and still give us new.
Now our fad ruins are remov'd from fight,
The season too comes fraught with new delight:
Time feems not now beneath his years to ftoop,
Nor do his wings with fickly feathers droop:
Soft western winds waft o'er the gaudy fpring,
And open'd fcenes of flowers and blooms bring,
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 houts 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 wih blefings while you feek repofe,
Officious flumbers hafte your eyes to close;
And glorious dreams ftand ready to reftore
The pleasing fhapes of all you faw 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 reftor'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 incense fly:
Mufic herself is loft, in vain fhe 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 discord could atone,
His name is mufic of itself 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 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 thofe bleffings, which we muft poffefs,
And judge of future by paft happiness.
No promife can oblige a prince fo much
Still to be good, as long to have been fuch.
A noble emulation heats your breaft,
And your own fame now robs you of your rest.
Good actions fill must be maintain'd with good,
As bodies nourish'd with resembling food.
You have already quench'd fedition's brand;
And zeal, which burnt it, only warms the land.
The jealous fects, that dare not truft their caufe
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-forms provide,
Nor feeming patience mortal anger hide.
When empire firft from families did fpring,
Then every father govern'd as a king:
But you, that are a fovereign prince, allay
Imperial power with your paternal fway.
From thofe great cares when eafe your foul unbends,
Your pleasures are defign'd to noble ends?
Born to command the miftrefs of the seas,
Your thoughts themfelves 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 ftays;
No loyal fubject dares that courage praife.
In ftately frigates moft 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 ferve for our defence.
Beyond your court flows in th' admitted tide,
Where in new depth, the wondering fishes glide:
Here in a royal bed the waters sleep;
When tir'd at fea, within this bay they creep.
Here the mistrustful fowl no harm fufpects,
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 whofe chafte 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 muft lofe.
Thus from your royal oak, like Jove's of old,
Are answers fought, and destinies foretold:
Propitious oracles are begg'd with vows,
And crowns that grow upon the facred boughs.
Your subjects, while you weigh the nation's fate,
Sufpend to both their doubtful love or hate:
Chufe only, Sir, that fo they may poffefs
With their own peace their children's happiness.
Prefented on NEW-YEAR'S-DAY, 1662.
W HILE flattering crouds officiously appear
To give themselves, not you, an happy year;
And by the greatnefs of their presents prove
How much they hope, but not how well they love;
The Mules, who your early courtship boast,
Though now your flames are with their beauty loft,
Yet watch their time, that, if you have forgot
They were your miftreffes, the world may not:
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