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 those alone,
By fate referv'd for great Aguftus' throne!
When the joint growth of arms and arts foreshew
The world a monarch, and that monarch you.

To His SACRED MAJESTY.

A

PANEGYRIC

IN

ON HIS

CORONATIO N.

N that wild deluge where the world was drown'd, When life and fin one common tomb had

found,

The first small 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 false and flipp'ry ground;

And the more folemn pomp was still deferr'd,
"Till new-born nature in fresh looks appear'd.
Thus, royal fir, 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 stay,
Had warm'd the ground, and call'd the damps away.
Such vapours, while your pow'rful influence dries,
Then foonest vanish when they highest rise.

Had greater hafte these facred rites prepar'd,
Some guilty months had in your triumphs shar'd :
But this untainted year is all your own;

Your glories may without our crimes be shown.
We had not yet exhausted 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.

To

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 spring, And open'd scenes of flowers and bloffoms bring, 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 self 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,

grace

From their high standings, yet look

up to

you.

From your brave train each singles out a prey,
And longs to date a conqueft from your day.

Now

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 foft and warm your name is sent 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 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 ftill preferv'd in hallow'd ground;
Which in one bleffing mix'd descends 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 poffefs,
And judge of future by past happiness.
No promise can oblige a prince so much

Still to be good, as long to have been such,
A noble emulation heats your breast,

reft.

And
your own fame now robs
you of your
Good actions still 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 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,

I