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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 spite.
And as thofe lees, that trouble it, refine
The agitated foul of generous wine:
So tears of joy, for your returning fpilt,
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,
Chock'd up the beach with their ftill growing ftore,
And made a wilder torrent on the shore :

While, fpurr'd with eager thoughts of paít delight,
Thofe, who had feen you, court a fecond fight;
Preventing ftill your fteps, and making haite
To meet you often wherefoe'er you pati.
How fhall I fpeak of that triumphant day,
When you renew'd th' expiring pomp of May!
(A month that owns an int'reft 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 fhail fmoothly run:
Thofe clouds, that overcaft your morn, fhall fly,
Difpell'd to fartheft corners of the sky.
Our nation with united int'reft bleft,
Not now content to poife, fhall fway the rest.
Abroad our 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 time his offspring fwallow'd down,
Our ocean in its depths all feas fhall drown.
Their wealthy trade from pirate's rapine free,
Our merchants fhall no more advent'rers be:
Nor in the fartheft east thofe dangers fear,
Which humble Holland muft diffèmble 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 prefence fear,
May justly apprehend you still too near.
At home the hateful names of party ceafe,
And factious fouls are weary'd into peace.
The difcontented now are only they,

Whofe crimes before did your just cause betray:
Of those your edicts fome reclaim from fins,
But most your life and blefs'd example wins.
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.

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A PANEGYRIC on the Coronation of King CHARLES II. 1660.

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

IN

When life and fin one common tomb had found, The first small prospect of a rising 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 still deferr'd,
Till new-born nature in fresh looks appear'd.
Thus, Royal Sir, to see 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 continued 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 fhar'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 heav'n, of old, difpens'd coeleftial dew,
You give us manna, and still give us new.

Now our fad ruins are remov'd from fight,
The feafon too comes fraught with new delight:

Το

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 flow'rs and blossoms bring,
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 yourself the greateft 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 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 charg'd with bleffings while you seek repos:,
Officious flumbers hafte your eyes to close;
And glorius dreams ftand ready to restore
The pleasing shapes of all you saw before.
Next, to the faered 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 fent on high,
As flames do on the wings of incenfe 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, and difcord could atone;
His name is music 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 preserv'd in hallow'd ground:
Which in one bleffing mix'd defcends on you,
As heightned fpirits fall in richer dew.
Not that cur wishes do increase your store,
Full of yourfelf, 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, bu: full fruition:

We know thofe bleffings, which we must poffefs,
And judge of future by past happiness.

No promise can oblige a prince fo much

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

of

your

reft.

And your own fame now robes you
Good actions still must be maintain'd with good,
As bodies nourish'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 Caefar 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.

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