Classic Poem

THE YEAR OF WONDERS, MDCLXVI

I

I N thriving arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home and cruel when abroad;
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our king they courted, and our merchants aw'd.

II

Trade, which like blood should circularly flow,
Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost:
Thither the wealth of all the world did go,
And seem'd but shipwrack'd on so base a coast.

III

For them alone the heav'ns had kindly heat;
In eastern quarries ripening precious dew:
For them the Idumaean balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew.

IV

The sun but seem'd the lab'rer of their year;
Each waxing moon supplied her wat'ry store,
To swell those tides, which from the line did bear
Their brim-full vessels to the Belgian shore.

V

Thus mighty in her ships stood Carthage long,
And swept the riches of the world from far;
Yet stoop'd to Rome, less wealthy, but more strong;
And this may prove our second Punic war.

VI

What peace can be, where both to one pretend?
(But they more diligent, and we more strong)
Or if a peace, it soon must have an end;
For they would grow too pow'rful were it long.

VII

Behold two nations then, ingag'd so far,
That each sev'n years the fit must shake each land:
Where France will side to weaken us by war,
Who only can his vast designs withstand.

VIII

See how he feeds th' Iberian with delays,
To render us his timely friendship vain:
And while his secret soul on Flanders preys,
He rocks the cradle of the babe of Spain.

IX

Such deep designs of empire does he lay
O'er them whose cause he seems to take in hand;
And, prudently, would make them lords at sea,
To whom with ease he can give laws by land.

X

This saw our king; and long within his breast
His pensive counsels balanc'd to and fro:
He griev'd the land he freed should be oppress'd,
And he less for it than usurpers do.

XI

His gen'rous mind the fair ideas drew
Of fame and honor, which in dangers lay;
Where wealth, like fruit on precipices, grew,
Not to be gather'd but by birds of prey.

XII

The loss and gain each fatally were great;
And still his subjects call'd aloud for war;
But peaceful kings, o'er martial people set,
Each other's poise and counter balance are.

XIII

He, first, survey'd the charge with careful eyes,
Which none but mighty monarchs could maintain;
Yet judg'd, like vapors that from limbecs rise,
It would in richer showers descend again.

XIV

At length resolv'd t' assert the wat'ry ball,
He in himself did whole armadoes bring:
Him aged seamen might their master call,
And choose for general, were he not their king.

XV

It seems as every ship their sovereign knows,
His awful summons they so soon obey;
So hear the scaly herd when Proteus blows,
And so to pasture follow thro' the sea.

XVI

To see this fleet upon the ocean move,
Angels drew wide the curtains of the skies;
And Heav'n, as if there wanted lights above,
For tapers made two glaring comets rise;

XVII

Whether they unctuous exhalations are,
Fir'd by the sun, or seeming so alone;
Or each some more remote and slippery star,
Which loses footing when to mortals shown;

XVIII

Or one, that bright companion of the sun,
Whose glorious aspect seal'd our newborn king,
And now, a round of greater years begun,
New influence from his walks of light did bring.

XIX

Victorious York did first, with fam'd success,
To his known valor make the Dutch give place:
Thus Heav'n our monarch's fortune did confess,
Beginning conquest from his royal race.

XX

But since it was decreed, auspicious king,
In Britain's right that thou shouldst wed the main,
Heav'n, as a gage, would cast some precious thing,
And therefore doom'd that Lawson should be slain.

XXI

Lawson amongst the foremost met his fate,
Whom sea-green Sirens from the rocks lament:
Thus as an off'ring for the Grecian state,
He first was kill'd who first to battle went.

XXII

Their chief blown up, in air, not waves, expir'd,
To which his pride presum'd to give the law:
The Dutch confess'd Heav'n present, and retir'd,
And all was Britain the wide ocean saw.

XXIII

To nearest ports their shatter'd ships repair,
Where by our dreadful cannon they lay aw'd:
So reverently men quit the open air,
When thunder speaks the angry gods abroad.

XXIV

And now approach'd their fleet from India, fraught
With all the riches of the rising sun:
And precious sand from southern climates brought,
(The fatal regions where the war begun.)

XXV

Like hunted castors, conscious of their store,
Their waylaid wealth to Norway's coasts they bring:
There first the North's cold bosom spices bore,
And winter brooded on the eastern spring.

XXVI

By the rich scent we found our perfum'd prey,
Which, flank'd with rocks, did close in covert lie;
And round about their murdering cannon lay,
At once to threaten and invite the eye.

XXVII

Fiercer than cannon, and than rocks more hard,
The English undertake th' unequal war:
Seven ships alone, by which the port is barr'd,
Besiege the Indies, and all Denmark dare.

XXVIII

These fight like husbands, but like lovers those:
These fain would keep, and those more fain enjoy;
And to such height their frantic passion grows,
That what both love, both hazard to destroy.

XXIX

Amidst whole heaps of spices lights a ball,
And now their odors arm'd against them fly:
Some preciously by shatter'd porc'lain fall,
And some by aromatic splinters die.

XXX

And tho' by tempests of the prize bereft,
In heaven's inclemency some ease we find:
Our foes we vanquish'd by our valor left,
And only yielded to the seas and wind.

XXXI

Nor wholly lost we so deserv'd a prey;
For storms, repenting, part of it restro'd:
Which, as a tribute from the Baltic sea,
The British ocean sent her mighty lord.

XXXII

Go, mortals, now, and vex yourselves in vain
For wealth, which so uncertainly must come:
When what was brought so far, and with such pain,
Was only kept to lose it nearer home.

XXXIII

The son, who twice three months on th' ocean toss'd,
Prepar'd to tell what he had pass'd before,
Now sees in English ships the Holland coast,
And parents arms in vain stretch'd from the shore.

XXXIV

This careful husband had been long away,
Whom his chaste wife and little children mourn;
Who on their fingers learn'd to tell the day
On which their father promis'd to return.

XXXV

Such are the proud designs of humankind,
And so we suffer shipwrack everywhere!
Alas, what port can such a pilot find,
Who in the night of fate must blindly steer!

XXXVI

The undistinguish'd seeds of good and ill,
Heav'n, in his bosom, from our knowledge hides;
And draws them in contempt of human skill,
Which oft for friends mistaken foes provides.

XXXVII

Let Munster's prelate ever be accurst,
In whom we seek the German faith in vain:
Alas, that he should teach the English first,
That fraud and avarice in the Church could reign!

XXXVIII

Happy, who never trust a stranger's will,
Whose friendship's in his interest understood!
Since money giv'n but tempts him to be ill,
When pow'r is too remote to make him good.

XXXIX

Till now, alone the mighty nations strove;
The rest, at gaze, without the lists did stand:
And threat'ning France, plac'd like a painted Jove,
Kept idle thunder in his lifted hand.

XL

That eunuch guardian of rich Holland's trade,
Who envies us what he wants pow'r t' enjoy;
Whose noiseful valor does no foe invade,
And weak assistance will his friends destroy:

XLI

Offended that we fought without his leave,
He takes this time his secret hate to show;
Which Charles does with a mind so calm receive,
As one that neither seeks nor shuns his foe.

XLII

With France, to aid the Dutch, the Danes unite:
France as their tyrant, Denmark as their slave.
But when with one three nations join to fight,
They silently confess that one more brave.

XLIII

Lewis had chas'd the English from his shore,
But Charles the French as subjects does invite:
Would Heav'n for each some Solomon restore,
Who, by their mercy, may decide their right!

XLIV

Were subjects so but only by their choice,
And not from birth did forc'd dominion take,
Our prince alone would have the public voice;
And all his neighbors' realms would desarts make.

XLV

He without fear a dangerous war pursues,
Which without rashness he began before:
As honor made him first the danger choose,
So still he makes it good on virtue's score.

XLVI

The doubled charge his subjects' love supplies,
Who, in that bounty, to themselves are kind:
So glad Egyptians see their Nilus rise,
And in his plenty their abundance find.

XLVII

With equal pow'r he does two chiefs create,
Two such as each seem'd worthiest when alone;
Each able to sustain a nation's fate,
Since both had found a greater in their own.

XLVIII

Both great in courage, conduct, and in fame,
Yet neither envious of the other's praise;
Their duty, faith, and int'rest too the same,
Like mighty partners equally they raise.

XLIX

The prince long time had courted Fortune's love,
But once possess'd did absolutely reign:
Thus with their Amazons the heroes strove,
And conquer'd first those beauties they would gain.

L

The duke beheld, like Scipio, with disdain,
That Carthage which he ruin'd rise once more;
And shook aloft the fasces of the main,
To fright those slaves with what they felt before.

LI

Together to the wat'ry camp they haste,
Whom matrons passing to their children show:
Infants' first vows for them to heav'n are cast,
And future people bless them as they go.

LII

With them no riotous pomp, nor Asian train,
T' infect a navy with their gaudy fears;
To make slow fights, and victories but vain;
But war, severely, like itself, appears.

LIII

Diffusive of themselves, where'er they pass,
They make that warmth in others they expect;
Their valor works like bodies on a glass,
And does its image on their men project.

LIV

Our fleet divides, and straight the Dutch appear,
In number, and a fam'd commander, bold:
The narrow seas can scarce their navy bear,
Or crowded vessels can their soldiers hold.

LV

The duke, less numerous, but in courage more,
On wings of all the winds to combat flies:
His murdering guns a loud defiance roar,
And bloody crosses on his flagstaffs rise.

LVI

Both furl their sails, and strip them for the fight,
Their folded sheets dismiss the useless air:
Th' Elean plains could boast no nobler sight,
When struggling champions did their bodies bare.

LVII

Borne each by other in a distant line,
The sea-built forts in dreadful order move:
So vast the noise, as if not fleets did join,
But lands unfix'd and floating nations strove.

LVIII

Now pass'd, on either side they nimbly tack;
Both strive to intercept and guide the wind:
And, in its eye, more closely they come back,
To finish all the deaths they left behind.

LIX

On high-rais'd decks the haughty Belgians ride,
Beneath whose shade our humble frigates go:
Such port the elephant bears, and so defied
By the rhinoceros her unequal foe.

LX

And as the built, so different is the fight;
Their mounting shot is on our sails design'd:
Deep in their hulls our deadly bullets light
And thro' the yielding planks a passage find.

LXI

Our dreaded admiral from far they threat,
Whose batter'd rigging their whole war receives:
All bare, like some old oak which tempests beat,
He stands, and sees below his scatter'd leaves.

LXII

Heroes of old, when wounded, shelter sought;
But he, who meets all danger with disdain,
Ev'n in their face his ship to anchor brought,
And steeple-high stood propp'd upon the main.

LXIII

At this excess of courage, all amaz'd,
The foremost of his foes a while withdraw:
With such respect in enter'd Rome they gaz'd,
Who on high chairs the godlike fathers saw.

LXIV

And now, as where Patroclus' body lay,
Here Trojan chiefs advanc'd, and there the Greek;
Ours o'er the duke their pious wings display,
And theirs the noblest spoils of Britain seek.

LXV

Meantime his busy mariners he hastes,
His shatter'd sails with rigging to restore;
And willing pines ascend his broken masts,
Whose lofty heads rise higher than before.

LXVI

Straight to the Dutch he turns his dreadful prow,
More fierce th' important quarrel to decide:
Like swans, in long array his vessels show,
Whose crests, advancing, do the waves divide.

LXVII

They charge, recharge, and all along the sea
They drive, and squander the huge Belgian fleet.
Berkeley alone, who nearest danger lay,
Did a like fate with lost Creüsa meet.

LXVIII

The night comes on, we eager to pursue
The combat still, and they asham'd to leave:
Till the last streaks of dying day withdrew,
And doubtful moonlight did our rage deceive.

LXIX

In th' English fleet each ship resounds with joy,
And loud applause of their great leader's fame:
In fiery dreams the Dutch they still destroy,
And, slumb'ring, smile at the imagin'd flame.

LXX

Not so the Holland fleet, who, tir'd and done,
Stretch'd on their decks like weary oxen lie:
Faint sweats all down their mighty members run,
(Vast bulks, which little souls but ill supply.)

LXXI

In dreams they fearful precipices tread;
Or, shipwrack'd, labor to some distant shore:
Or in dark churches walk among the dead;
They wake with horror, and dare sleep no more.

LXXII

The morn they look on with unwilling eyes,
Till from their maintop joyful news they hear
Of ships, which by their mold bring new supplies,
And in their colors Belgian lions bear.

LXXIII

Our watchful general had discern'd from far
This mighty succor, which made glad the foe;
He sigh'd, but, like a father of the war,
His face spake hope, while deep his sorrows flow.

LXXIV

His wounded men he first sends off to shore,
(Never, till now, unwilling to obey:)
They not their wounds, but want of strength deplore,
And think them happy who with him can stay.

LXXV

Then to the rest: " Rejoice, " said he, " today;
In you the fortune of Great Britain lies:
Among so brave a people, you are they
Whom Heav'n has chose to fight for such a prize.

LXXVI

" If number English courages could quell,
We should at first have shunn'd, not met, our foes,
Whose numerous sails the fearful only tell:
Courage from hearts, and not from numbers, grows.

LXXVII

He said, nor needed more to say: with haste
To their known stations cheerfully they go;
And all at once, disdaining to be last,
Solicit every gale to meet the foe.

LXXVIII

Nor did th' incourag'd Belgians long delay,
But bold in others, not themselves, they stood:
So thick, our navy scarce could steer their way,
But seem'd to wander in a moving wood.

LXXIX

Our little fleet was now ingag'd so far,
That, like the swordfish in the whale, they fought:
The combat only seem'd a civil war,
Till thro' their bowels we our passage wrought.

LXXX

Never had valor, no, not ours, before
Done aught like this upon the land or main,
Where not to be o'ercome was to do more
Than all the conquests former kings did gain.

LXXXI

The mighty ghosts of our great Harries rose,
And armed Edwards look'd, with anxious eyes,
To see this fleet among unequal foes,
By which fate promis'd them their Charles should rise.

LXXXII

Meantime the Belgians tack upon our rear,
And raking chase-guns thro' our sterns they send:
Close by, their fire-ships, like jackals, appear,
Who on their lions for the prey attend.

LXXXIII

Silent in smoke of cannons they come on:
(Such vapors once did fiery Cacus hide:)
In these the height of pleas'd revenge is shown,
Who burn contended by another's side.

LXXXIV

Sometimes, from fighting squadrons of each fleet,
(Deceiv'd themselves, or to preserve some friend,)
Two grappling Ætnas on the ocean meet,
And English fires with Belgian flames contend.

LXXXV

Now, at each tack, our little fleet grows less;
And, like maim'd fowl, swim lagging on the main;
Their greater loss their numbers scarce confess,
While they lose cheaper than the English gain.

LXXXVI

Have you not seen, when, whistled from the fist,
Some falcon stoops at what her eye design'd,
And, with her eagerness the quarry miss'd,
Straight flies at check, and clips it down the wind;

LXXXVII

The dastard crow, that to the wood made wing,
And sees the groves no shelter can afford,
With her loud caws her craven kind does bring,
Who, safe in numbers, cuff the noble bird?

LXXXVIII

Among the Dutch thus Albemarle did fare:
He could not conquer, and disdain'd to fly;
Past hope of safety, 'twas his latest care,
Like falling Caesar, decently to die.

LXXXIX

Yet pity did his manly spirit move,
To see those perish who so well had fought;
And generously with his despair he strove,
Resolv'd to live till he their safety wrought.

XC

Let other Muses write his prosp'rous fate,
Of conquer'd nations tell, and kings restor'd;
But mine shall sing of his eclips'd estate,
Which, like the sun's, more wonders does afford.

XCI

He drew his mighty frigates all before,
On which the foe his fruitless force employs:
His weak ones deep into his rear he bore,
Remote from guns, as sick men from the noise.

XCII

His fiery cannon did their passage guide,
And foll'wing smoke obscur'd them from the foe:
Thus Israel safe from the Egyptian's pride,
By flaming pillars, and by clouds did go.

XCIII

Elsewhere the Belgian force we did defeat,
But here our courages did theirs subdue;
So Xenophon once led that fam'd retreat,
Which first the Asian empire overthrew.

XCIV

The foe approach'd; and one, for his bold sin,
Was sunk; (as he that touch'd the ark was slain:)
The wild waves master'd him and suck'd him in,
And smiling eddies dimpled on the main.

XCV

This seen, the rest at awful distance stood;
As if they had been there as servants set,
To stay, or to go on, as he thought good,
And not pursue, but wait on his retreat.

XCVI

So Libyan huntsmen, on some sandy plain,
From shady coverts rous'd, the lion chase:
The kingly beast roars out with loud disdain,
And slowly moves, unknowing to give place.

XCVII

But if some one approach to dare his force,
He swings his tail, and swiftly turns him round;
With one paw seizes on his trembling horse,
And with the other tears him to the ground.

XCVIII

Amidst these toils succeeds the balmy night;
Now hissing waters the quench'd guns restore;
And weary waves, withdrawing from the fight,
Lie lull'd and panting on the silent shore.

XCIX

The moon shone clear on the becalmed flood,
Where, while her beams like glittering silver play,
Upon the deck our careful general stood,
And deeply mus'd on the succeeding day.

C

" That happy sun, " said he, " will rise again,
Who twice victorious did our navy see;
And I alone must view him rise in vain,
Without one ray of all his star for me.

CI

" Yet like an English gen'ral will I die,
And all the ocean make my spacious grave:
Women and cowards on the land may lie;
The sea 's a tomb that's proper for the brave. "

CII

Restless he pass'd the remnants of the night,
Till the fresh air proclaim'd the morning nigh;
And burning ships, the martyrs of the fight,
With paler fires beheld the eastern sky.

CIII

But now, his stores of ammunition spent,
His naked valor is his only guard;
Rare thunders are from his dumb cannon sent,
And solitary guns are scarcely heard.

CIV

Thus far had Fortune pow'r, here forc'd to stay,
Nor longer durst with virtue be at strife:
This, as a ransom, Albemarle did pay
For all the glories of so great a life.

CV

For now brave Rupert from afar appears,
Whose waving streamers the glad general knows:
With full-spread sails his eager navy steers,
And every ship in swift proportion grows.

CVI

The anxious prince had heard the cannon long,
And from that length of time dire omens drew
Of English overmatch'd, and Dutch too strong,
Who never fought three days, but to pursue.

CVII

Then, as an eagle, who with pious care
Was beating widely on the wing for prey,
To her now silent eyry does repair,
And finds her callow infants forc'd away;

CVIII

Stung with her love, she stoops upon the plain,
The broken air loud whistling as she flies,
She stops and listens, and shoots forth again,
And guides her pinions by her young ones' cries:

CIX

With such kind passion hastes the prince to fight,
And spreads his flying canvas to the sound;
Him, whom no danger, were he there, could fright,
Now, absent, every little noise can wound.

CX

As in a drought the thirsty creatures cry,
And gape upon the gather'd clouds for rain;
And first the martlet meets it in the sky,
And with wet wings joys all the feather'd train.

CXI

With such glad hearts did our despairing men
Salute th' appearance of the prince's fleet;
And each ambitiously would claim the ken
That with first eyes did distant safety meet.

CXII

The Dutch, who came like greedy hinds before,
To reap the harvest their ripe ears did yield;
Now look like those, when rolling thunders roar,
And sheets of lightning blast the standing field.

CXIII

Full in the prince's passage, hills of sand
And dang'rous flats in secret ambush lay,
Where the false tides skim o'er the cover'd land,
And seamen with dissembled depths betray.

CXIV

The wily Dutch, who, like fall'n angels, fear'd
This new Messiah's coming, there did wait,
And round the verge their braving vessels steer'd,
To tempt his courage with so fair a bait.

CXV

But he, unmov'd, contemns their idle threat,
Secure of fame whene'er he please to fight:
His cold experience tempers all his heat,
And inbred worth doth boasting valor slight.

CXVI

Heroic virtue did his actions guide,
And he the substance, not the appearance chose;
To rescue one such friend he took more pride
Than to destroy whole thousands of such foes.

CXVII

But when approach'd, in strict embraces bound,
Rupert and Albemarle together grow;
He joys to have his friend in safety found,
Which he to none but to that friend would owe.

CXVIII

The cheerful soldiers, with new stores supplied,
Now long to execute their spleenful will;
And in revenge for those three days they tried,
Wish one, like Joshua's, when the sun stood still.

CXIX

Thus reinforc'd, against the adverse fleet,
Still doubling ours, brave Rupert leads the way:
With the first blushes of the morn they meet,
And bring night back upon the new-born day.

CXX

His presence soon blows up the kindling fight,
And his loud guns speak thick like angry men:
It seem'd as slaughter had been breath'd all night,
And Death new pointed his dull dart again.

CXXI

The Dutch too well his mighty conduct knew,
And matchless courage, since the former fight:
Whose navy like a stiff-stretch'd cord did shew,
Till he bore in and bent them into flight.

CXXII

The wind he shares, while half their fleet offends
His open side, and high above him shows:
Upon the rest at pleasure he descends,
And, doubly harm'd, he double harms bestows.

CXXIII

Behind, the gen'ral mends his weary pace
And sullenly to his revenge he sails;
So glides some trodden serpent on the grass,
And long behind his wounded volume trails.

CXXIV

Th' increasing sound is borne to either shore,
And for their stakes the throwing nations fear:
Their passion double with the cannons' roar.
And with warm wishes each man combats there.

CXXV

Plied thick and close as when the fight begun,
Their huge unwieldy navy wastes away;
So sicken waning moons too near the sun,
And blunt their crescents on the edge of day.

CXXVI

And now reduc'd on equal terms to fight,
Their ships like wasted patrimonies show;
Where the thin scatt'ring trees admit the light,
And shun each other's shadows as they grow.

CXXVII

The warlike prince had sever'd from the rest
Two giant ships, the pride of all the main;
Which with his one so vigorously he press'd,
And flew so home they could not rise again.

CXXVIII

Already batter'd, by his lee they lay;
In vain upon the passing winds they call:
The passing winds thro' their torn canvas play,
And flagging sails on heartless sailors fall.

CXXIX

Their open'd sides receive a gloomy light,
Dreadful as day let in to shades below;
Without, grim Death rides barefac'd in their sight,
And urges ent'ring billows as they flow.

CXXX

When one dire shot, the last they could supply,
Close by the board the prince's mainmast bore:
All three now, helpless, by each other lie,
And this offends not, and those fear no more.

CXXXI

So have I seen some fearful hare maintain
A course, till tir'd before the dog she lay;
Who, stretch'd behind her, pants upon the plain,
Past pow'r to kill, as she to get away:

CXXXII

With his loll'd tongue he faintly licks his prey;
His warm breath blows her flix up as she lies;
She, trembling, creeps upon the ground away,
And looks back to him with beseeching eyes.

CXXXIII

The prince unjustly does his stars accuse,
Which hinder'd him to push his fortune on;
For what they to his courage did refuse,
By mortal valor never must be done.

CXXXIV

This lucky hour the wise Batavian takes,
And warns his tatter'd fleet to follow home:
Proud to have so got off with equal stakes,
Where 'twas a triumph not to be o'ercome.

CXXXV

The general's force, as kept alive by fight,
Now, not oppos'd, no longer can pursue:
Lasting till Heav'n had done his courage right;
When he had conquer'd, he his weakness knew.

CXXXVI

He casts a frown on the departing foe,
And sighs to see him quit the wat'ry field:
His stern fix'd eyes no satisfaction show
For all the glories which the fight did yield.

CXXXVII

Tho', as when fiends did miracles avow,
He stands confess'd ev'n by the boastful Dutch;
He only does his conquest disavow,
And thinks too little what they found too much.

CXXXVIII

Return'd, he with the fleet resolv'd to stay
No tender thoughts of home his heart divide;
Domestic joys and cares he puts away;
For realms are households which the great must guide.

CXXXIX

As those who unripe veins in mines explore,
On the rich bed again the warm turf lay,
Till time digests the yet imperfect ore,
And know it will be gold another day:

CXL

So looks our monarch on this early fight,
Th' essay and rudiments of great success;
Which all-maturing time must bring to light,
While he, like Heav'n, does each day's labor bless.

CXLI

Heav'n ended not the first or second day,
Yet each was perfect to the work design'd:
God and kings work, when they their work survey,
And passive aptness in all subjects find.

CXLII

In burden'd vessels first, with speedy care,
His plenteous stores do season'd timber send:
Thither the brawny carpenters repair,
And as the surgeons of maim'd ships attend.

CXLIII

With cord and canvas from rich Hamburg sent,
His navies' molted wings he imps once more;
Tall Norway fir, their masts in battle spent,
And English oak, sprung leaks and planks, restore.

CXLIV

All hands employ'd, the royal work grows warm:
Like laboring bees on a long summer's day,
Some sound the trumpet for the rest to swarm,
And some on bells of tasted lilies play;

CXLV

With gluey wax some new foundations lay
Of virgin combs, which from the roof are hung;
Some arm'd within doors upon duty stay,
Or tend the sick, or educate the young.

CXLVI

So here, some pick out bullets from the sides,
Some drive old oakum thro' each seam and rift:
Their left hand does the calking-iron guide,
The rattling mallet with the right they lift.

CXLVII

With boiling pitch another near at hand,
From friendly Sweden brought, the seams instops:
Which well paid o'er, the salt sea waves withstand,
And shakes them from the rising beak in drops.

CXLVIII

Some the gall'd ropes with dauby marling bind,
Or searcloth masts with strong tarpauling coats:
To try new shrouds one mounts into the wind,
And one, below, their ease or stiffness notes.

CXLIX

Our careful monarch stands in person by,
His new-cast cannons' firmness to explore:
The strength of big-corn'd powder loves to try,
And ball and cartrage sorts for every bore.

CL

Each day brings fresh supplies of arms and men,
And ships which all last winter were abroad;
And such as fitted since the fight had been,
Or new from stocks were fall'n into the road.

CLI

The goodly London in her gallant trim,
(The Phaenix daughter of the vanish'd old,)
Like a rich bride does to the ocean swim,
And on her shadow rides in floating gold.

CLII

Her flag aloft, spread ruffling to the wind,
And sanguine streamers seem the flood to fire:
The weaver, charm'd with what his loom design'd,
Goes on to sea, and knows not to retire.

CLIII

With roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength,
Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves:
Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length,
She seems a sea-wasp flying on the waves.

CLIV

This martial present, piously design'd,
The loyal city give their best-lov'd king:
And with a bounty ample as the wind,
Built, fitted, and maintain'd, to aid him bring.

CLV

By viewing Nature, Nature's handmaid Art
Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow:
Thus fishes first to shipping did impart
Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.

CLVI

Some log, perhaps, upon the waters swam,
An useless drift, which, rudely cut within,
And hollow'd, first a floating trough became,
And cross some riv'let passage did begin.

CLVII

In shipping such as this, the Irish kern ,
And untaught Indian, on the stream did glide:
Ere sharp-keel'd boats to stem the flood did learn,
Or fin-like oars did spread from either side.

CLVIII

Add but a sail, and Saturn so appear'd,
When from lost empire he to exile went,
And with the golden age to Tiber steer'd,
Where coin and first commerce he did invent.

CLIX

Rude as their ships was navigation then;
No useful compass or meridian known;
Coasting, they kept the land within their ken,
And knew no North but when the Polestar shone.

CLX

Of all who since have us'd the open sea,
Than the bold English none more fame have won;
Beyond the year, and out of heav'n's high way,
They make discoveries where they see no sun.

CLXI

But what so long in vain, and yet unknown,
By poor mankind's benighted wit is sought,
Shall in this age to Britain first be shown.
And hence be to admiring nations taught.

CLXII

The ebbs of tides and their mysterious flow,
We, as arts' elements, shall understand,
And as by line upon the ocean go,
Whose paths shall be familiar as the land.

CLXIII

Instructed ships shall sail to quick commerce,
By which remotest regions are allied;
Which makes one city of the universe;
Where some may gain, and all may be supplied.

CLXIV

Then, we upon our globe's last verge shall go,
And view the ocean leaning on the sky:
From thence our rolling neighbors we shall know,
And on the lunar world securely pry.

CLXV

This I foretell from your auspicious care,
Who great in search of God and Nature grow;
Who best your wise Creator's praise declare,
Since best to praise his works is best to know.

CLXVI

O truly Royal! who behold the law
And rule of beings in your Maker's mind;
And thence, like limbecs, rich ideas draw,
To fit the level'd use of humankind.

CLXVII

But first the toils of war we must endure,
And from th' injurious Dutch redeem the seas.
War makes the valiant of his right secure,
And gives up fraud to be chastis'd with ease.

CLXVIII

Already were the Belgians on our coast,
Whose fleet more mighty every day became
By late success, which they did falsely boast,
And now by first appearing seem'd to claim.

CLXIX

Designing, subtile, diligent, and close,
They knew to manage war with wise delay:
Yet all those arts their vanity did cross,
And, by their pride, their prudence did betray.

CLXX

Nor stay'd the English long; but, well supplied,
Appear as numerous as th' insulting foe:
The combat now by courage must be tried,
And the success the braver nation show.

CLXXI

There was the Plymouth squadron now come in,
Which in the Straits last winter was abroad;
Which twice on Biscay's working bay had been,
And on the midland sea the French had aw'd.

CLXXII

Old expert Allen, loyal all along,
Fam'd for his action on the Smyrna fleet;
And Holmes, whose name shall live in epic song,
While music numbers, or while verse has feet;

CLXXIII

Holmes, the Achates of the gen'rals' fight,
Who first bewitch'd our eyes with Guinea gold,
As once old Cato in the Romans' sight
The tempting fruits of Afric did unfold.

CLXXIV

With him went Sprag, as bountiful as brave,
Whom his high courage to command had brought;
Harman, who did the twice-fir'd Harry save,
And in his burning ship undaunted fought;

CLXXV

Young Hollis, on a Muse by Mars begot,
Born, Caesar-like, to write and act great deeds:
Impatient to revenge his fatal shot,
His right hand doubly to his left succeeds.

CLXXVI

Thousands were there in darker fame that dwell,
Whose deeds some nobler poem shall adorn;
And tho' to me unknown, they, sure, fought well,
Whom Rupert led, and who were British born.

CLXXVII

Of every size an hundred fighting sail,
So vast the navy now at anchor rides,
That underneath it the press'd waters fail,
And with its weight it shoulders off the tides.

CLXXVIII

Now, anchors weigh'd, the seamen shout so shrill,
That heav'n, and earth, and the wide ocean rings;
A breeze from westward waits their sails to fill,
And rests in those high beds his downy wings.

CLXXIX

The wary Dutch this gathering storm foresaw,
And durst not bide it on the English coast:
Behind their treach'rous shallows they withdraw,
And there lay snares to catch the British host.

CLXXX

So the false spider, when her nets are spread,
Deep ambush'd in her silent den does lie,
And feels far off the trembling of her thread,
Whose filmy cord should bind the struggling fly;

CLXXXI

Then, if at last she find him fast beset,
She issues forth, and runs along her loom:
She joys to touch the captive in her net,
And drags the little wretch in triumph home.

CLXXXII

The Belgians hop'd that, with disorder'd haste,
Our deep-cut keels upon the sands might run;
Or, if with caution leisurely were pass'd,
Their numerous gross might charge us one by one.

CLXXXIII

But with a fore-wind pushing them above,
And swelling tide that heav'd them from below,
O'er the blind flats our warlike squadrons move,
And with spread sails to welcome battle go.

CLXXXIV

It seem'd as there the British Neptune stood,
With all his hosts of waters at command,
Beneath them to submit th' officious flood,
And with his trident shov'd them off the sand.

CLXXXV

To the pale foes they suddenly draw near,
And summon them to unexpected fight;
They start like murderers when ghosts appear,
And draw their curtains in the dead of night.

CLXXXVI

Now van to van the foremost squadrons meet,
The midmost battles hast'ning up behind;
Who view, far off, the storm of falling sleet,
And hear their thunder rattling in the wind.

CLXXXVII

At length the adverse admirals appear;
(The two bold champions of each country's right:)
Their eyes describe the lists as they come near,
And draw the lines of death before they fight.

CLXXXVIII

The distance judg'd for shot of every size,
The linstocks touch, the pond'rous ball expires:
The vig'rous seaman every porthole plies,
And adds his heart to every gun he fires.

CLXXXIX

Fierce was the fight on the proud Belgians side,
For honor, which they seldom sought before;
But now they by their own vain boasts were tied,
And forc'd at least in shew to prize it more.

CXC

But sharp remembrance on the English part,
And shame of being match'd by such a foe,
Rouse conscious virtue up in every heart,
And seeming to be stronger makes them so.

CXCI

Nor long the Belgians could that fleet sustain,
Which did two gen'rals' fates, and Caesar's bear:
Each several ship a victory did gain,
As Rupert or as Albemarle were there.

CXCII

Their batter'd admiral too soon withdrew,
Unthank'd by ours for his unfinish'd fight;
But he the minds of his Dutch masters knew,
Who call'd that providence which we call'd flight.

CXCIII

Never did men more joyfully obey,
Or sooner understood the sign to fly:
With such alacrity they bore away,
As if to praise them all the States stood

CXCIV

O famous leader of the Belgian fleet,
Thy monument inscrib'd such praise shall wear,
As Varro, timely flying, once did meet,
Because he did not of his Rome despair.

CXCV

Behold that navy, which a while before
Provok'd the tardy English close to fight,
Now draw their beaten vessels close to shore,
As larks lie dar'd to shun the hobby's flight.

CXCVI

Whoe'er would English monuments survey,
In other records may our courage know:
But let them hide the story of this day,
Whose fame was blemish'd by too base a foe.

CXCVII

Or if too busily they will enquire
Into a victory which we disdain;
Then let them know, the Belgians did retire
Before the patron saint of injur'd Spain.

CXCVIII

Repenting England this revengeful day
To Philip's manes did an off'ring bring:
England, which first, by leading them astray,
Hatch'd up rebellion to destroy her king.

CXCIX

Our fathers bent their baneful industry
To check a monarchy that slowly grew;
But did not France or Holland's fate foresee,
Whose rising pow'r to swift dominion flew.

CC

In fortune's empire blindly thus we go,
And wander after pathless destiny;
Whose dark resorts since prudence cannot know,
In vain it would provide for what shall be.

CCI

But whate'er English to the blest shall go,
And the fourth Harry or first Orange meet;
Find him disowning of a Burbon foe,
And him detesting a Batavian fleet.

CCII

Now on their coasts our conquering navy rides,
Waylays their merchants, and their land besets;
Each day new wealth without their care provides;
They lie asleep with prizes in their nets.

CCIII

So, close behind some promontory lie
The huge leviathans t' attend their prey;
And give no chase, but swallow in the fry,
Which thro' their gaping jaws mistake the way.

CCIV

Nor was this all: in ports and roads remote,
Destructive fires among whole fleets we send;
Triumphant flames upon the water float,
And outbound ships at home their voyage end.

CCV

Those various squadrons, variously design'd,
Each vessel freighted with a several load,
Each squadron waiting for a several wind,
All find but one, to burn them in the road.

CCVI

Some bound for Guinea, golden sand to find,
Bore all the gauds the simple natives wear;
Some, for the pride of Turkish courts design'd,
For folded turbanis finest Holland bear.

CCVII

Some English wool, vex'd in a Belgian loom,
And into cloth of spongy softness made,
Did into France or colder Denmark doom,
To ruin with worse ware our staple trade.

CCVIII

Our greedy seamen rummage every hold,
Smile on the booty of each wealthier chest;
And, as the priests who with their gods make bold,
Take what they like, and sacrifice the rest.

CCIX

But ah! how unsincere are all our joys!
Which, sent from heav'n, like lightning make no stay:
Their palling taste the journey's length destroys,
Or grief, sent post, o'ertakes them on the way.

CCX

Swell'd with our late successes on the foe,
Which France and Holland wanted power to cross,
We urge an unseen fate to lay us low,
And feed their envious eyes with English loss.

CCXI

Each element his dread command obeys,
Who makes or ruins with a smile or frown;
Who, as by one he did our nation raise,
So now he with another pulls us down.

CCXII

Yet London, empress of the northern clime,
By an high fate thou greatly didst expire:
Great as the world's, which at the death of time
Must fall, and rise a nobler frame by fire.

CCXIII

As when some dire usurper Heav'n provides
To scourge his country with a lawless sway,
His birth perhaps some petty village hides,
And sets his cradle out of fortune's way,

CCXIV

Till fully ripe his swelling fate breaks out,
And hurries him to mighty mischiefs on;
His prince, surpris'd at first, no ill could doubt,
And wants the pow'r to meet it when 'tis known.

CCXV

Such was the rise of this prodigious fire.
Which, in mean buildings first obscurely bred,
From thence did soon to open streets aspire,
And straight to palaces and temples spread.

CCXVI

The diligence of trades and noiseful gain,
And luxury, more late, asleep were laid:
All was the Night's, and in her silent reign
No sound the rest of nature did invade.

CCXVII

In this deep quiet, from what source unknown,
Those seeds of fire their fatal birth disclose;
And first, few scatt'ring sparks about were blown,
Big with the flames that to our ruin rose.

CCXVIII

Then, in some close-pent room it crept along,
And, smould'ring as it went, in silence fed;
Till th' infant monster, with devouring strong,
Walk'd boldly upright with exalted head.

CCXIX

Now, like some rich or mighty murderer,
Too great for prison, which he breaks with gold;
Who fresher for new mischiefs does appear,
And dares the world to tax him with the old;

CCXX

So scapes th' insulting fire his narrow jail,
And makes small outlets into open air;
There the fierce winds his tender force assail,
And beat him downward to his first repair.

CCXXI

The winds, like crafty courtesans, withheld
His flames from burning, but to blow them more:
And, every fresh attempt, he is repell'd
With faint denials, weaker than before.

CCXXII

And now, no longer letted of his prey,
He leaps up at it with inrag'd desire;
O'erlooks the neighbors with a wide survey,
And nods at every house his threat'ning fire.

CCXXIII

The ghosts of traitors from the Bridge descend,
With bold fanatic specters to rejoice;
About the fire into a dance they bend,
And sing their sabbath notes with feeble voice.

CCXXIV

Our guardian angel saw them where he sate
Above the palace of our slumb'ring king:
He sigh'd, abandoning his charge to fate,
And, drooping, oft look'd back upon the wing.

CCXXV

At length the crackling noise and dreadful blaze
Call'd up some waking lover to the sight;
And long it was ere he the rest could raise,
Whose heavy eyelids yet were full of night.

CCXXVI

The next to danger, hot pursued by fate,
Half-cloth'd, half-naked, hastily retire;
And frighted mothers strike their breasts, to late,
For helpless infants left amidst the fire.

CCXXVII

Their cries soon waken all the dwellers near;
Now murmuring noises rise in every street;
The more remote run stumbling with their fear,
And in the dark men justle as they meet.

CCXXVIII

So weary bees in little cells repose;
But if night-robbers lift the well-stor'd hive,
An humming thro' their waxen city grows,
And out upon each other's wings they drive.

CCXXIX

Now streets grow throng'd and busy as by day:
Some run for buckets to the hallow'd choir:
Some cut the pipes, and some the engines play;
And some more bold mount ladders to the fire.

CCXXX

In vain; for from the East a Belgian wind
His hostile breath thro' the dry rafters sent;
The flames impell'd soon left their foes behind,
And forward with a wanton fury went.

CCXXXI

A key of fire ran all along the shore,
And lighten'd all the river with a blaze;
The waken'd tides began again to roar,
And wond'ring fish in shining waters gaze.

CCXXXII

Old father. Thames rais'd up his reverend head,
But fear'd the fate of Simoeis would return:
Deep in his ooze he sought his sedgy bed,
And shrunk his waters back into his urn.

CCXXXIII

The fire, meantime, walks in a broader gross;
To either hand his wings he opens wide:
He wades the streets, and straight he reaches cross,
And plays his longing flames on th' other side.

CCXXXIV

At first they warm, then scorch, and then they take;
Now with long necks from side to side they feed;
At length, grown strong, their mother-fire forsake,
And a new colony of flames succeed.

CCXXXV

To every nobler portion of the town
The curling billows roll their restless tide:
In parties now they straggle up and down,
As armies, unoppos'd, for prey divide.

CCXXXVI

One mighty squadron, with a side-wind sped,
Thro' narrow lanes his cumber'd fire does haste,
By pow'rful charms of gold and silver led,
The Lombard bankers and the Change to waste.

CCXXXVII

Another backward to the Tow'r would go,
And slowly eats his way against the wind;
But the main body of the marching foe
Against th' imperial palace is design'd.

CCXXXVIII

Now day appears, and with the day the king,
Whose early care had robb'd him of his rest:
Far off the cracks of falling houses ring,
And shrieks of subjects pierce his tender breast.

CCXXXIX

Near as he draws, thick harbingers of smoke
With gloomy pillars cover all the place;
Whose little intervals of night are broke
By sparks that drive against his sacred face.

CCXL

More than his guards his sorrows made him known,
And pious tears, which down his cheeks did show'r:
The wretched in his grief forgot their own;
(So much the pity of a king has pow'r.)

CCXLI

He wept the flames of what he lov'd so well,
And what so well had merited his love:
For never prince in grace did more excel,
Or royal city more in duty strove.

CCXLII

Nor with an idle care did he behold:
(Subjects may grieve, but monarchs must redress;)
He cheers the fearful, and commends the bold,
And makes despairers hope for good success.

CCXLIII

Himself directs what first is to be done,
And orders all the succors which they bring:
The helpful and the good about him run,
And form an army worthy such a king.

CCXLIV

He sees the dire contagion spread so fast,
That, where it seizes, all relief is vain;
And therefore must unwillingly lay waste
That country which would, else, the foe maintain.

CCXLV

The powder blows up all before the fire:
Th' amazed flames stand gather'd on a heap;
And from the precipice's brink retire,
Afraid to venture on so large a leap.

CCXLVI

Thus fighting fires a while themselves consume,
But straight, like Turks, forc'd on to win or die,
They first lay tender bridges of their fume,
And o'er the breach in unctuous vapors fly.

CCXLVII

Part stays for passage, till a gust of wind
Ships o'er their forces in a shining sheet:
Part, creeping under ground, their journey blind.
And, climbing from below, their fellows meet.

CCXLVIII

Thus to some desert plain, or old wood-side,
Dire night-hags come from far to dance their round;
And o'er broad rivers on their fiends they ride,
Or sweep in clouds above the blasted ground.

CCXLIX

No help avails: for, hydra -like, the fire
Lifts up his hundred heads to aim his way;
And scarce the wealthy can one half retire,
Before he rushes in to share the prey.

CCL

The rich grow suppliant, and the poor grow proud;
Those offer mighty gain, and these ask more:
So void of pity is th' ignoble crowd,
When others ruin may increase their store.

CCLI

As those who live by shores with joy behold
Some wealthy vessel split or stranded nigh,
And from the rocks leap down for shipwrack'd gold,
And seek the tempests which the others fly:

CCLII

So these but wait the owners' last despair,
And what's permitted to the flames invade:
Ev'n from their jaws they hungry morsels tear,
And on their backs the spoils of Vulcan lade.

CCLIII

The days were all in this lost labor spent;
And when the weary king gave place to night,
His beams he to his royal brother lent,
And so shone still in his reflective light.

CCLIV

Night came, but without darkness or repose,
A dismal picture of the gen'ral doom;
Where souls distracted, when the trumpet blows,
And half unready with their bodies come.

CCLV

Those who have homes, when home they do repair,
To a last lodging call their wand'ring friends:
Their short uneasy sleeps are broke with care,
To look how near their own destruction tends.

CCLVI

Those who have none, sit round where once it was,
And with full eyes each wonted room require;
Haunting the yet warm ashes of the place,
As murder'd men walk where they did expire.

CCLVII

Some stir up coals, and watch the vestal fire,
Others in vain from sight of ruin run;
And, while thro' burning lab'rinths they retire,
With loathing eyes repeat what they would shun.

CCLVIII

The most in fields like herded beasts lie down,
To dews obnoxious on the grassy floor;
And while their babes in sleep their sorrows drown,
Sad parents watch the remnants of their store.

CCLIX

While by the motion of the flames they guess
What streets are burning now, and what are near,
An infant, waking, to the paps would press,
And meets, instead of milk, a falling tear.

CCLX

No thought can ease them but their sovereign's care,
Whose praise th' afflicted as their comfort sing:
Ev'n those whom want might drive to just despair,
Think life a blessing under such a king.

CCLXI

Meantime he sadly suffers in their grief,
Out-weeps an hermit, and out-prays a saint:
All the long night he studies their relief,
How they may be supplied, and he may want.

CCLXII

" O God, " said he, " thou patron of my days,
Guide of my youth in exile and distress!
Who me unfriended brought'st by wondrous ways,
The kingdom of my fathers to possess:

CCLXIII

" Be thou my judge, with what unwearied care
I since have labor'd for my people's good;
To bind the bruises of a civil war,
And stop the issues of their wasting blood.

CCLXIV

" Thou, who hast taught me to forgive the ill,
And recompense, as friends, the good misled;
If mercy be a precept of thy will,
Return that mercy on thy servant's head.

CCLXV

" Or, if my heedless youth has stepp'd astray,
Too soon forgetful of thy gracious hand;
On me alone thy just displeasure lay,
But take thy judgments from this mourning land.

CCLXVI

" We all have sinn'd, and thou hast laid us low,
As humble earth from whence at first we came:
Like flying shades before the clouds we show,
And shrink like parchment in consuming flame.

CCLXVII

" O let it be enough what thou hast done;
When spotted deaths ran arm'd thro' every street,
With poison'd darts, which not the good could shun,
The speedy could out-fly, or valiant meet.

CCLXVIII

" The living few, and frequent funerals then,
Proclaim'd thy wrath on this forsaken place;
And now those few who are return'd again,
Thy searching judgments to their dwellings trace.

CCLXIX

" O pass not, Lord, an absolute decree,
Or bind thy sentence unconditional;
But in thy sentence our remorse foresee,
And, in that foresight, this thy doom recall.

CCLXX

" Thy threatings, Lord, as thine thou mayst revoke;
But, if immutable and fix'd they stand,
Continue still thyself to give the stroke,
And let not foreign foes oppress thy land. "

CCLXXI

Th' Eternal heard, and from the heav'nly choir
Chose out the cherub with the flaming sword;
And bade him swiftly drive th' approaching fire
From where our naval magazins were stor'd.

CCLXXII

The blessed minister his wings display'd,
And like a shooting star he cleft the night;
He charg'd the flames, and those that disobey'd
He lash'd to duty with his sword of light.

CCLXXIII

The fugitive flames, chastis'd, went forth to prey
On pious structures, by our fathers rear'd;
By which to heav'n they did affect the way,
Ere faith in churchmen without works was heard.

CCLXXIV

The wanting orphans saw with wat'ry eyes
Their founders' charity in dust laid low;
And sent to God their ever-answer'd cries,
(For he protects the poor, who made them so.)

CCLXXV

Nor could thy fabric, Paul's, defend thee long,
Tho' thou wert sacred to thy Maker's praise;
Tho' made immortal by a poet's song,
And poets' songs the Theban walls could raise.

CCLXXVI

The daring flames peep'd in, and saw from far
The awful beauties of the sacred choir;
But, since it was profan'd by civil war,
Heav'n thought it fit to have it purg'd by fire.

CCLXXVII

Now down the narrow streets it swiftly came,
And, widely opening, did on both sides prey:
This benefit we sadly owe the flame,
If only ruin must enlarge our way.

CCLXXVIII

And now four days the sun had seen our woes;
Four nights the moon beheld th' incessant fire:
It seem'd as if the stars more sickly rose,
And farther from the fev'rish north retire.

CCLXXIX

In th' empyrean heaven, (the blest abode,)
The Thrones and the Dominions prostrate lie,
Not daring to behold their angry God;
And an hush'd silence damps the tuneful sky.

CCLXXX

At length th' Almighty cast a pitying eye,
And mercy softly touch'd his melting breast:
He saw the town's one half in rubbish lie,
And eager flames drive on to storm the rest.

CCLXXXI

An hollow crystal pyramid he takes,
In firmamental waters dipp'd above;
Of it a broad extinguisher he makes
And hoods the flames that to their quarry strove.

CCLXXXII

The vanquish'd fires withdraw from every place,
Or, full with feeding, sink into a sleep:
Each household genius shews again his face,
And from the hearths the little Lares creep.

CCLXXXIII

Our king this more than natural change beholds;
With sober joy his heart and eyes abound:
To the All-good his lifted hands he folds,
And thanks him low on his redeemed ground.

CCLXXXIV

As when sharp frosts had long constrain'd the earth,
A kindly thaw unlocks it with mild rain;
And first the tender blade peeps up to birth,
And straight the green fields laugh with promis'd grain:

CCLXXXV

By such degrees the spreading gladness grew
In every heart which fear had froze before;
The standing streets with so much joy they view,
That with less grief the perish'd they deplore.

CCLXXXVI

The father of the people open'd wide
His stores, and all the poor with plenty fed:
Thus God's anointed God's own place supplied,
And fill'd the empty with his daily bread.

CCLXXXVII

This royal bounty brought its own reward,
And in their minds so deep did print the sense,
That if their ruins sadly they regard,
'Tis but with fear the sight might drive him thence.

CCLXXXVIII

But so may he live long, that town to sway,
Which by his auspice they will nobler make,
As he will hatch their ashes by his stay,
And not their humble ruins now forsake

CCLXXXIX

They have not lost their loyalty by fire;
Nor' is their courage or their wealth so low,
That from his wars they poorly would retire,
Or beg the pity of a vanquish'd foe.

CCXC

Not with more constancy the Jews of old,
By Cyrus from rewarded exile sent,
Their royal city did in dust behold,
Or with more vigor to rebuild it went.

CCXCI

The utmost malice of their stars is past,
And two dire comets, which have scourg'd the town,
In their own plague and fire have breath'd their last,
Or, dimly, in their sinking sockets frown.

CCXCII

Now frequent trines the happier lights among,
And high-rais'd Jove, from his dark prison freed,
(Those weights took off that on his planet hung,)
Will gloriously the new-laid works succeed.

CCXCIII

Methinks already, from this chymic flame,
I see a city of more precious mold,
Rich as the town which gives the Indies name,
With silver pav'd, and all divine with gold.

CCXCIV

Already, laboring with a mighty fate,
She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow,
And seems to have renew'd her charter's date,
Which Heav'n will to the death of time allow.

CCXCV

More great than human, now, and more august .
New-deified she from her fires does rise:
Her widening streets on new foundations trust,
And, opening, into larger parts she flies.

CCXCVI

Before, she like some shepherdess did show,
Who sate to bathe her by a river's side;
Not answering to her fame, but rude and low,
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.

CCXCVII

Now, like a maiden queen, she will behold,
From her high turrets, hourly suitors come:
The East with incense, and the West with gold,
Will stand, like suppliants, to receive her doom.

CCXCVIII

The silver Thames, her own domestic flood,
Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train;
And often wind, (as of his mistress proud,)
With longing eyes to meet her face again.

CCXCIX

The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine,
The glory of their towns no more shall boast;
And Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join,
Shall find her luster stain'd, and traffic lost.

CCC

The vent'rous merchant, who design'd more far,
And touches on our hospitable shore,
Charm'd with the splendor of this northern star,
Shall here unlade him, and depart no more.

CCCI

Our pow'rful navy shall no longer meet,
The wealth of France or Holland to invade;
The beauty of this town, without a fleet,
From all the world shall vindicate her trade.

CCCII

And, while this fam'd emporium we prepare,
The British ocean shall such triumphs boast,
That those who now disdain our trade to share,
Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast.

CCCIII

Already we have conquer'd half the war,
And the less dang'rous part is left behind;
Our trouble now is but to make them dare,
And not so great to vanquish as to find.

CCCIV

Thus to the eastern wealth thro' storms we go,
But now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more;
A constant trade-wind will securely blow,
And gently lay us on the spicy shore.