Till frowning skies began to change their cheer, And time turn'd up the wrong side of the year; The shedding trees began the ground to strow With yellow leaves, and bitter blasts to blow. Sad auguries of winter thence she drew, Which by instinct, or prophecy, she knew: When prudence warn'd her to remove betimes, And seek a better heav'n, and warmer climes. Her sons were summon'd on a steeple's height, And call'd in common council, vote a flight; The day was nam'd, the next that should be fair: All to the general rendezvous repair,
They try their flutt'ring wings and trust themselves in air. But whether upward to the moon they go,
Or dream the winter out in caves below,
Or hawk at flies elsewhere, concerns us not to know. Southwards, you may be sure, they bent their flight, And harbour'd in a hollow rock at night:
Next morn they rose, and set up every sail; The wind was fair, but blew a mack'rel gale: The sickly young sat shiv'ring on the shore, Abhorr'd salt-water never seen before, And pray'd their tender mothers to delay The passage, and expect a fairer day.
And saw (but scarcely could believe their eyes) New blossoms flourish, and new flow'rs arise; As God had been abroad, and, walking there, Had left his footsteps, and reform'd the year: The sunny hills from far were seen to glow With glittering beams, and in the meads below The burnish'd brooks appear'd with liquid gold to flow.
An infant moon eclips'd him in his way, And hid the small remainders of his day.
The crowd, amaz'd, pursu'd no certain mark; But birds met birds, and jostled in the dark: Few mind the public in a panic fright;
And fear increas'd the horror of the night. Night came, but unattended with repose; Alone she came, no sleep their eyes to close: Alone, and black she came; no friendly stars arose. What should they do, beset with dangers round, No neighbouring dorp, no lodging to be found, But bleaky plains, and bare inhospitable ground. The latter brood, who just began to fly, Sick-feather'd, and unpractis'd in the sky, For succour to their helpless mother call.
For now the streaky light began to peep; And setting stars admonish'd both to sleep. The dame withdrew, and, wishing to her guest The peace of Heav'n, betook herself to rest. Ten thousand angels on her slumbers wait, With glorious visions of her future state.
SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 1687.
What passion cannot music raise and quell! When Jubal struck the chorded shell, His list'ning brethren stood around, And, wond'ring, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound;
Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly and so well.
BRITANNIA REDIVIVA. 1688.
Our vows are heard betimes, and Heav'n takes care To grant, before we can conclude, the prayer; Preventing angels met it half the way, And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.
Departing spring could only stay to shed Her gloomy beauties on the genial bed; But left the manly summer in her stead, With timely fruit the longing land to cheer, And to fulfil the promise of the year. Betwixt two seasons comes th' auspicious heir, This age to blossom, and the next to bear.
When humbly on the royal babe we gaze, The manly lines of a majestic face Give awful joy: 'tis Paradise to look
On the fair frontispiece of nature's book: If the first op'ning page so charms the sight, Think how th' unfolded volume will delight! See how the venerable infant lies
In early pomp; how through the mother's eyes The father's soul, with an undaunted view, Looks out, and takes our homage as his due. See on his future subjects how he smiles, Nor meanly flatters, nor with craft beguiles; But with an open face, as on his throne, Assures our birthrights, and assumes his own.
Thus far the furious transport of the news Had to prophetic madness fir'd the muse;
Madness ungovernable, uninspir'd, Swift to foretel whatever she desir'd. Was it for me the dark abyss to tread, And read the book which angels cannot read? How was I punish'd, when the sudden blast The face of heav'n, and our young sun, o'ercast! Fame, the swift ill, increasing as she roll'd, Disease, despair, and death, at three reprises told: At three insulting strides she stalk'd the town, And, like contagion, struck the loyal down. Down fell the winnow'd wheat; but mounted high The whirlwind bore the chaff, and hid the sky.
As, when pent vapours run their hollow round, Earthquakes, which are convulsions of the ground, Break bellowing forth, and no confinement brook, Till the third settles what the former shook; Such heavings had our souls; till, slow and late, Our life with his return'd, and faith prevail'd on fate. By pray'rs the mighty blessing was implor'd, To pray'rs was granted, and by pray'rs restor❜d.
As when a sudden storm of hail and rain Beats to the ground the yet unbearded grain, Think not the hopes of harvest are destroy'd On the flat field, and on the naked void; The light unloaded stem, from tempest freed, Will raise the youthful honours of his head; And soon restor❜d by native vigour, bear The timely product of the bounteous year. Nor yet conclude all fiery trials past: For Heav'n will exercise us to the last; Sometimes will check us in our full career, With doubtful blessings, and with mingled fear;
That, still depending on his daily grace, His ev'ry mercy for an alms may pass, With sparing hands will diet us to good; Preventing surfeits of our pamper'd blood. So feeds the mother bird her craving young With little morsels, and delays them long.
But you, propitious queen, translated here, From your mild heav'n, to rule our rugged sphere, Beyond the sunny walks, and circling year; You, who
your native climate have bereft Of all the virtues, and the vices left; Whom piety and beauty make their boast, Though beautiful is well in pious lost; So lost, as star-light is dissolv'd away, And melts into the brightness of the day; Or gold about the royal diadem, Lost to improve the lustre of the gem. What can we add to your triumphant day? Let the great gift the beauteous giver pay. For should our thanks awake the rising sun, And lengthen, as his latest shadows run,
That, though the longest day, would soon, too soon be done. Let angels' voices with their harps conspire,
But keep th' auspicious infant from the choir;
Late let him sing above, and let us know No sweeter music than his cries below.
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