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A difmal fhade did heaven's fad face o'erflow,
Dark as the night flain rebels found below :
No gentle stars their chearful glories rear'd,
Afham'd they were at what was done, and fear'd
Left wicked men their bold excufe fhould frame
From fome ftrange influence, and fo vail their fhame.
To Duty thus, Order and Law incline,

They who ne'er err from one eternal line;
As just the ruin of these men they thought,
As Sifera's was, 'gainst whom themselves had fought.
Still they rebellions' ends remember well,
Since Lucifer the great, their fhining captain, fell.
For this the bells they ring, and not in vain;
Well might they all ring out for thousands flain :
For this the bonfires their glad lightness spread,
When funeral flames might more befit their dead :
For this with folemn thanks they tire their God,
And, whilft they feel it, mock th' Almighty's rod;
They proudly now abuse his justice more,
Than his long mercies they abus'd before.

Yet thefe the men that true religion boast,
The pure and holy, holy, holy, host!

What great reward for so much zeal is given ?

Why, Heaven has thank'd them since as they thank'd Heaven.

Witness thou Brentford, fay, thou ancient town,

How many
in thy streets fell groveling down:
Witness the red-coats weltering in their gore,

And dy'd anew into the name they bore:



Witness their men blow'd up into the air
(All elements their ruins joy'd to share);
In the wide air quick flames their bodies tore,
Then, drown'd in waves, they're toft by wayes to shore:
Witness thou Thames, thou waft amaz'd to see
Men madly run to fave themfelves in thee;

In vain, for rebels' lives thou would'ft not fave,
And down they funk beneath thy conquering wave.
Good, reverend Thames ! the beft-belov'd of all
Those noble blood that meet at Neptune's hall;
London's proud towers, which do thy head adorn,
Are not thy glory now, but grief and fcorn.
Thou griev'st to see the white-nam'd palace shine,
Without the beams of its own lord and thine:
Thy lord, which is to all as good and free,
As thou, kind flood! to thine own banks canft be.
How does thy peaceful back difdain to bear
The rebels' busy pride at Westminster!
Thou, who thyself doft without murmuring pay
Eternal tribute to thy prince the fea.

To Oxford next great Charles in triumph came,
Oxford, the British Mufes' fecond fame.
Here learning with some state and reverence looks,
And dwells in buildings lafting as her books;
Both now eternal, but they 'ad ashes been,
Had these religious Vandals once got in.
Not Bodley's noble work their rage would fpare,
For books they know the chief malignants are.
In vain they filence every age before;

For pens of time to come will wound them more!


The temple's decent wealth, and modest state,
Had fuffer'd; this their avarice, that their hate :
Beggary and fcorn into the church they'd bring,
And made God glorious, as they made the king':
O happy town, that to lov'd Charles's fight,
In thofe fad times, gav'ft fafety and delight,
The fate which civil war itself doth blefs!

Scarce would'st thou change for peace this happiness. 'Midst all the joys which Heaven allows thee here; Think on thy fifter, and then shed a tear.

What fights did this fad winter fee each day, Her winds and ftorms came not fo thick as they! Yet nought these far-loft rebels could recall, Not Marlborough's nor Cirencester's fall. Yet ftill for peace the gentle conqueror fues; By his wrath they perifli, yet his love refuse. Nor yet is the plain lesson understood, Writ by kind Heaven in B- and H-'s blood. Chad and his church faw where their enemy lay, And with juft red new-mark'd their holy-day. Fond men! this blow the injur'd Crosier strook; Nought was more fit to perish, but thy book. Such fatal vengeance did wrong'd Charlegrove fhew, Where both begun and ended too His curs'd rebellion; where his foul 's repaid With feparation, great as that he made.

whose spirit mov'd o'er this mighty frame O' th' British ifle, and out this chaos came. the man that taught confufion's art; His treafons reftlefs, and yet noiseless heart.

His active brain like tna's top appear'd,
Where treafon 's forg'd, yet no noife outward heard.
'Twas he contriv'd whate'er bold M— faid,

And all the popular noise that P— has made ;
'Twas he that taught the zealous rout to rise,
And be his flaves for fome feign'd liberties:
Him for this black defign, hell thought moft fit;
Ah! wretched man, curs'd by too good a wit!

If not all this your stubborn hearts can fright,
Think on the Weft, think on the Cornish might:
The Saxon fury, to that far-stretch'd place,
Drove the torn relics of great Brutus' race:
Here they of old did in long fafety lie,
Compafs'd with feas, and a worse enemy;
Ne'er till this time, ne'er did they meet with foes
More cruel and more barbarous than those.
Ye noble Britons, who so oft with blood
Of Pagan hofts have dy'd old Tamar's flood;
If any drop of mighty Uther ftill,

Or Uther's mightier fon, your veins does fill;
Shew then that fpirit, till all men think by you
The doubtful tales of your great Arthur true :
You 'ave fhewa it, Britons, and have often done
Things that have chear'd the weary, fetting fun.
Again did Tainar your dread arms behold,
As juft and as fuccefsful as the old :

It kifs'd the Cornish banks, and vow'd to bring,
His richest waves to feed th' enfuing spring;,
But murmur'd fadly, and almost deny'd
All fruitful moisture to the Devon fide,



Ye fons of war, by whose bold acts we fee
How great a thing exalted man may be ;
The world remains your debtor, that as yet
Ye have not all gone forth and conquer'd it.
I knew that Fate fome wonders for you meant,
When matchless Hopton to your coasts she fent;
Hopton! fo wife, he needs not Fortune's aid,
So fortunate, his wisdom 's useless made:
Should his fo-often-try'd companions fail,
His spirit alone, and courage, would prevail.
Miraculous man! how would I fing thy praise,
Had any Muse crown'd me with half the bays
Conqueft hath given to thee; and next thy name
Should Berkeley, Stanning, Digby, press to fame.
Godolphin! thee, thee Grenville! I'd rehearse,
But tears break off my verse !—

How oft has vanquish'd Stamford backward fled;
Swift as the parted fouls of those he led !
How few did his huge multitudes defeat,
For moft are cyphers when the number's great!
Numbers, alas! of men, that made no more
Than he himself, ten thousand times told o'er.
Who hears of Stratton-fight, but must confefs
All that he heard or read before was lefs;
Sad Germany can no fuch trophy boaft,
For all the blood these twenty years she 'as lost.
Vaft was their army, and their arms were more
Than th' hoft of hundred-handed giants bore.
So ftrong their arms, it did almost appear
-Secure, had neither arms nor men been there.

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