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They fight their quarrel, by themselves opprest; The tyrant smiles below, and waits the falling
feast. Thus did the gentle Hind her fable end, Nor would the Panther blame it, nor commend ; But, with affected yawnings at the close, Seem'd to require her natural repose: 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 heaven, betook herself to rest. Ten thousand angels on her slumbers wait, With glorious visions of her future state.
POEM on the PRINCE,
Born on the Tenth of JUNE, 1688,
UR vows are heard betimes, and heaven
Just on the day, when the high-mounted sun
Departing Spring could only stay to shed
Last solemn fabbath saw the Church attend,
Or did the mighty Trinity conspire,
Hail son of prayers ! by holy violence
thence, And late to thy paternal skies retire: To mend our crimes whole
would require ; To change th’inveterate habit of our sins, And finish what thy godlike fire begins. Kind heaven, to make us Englishmen again, No less can give us than a patriarch's reign.
The facred cradle to your charge receive,
Our wants exact at least that moderate stay:
cry, The snakes besieg'd his young divinity : But vainly with their forked tongues they threat ; For opposition makes a hero great. To needful succor all the good will run, And Jove assert the godhead of his fon.
O ftill repining at your present state, Grudging yourselves the benefits of fate, Look up, and read in characters of light A blessing sent
your own despight. The manna falls, yet that celestial bread Like Jews you munch, and murmur while you
May not your fortune be like theirs, exild,
you verge of promis'd rest. Tho poets are not prophets, to foreknow What plants will take the blight, and what will
grow, By tracing heaven his footsteps may be found: Behold! how awfully he walks the round! God is abroad, and, wond'rous in his ways, The rise of empires, and their fall surveys ; More, might I say, than with an usual eye, He sees his bleeding church in ruin lie, And hears the fouls, of saints beneath his altar
cry. Already has he lifted high the sign, Which crown'd the conquering arms of Con
ftantine : The moon grows pale at that presaging fight, And half her train of stars have lost their light.
Behold another Sylvester, to bless