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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.

A

POEM on the PRINCE,

Born on the Tenth of JUNE, 1688,

O

UR vows are heard betimes, and heaven

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.

Just on the day, when the high-mounted sun
Did farthest in its northern progress run,
He bended forward, and even stretch'd the sphere
Beyond the limits of the lengthen’d year,
To view a brighter sun in Britain born ;
That was the business of his longest morn ;
The glorious object seen, 'twas time to turn.

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 chear,
And to fulfil the promise of the year.
Betwixt two seasons comes th' auspicious heir,
This age to blossom, and the next to bear.

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Last solemn fabbath saw the Church attend,
The Paraclete in fiery pomp descend;
But when his wond'rous octave rollid again,
He brought a royal infant in his train.
So great a blessing to so good a king,
None but th'Eternal Comforter could bring.

Or did the mighty Trinity conspire,
As once in council to create our fire ?
It seems as if they sent the new-born guest
To wait on the procession of their feast
And on their sacred anniverse decreed
To stamp their image on the promis'd feed.
Three realms united, and on one bestow'd,
An emblem of their mystic union show'd:
The mighty trine the triple empire Thar'd,
As every person would have one to guard.

Hail son of prayers ! by holy violence
Drawn down from heaven ; but long be banish'd

thence, And late to thy paternal skies retire: To mend our crimes whole

ages

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.

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The facred cradle to your charge receive,
Ye seraphs, and by turns the guard relieve ;
Thy father's angel, and thy father join,
To keep poffeffion, and secure the line ;
But long defer the honors of thy fate :
Great may they be like his, like his be late ;
That James his running century may view,
And give this son an auspice to the new.

Our wants exact at least that moderate stay:
For fee the dragon winged on his way,
To watch the travail, and devour the prey.
Or, if allusions may not rise fo high
Thus, when Alcides rais'd his infant

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

you

in

your own despight. The manna falls, yet that celestial bread Like Jews you munch, and murmur while you

feed.

to the

May not your fortune be like theirs, exild,
Yet forty years to wander in the wild :
Or if it be, may Moses live at least,
To lead

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

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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
The sacred standard, and secure success;
Large of his treasures, of a soul so great,
As fills and crowds his universal seat.
Now view at home a second Constàntine;
(The former too was of the British line)

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