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If our victorious Edward, as they say,
Gave Wales a prince on that propitious day,
Why may not years, revolving with his fate,
Produce his like, but with a longer date?
One who may carry to a distant shore
The terror that his fam'd forefather bore.
But why should James or his young hero stay
For slight presages of a name or day;
We need no Edward's fortune to adorn

That happy moment when our Prince was born:
Our Prince adorns this day, and ages hence
Shall wish his birth-day for some future prince.
Great Michael! prince of all th' ethereal hosts,
And whate'er inborn saints our Britain boasts;
And thou th' adopted patron of our isle,

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With cheerful aspects on this infant smile;
The pledge of Heav'n, which, dropping from above,
Secures our bliss, and reconciles his love.

Enough of ills our dire rebellion wrought,

When to the dregs we drank the bitter draught;
Then airy atoms did in plagues conspire,
Nor did th' avenging angel yet retire,
But purg'd our still-increasing crimes with fire.
Then perjur'd plots, the still-impending test,
And worse---but charity conceals the rest.
Here stop the current of the sanguine flood;

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Require not, gracious God! thy martyr's blood; 160

But let their dying pangs, their living toil,
Spread a rich harvest thro' their native soil;
A harvest rip'ning for another reign.

Of which this royal Babe may reap the grain.
Enough of early saints one womb has giv'n;
Enough increas'd the family of Heav'n:
Let them for his and our atonement go,
And reigning bless'd above leave him to rule below.
Enough already has the year foreshow'd;

His wonted course the sea has overflow'd ;
The meads were floated with a weeping spring,
And frighten'd birds in woods forgot to sing:
The strong-limb'd steed beneath his harness faints,
And the same shiv'ring sweat his lord attaints.
When will the minister of wrath give o'er?
Behold him at Arauna's threshing-floor! †

He stops, and seems to sheath his flaming brand,
Pleas'd with burnt incense from our David's hand.
David has bought the Jebusite's abode,

And rais'd an altar to the living God.

Heav'n, to reward him, makes his joys sincere ;

No future ills nor accidents appear

To sully and pollute the sacred infant's year.
Five months to discord and debate were giv'n;
He sanctifies the yet remaining seven.

+ Alluding to the passage in the first book of Kings, chap. xxiv.

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Sabbath of months! henceforth in him be bless'd,
And prelude to the realm's perpetual rest!

Let his baptismal drops for us atone,
Lustrations for offences not his own.

Let conscience, which is int'rest ill disguis'd,

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In the same font be cleans'd, and all the land baptiz'd.

Unnam'd as yet, at least unknown to fame,

Is there a strife in heav'n about his name,
Where ev'ry famous predecessor vies,
And makes a faction for it in the skies?
Or must it be reserv'd to thought alone?
Such was the sacred Tetragrammaton.
Things worthy silence must not be reveal'd,
Thus the true name of Rome was kept conceal'd,
To shun the spells and sorceries of those
Who durst her infant majesty oppose:

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But when his tender strength in time shall rise
To dare ill tongues and fascinating eyes,
This isle, which hides the little thund'rer's fame,
Shall be too narrow to contain his name;
Th' artillery of heav'n shall make him known:
Crete could not hold the god when Jove was grown.

As Jove's increase, who from his brain was born, Whom arms and arts did equally adorn,

Free of the breast was bred, whose milky taste 210 Minerva's name to Venus had debas'd;

So this imperial Babe rejects the food

That mixes monarchs' with plebeian blood:

Food that his inborn courage might control,
Extinguish all the father in his soul,

And for his Estian race, and Saxon strain,
Might reproduce some second Richard's reign.
Mildness he shares from both his parents' blood;
But kings too tame are despicably good:

Be this the mixture of this regal child,
By nature manly, but by virtue mild.

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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. Here black Rebellion shooting from below, (As earth's gigantic brood by moments grow) And here the sons of God are petrify'd with woe: An apoplex of grief; so low were driv'n

The saints as hardly to defend their heav'n.

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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.
So, ere the Shunamite † a son conceiv'd,
The prophet promis'd, and the wife believ'd.
A son was sent, the son so much desir'd,
But soon upon the mother's knees expir'd:
The troubled seer approach'd the mournful door,
Rau, pray'd, and sent his past'ral staff before,

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Then stretch'd his limbs upon the child and tourn'd,
Till warmth, and breath, and a new soul return’d.
Thus mercy stretches out her hand, and saves
Desponding Peter sinking in the waves.

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.

In the second book of Kings, chap. iv.

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