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Mildnefs he fhares 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.

Thus far the Furious Transport of the News,
Had to Prophetick Madness fir'd the Muse;
Madness ungovernable, uninspir'd,

Swift to foretell whatever the defir'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'er-caft!
Fame, the swift Ill, encreafing as the rowl'd,
Disease, Despair, and Death, at three reprifes told:
At three infulting Strides she stalk'd the Town,
And, like Contagion, ftruck the Loyal down.
Down fell the winnow'd Wheat; but mounted high,
The Whirl-wind bore the Chaff, and hid the Sky.
Here black Rebellion fhooting from below
(AS Earths Gigantick Brood by Moments grow)
And here the Sons of God are petrify'd with Woe:
An Apoplex of Grief! fo low were driv'n
The Saints, as hardly to defend their Heav'n.

As, when pent Vapours run their hollow round,
Earth-quakes, which are Convulfions of the Ground,
Break bellowing forth, and no Confinement brook,
Till the Third fettles, what the former fhook;
Such heavings had our Souls; till flow and late,
Our Life with his return'd, and Faith prevail'd on Fate,
By Prayers the mighty Blessing was implor'd,
To Pray'rs was granted, and by Pray'rs reftor'd,
So ere the Shunamite a Son conceiv'd,
The Prophet promis'd, and the Wife believ'd.
A Son was fent, the Son fo much defir'd,
But foon upon the Mother's Knees expir’d.

The fudden falfe Report of the Prince's Death. Thofe Gyants are feign'd to have grown 15 Ells every In the Second Book of Kings, Chap. 4

day.

The troubled Seer approach'd the mournful Door,
Ran, pray'd, and sent his Paft'ral Staff before,
Then ftretch'd his Limbs upon the Child, and mourn'd,
Till Warmth, and Breath, and a new Soul return'd.
Thus Mercy ftretches out her Hand, and faves
Defponding Peter finking in the Waves.

As when a fudden Storm of Hail and Rain
Beats to the Ground the yet unbearded Grain,
Think not the Hopes of Harveft are destroy'd
On the flat Field, and on the naked void;
The light, unloaded Stem, from Tempest freed,
Will raife the youthful Honours of his Head;
And, foon reftor'd by native Vigour, bear
The timely product of the bounteous Year.
Nor yet conclude all fiery Trials past,
For Heav'n will exercife us to the laft;
Sometimes will check us in our full Career,
With doubtful Bleffings, and with mingled fear;
That, ftill depending on his daily Grace,
His every Mercy for an Alms may pafs,
With fparing Hands will Dyet us to good;
Preventing Surfeits of our pamper'd Blood.
So feeds the Mother-bird her craving Young,
With little Morfels, and delays 'em long.

True, this last Bleffing was a Royal Feaft,
But, where's the Wedding-Garment on the Guest!
Our Manners, as Religion were a Dream,
Are fuch as teach the Nations to Blafpheme.
In Lufts we wallow, and with Pride we fwell,
And Injuries, with Injuries repell;

Prompt to Revenge, not daring to forgive,
Our Lives unteach the Doctrine we believe;
Thus Israel fin'd, impenitently hard,

And vainly thought the prefent Ark their Guard;
But when the haughty Philistines appear,

They fled, abandon'd to their Foes and Fear;
Their God was abfent, though his Ark was there.

* 1 Sam. 4. 19

Ah!

Ah! left our Crimes fhou'd fnatch this Pledge away,
And make our Joys the Bleffings of a Day?
For we have fin'd him hence, and that he lives,
God to his promife, not our Practice gives.
Our Crimes wou'd foon weigh down the guilty Scale,
But James, and Mary, and the Church prevail.
Nor† Amaleck can rout the Chofen Bands,
While Hur and Aaron hold up Mofes Hands.
By living well, let us fecure his Days,
Mod'rate in Hopes, and humble in our Ways.
No force the Free-born Spirit can constrain,
But Charity, and great Examples gain.
Forgiveness is our Thanks for such a Day;
'Tis God-like, God in his own Coyn to pay.
But you, Propitious Queen, tranflated 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 Boaft,
Though Beautiful is well in Pious loft;
So loft as Star-light is diffolv'd away,
And melts into the brightness of the Day;
Or Gold about the Regal Diadem,
Loft to improve the Luftre of the Gem.
What can we add to your Triumphant Day?
Let the Great Gift the Beauteous Giver pay.
For fhou'd our Thanks awake the Rifing-Sun,,
And lengthen, as his lateft fhadows run,
That, tho' the longest Day, wou'd foon, too foon be
Let Angels Voices, with their Harps confpire,
But keep th' Aufpicious Infant from the Quire;
Late let him fing above, and let us know
No fweeter Mufick, than his Cries below.

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Nor can I wish to you, Great Monarch, more Than fuch an Annual Income to your Store;

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The Day, which gave this Unit, did not fhine
For a lefs Omen, than to fill the Trine.
After a Prince, an Admiral beget,

The Royal Sov'reign wants an Anchor yet.
Our Ifle has younger Titles ftill in ftore,
And when th' exhaufted Land can yield no more,
Your Line can force them from a foreign Shore.
The Name of Great, your Martial Mind will fuit,
But Juftice is your Darling Attribute:

Of all the Greeks, 'twas but one Herae's due,
And, in him, Plutarch Prophecy'd of you.

A Prince's Favours but on few can fall,
But Juffice is a Virtue fhar'd by all.

Some Kings the name of Conqu'rors have affum'd,
Some to be Great, fome to be Gods prefum'd;
But boundless Pow'r, and Arbitrary Luft
Made Tyrants ftill abhor the Name of Juft;
They fhun'd the Praise this God-like Virtue gives,
And fear'd a Title, that reproach'd their Lives.
The Pow'r from which all Kings derive their State,
Whom they pretend, at leaft, to imitate,
Is equal both to punish and reward;

For few wou'd love their God, unless they fear'd.
Refiftless Force and Immortality

Make but a Lame, Imperfect Deity:

Tempests have force unbounded to destroy,
And Deathless Being ev'n the Damn'd enjoy,
And yet Heavens Attributes, both laft and first,
One without Life, and one with Life accurft;
But Juftice is Heaven's Self, so strictly He,
That cou'd it fail, the God-head cou'd not be.
This Virtue is your own; but Life and State
Are one to Fortune subject, One to Fate:
Equal to all, you justly frown or smile,

Nor Hopes, nor Fears your fteady Hand beguile;
Your felf our Ballance hold, the World's our Isle.

* Ariftides, fee his Life in Plutarch.

On the CREATION.

By Mrs. ELIZ. SINGER.

OR yet the crude Materials of the Earth

N%

Were form'd; nor Time, nor Motion yet had Nor yet one folitary fpark of Light

[Birth: Glar'd thro' the dusky Shades of ancient Night; Nor on the barren Waftes of endless Space,

As yet were circumfcrib'd the Bounds of Place:
When at th' Almighty's Word, from nothing springs
The first confus'd Original of Things.

Whatever now the Heav'ns wide Arms embrace,
Together then lay blended in a Mass;

The Dull, the Active, the Refin'd, and Bafe,

}

The Cold, the Hot, the Temp'rate, Moift, and Dry,
All mingled in profound Disorder lye;
In one prodigious undistinguish'd Heap,
Th' extreameft Contraries of Nature fleep:
Nor yet the sprightly Seeds of Fire afcend,
Nor downwards yet the pond'rous Atoms tend.
A monstrous Face the new Creation wears,
And void of Order, Form, and Light, appears;
'Till the Almighty Fiat, once again
Pronounc'd, did Morion to each Part ordain,
Awoke the tender Principles of Life,
And urg'd the growing Elemental Strife.
And now Confufions infinite arife,
From Nature's most remote Antipathies:
But while against their furious Oppofites,
Each Hoftile Atom all its Force unites,
Their own lov'd Species, thro' the formless Mafs,
With am'rous Zeal officiously they trace,
And join, and mingle in a strict Embrace.
The lively fhining Particles of Light,

On dazzling Wings attempt their nimble Flight.
The fine transparent Air, with mighty Force,
Thro' Fix'd and Fluid, upward takes its Courfe.

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