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How many objects charm my wandering eye,
And bid my soul gaze there eternally!

Here in full streams; Bacchus, thy liquor flows,
Nor knows to ebb; here Jove's broad tree bestows
Distilling honey; here doth nectar pass,
With copious current, through the verdant grass:
Here Hyacinth, his fate writ in his looks,
And thou, Narcissus, loving still the brooks,
Once lovely boys! and Acis, now a flower,
Are nourish'd with that rarer herb, whose power
Created thee, War's potent god! here grows
The spotless lily and the blushing rose ;
And all those divers ornaments abound,
That variously may paint the gaudy ground.
No willow, Sorrow's garland, there hath room,
Nor cypress, sad attendant of a tomb.
None but Apollo's tree, and the' ivy twine
Embracing the stout oak, the fruitful vine,
And trees with golden apples loaded down,
On whose fair tops sweet Philomel alone,
Unmindful of her former misery,

Tunes with her voice a ravishing harmony;
Whilst all the murmuring brooks that glide along,
Make up a burthen to her pleasing song.
No screech-owl, sad companion of the night;
No hideous raven with prodigious flight,
Presaging future ill; nor, Progne, thee,
Yet spotted with young Itis' tragedy,
Those sacred bowers receive. There's nothing there
That is not pure; all innocent and rare.
Turning my greedy sight another way,
Under a row of storm-contemning bay,
I saw the Thracian singer with his lyre
Teach the deaf stones to hear him and admire.

Him the whole poets' chorus compass'd round,
All whom the oak, all whom the laurel crown'd.
There banish'd Ovid had a lasting home,
Better than thou couldst give, ungrateful Rome!
And Lucan (spite of Nero) in each vein
Had every drop of his spilt blood again:
Homer, Sol's first-born, was not poor or blind,
But saw as well in body as in mind.
Tully, grave Cato, Solon, and the rest

Of Greece's admired wise-men, here possest
A large reward for their past deeds, and gain
A life as everlasting as their fame.

By these the valiant heroes take their place;
All who stern Death and perils did embrace
For Virtue's cause. Great Alexander there
Laughs at the Earth's small empire, and did wear
A nobler crown than the whole world could give:
There did Horatius, Cocles, Sceva, live,

And valiant Decius; who now freely cease
From war, and purchase an eternal peace.

Next them, beneath a myrtle bower, where doves
And gall-less pigeons build their nests, all Love's
True faithful servants, with an amorous kiss
And soft embrace, enjoy their greediest wish.
Leander with his beauteous Hero plays,
Nor are they parted with dividing seas:
Porcia enjoys her Brutus; Death no more
Can now divorce their wedding, as before:
Thisbe her Pyramus kiss'd, his Thisbe he
Embraced, each bless'd with the' other's company:
And every couple, always dancing, sing
Eternal pleasures to Elysium's king.

But see how soon these pleasures fade away!
How near to evening is Delight's short day!

The watching bird, true nuncius of the light,
Strait crowed; and all these vanish'd from my sight:
My very Muse herself forsook me too.

Me grief and wonder waked: what should I do?
Oh! let me follow thee (said I) and go
From life, that I may dream for ever so.
With that my flying Muse I thought to clasp
Within my arms, but did a shadow grasp.
Thus chiefest joys glide with the swiftest stream,
And all our greatest pleasure's but a dream.

ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN

OUT OF SCOTLAND.

GREAT Charles !-there stop, ye trumpeters of
Fame!

For he who speaks his titles, his great name,
Must have a breathing time-our king:-stay there;
Speak by degrees; let the inquisitive ear
Be held in doubt, and, ere you say "is come,"
Let every heart prepare a spacious room

For ample joys: then Iö sing, as loud
As thunder shot from the divided cloud!
Let Cygnus pluck from the Arabian waves
The ruby of the rock, the pearl that paves
Great Neptune's court: let every sparrow bear
From the three Sisters' weeping bark a tear:
Let spotted lynxes their sharp talons fill
With crystal, fetch'd from the Promethean hill:
Let Cytherea's birds fresh wreaths compose,
Knitting the pale-fac'd lily with the rose:

Let the self-gotten phenix rob his nest,
Spoil his own funeral pile, and all his best
Of myrrh, of frankincense, of cassia, bring,
To strew the way for our returned king!
Let every post a panegyric wear,
Each wall, each pillar, gratulations bear:
And yet, let no man invocate a Muse;
The very matter will itself infuse

A sacred fury: let the merry bells
(For unknown joys work unknown miracles)
Ring without help of sexton, and presage
A new-made holy-day for future age!
And, if the ancients used to dedicate
A golden temple to propitious Fate,
At the return of any noble men,

Of heroes, or of emperors, we must then
Raise up a double trophy; for their fame
Was but the shadow of our Charles's name.
Who is there where all virtues mingled flow,
Where no defects or imperfections grow?
Whose head is always crown'd with victory,
Snatch'd from Bellona's hand; him Luxury
In peace debilitates: whose tongue can win
Tully's own garland, Pride to him creeps
On whom (like Atlas' shoulders) the propt state
(As he were primum mobile of Fate)
Solely relies; him blind Ambition moves ;
His tyranny the bridled subject proves.
But all those virtues which they all possess'd
Divided, are collected in thy breast,

in.

Great Charles! Let Cæsar boast Pharsalia's fight,
Honorius praise the Parthian's unfeign'd flight:
Let Alexander call himself Jove's peer,
And place his image near the thunderer;

Yet while our Charles with equal balance reigns
"Twixt Mercy and Astrea, and maintains
A noble peace, 'tis he, 'tis only he,
Who is most near, most like, the Deity.

SONG,

ON THE SAME.

HENCE, clouded looks; hence, briny tears,
Hence eye that Sorrow's livery wears!
What though awhile Apollo please
To visit the Antipodes ?

Yet he returns, and with his light
Expels what he hath caused-the night.
What though the Spring vanish away,
And with it the Earth's form decay?
Yet his new-birth will soon restore
What its departure took before.

What though we miss'd our absent king
Awhile? great Charles is come again ;
And with his presence makes us know
The gratitude to Heaven we owe.
So doth a cruel storm impart

And teach us Palinurus' art:

So from salt floods, wept by our eyes,

A joyful Venus doth arise.

A VOTE.

LEST the misjudging world should chance to say I durst not but in secret murmurs pray;

To whisper in Jove's ear

How much I wish that funeral,

Or

gape at such a great one's fall;
This let all ages hear,

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