Sylva. Cease, O my Muse, the soft delights to sing Of flowry Gardens in their fragrant Spring; And trace the rougher paths of obscure Woods, All gloom aloft, beneath o’rgrown with Shrubs: 5 Where Phoebus, once thy Guide, can dart no ray T’ inspire thy flight, and make the Scene look gay. Courage, my Huntress, let us range the Glades, And search the inmost Grotto’s of the Shades: Even to the lone Recesses let us pass, 10 Where the green Goddess rests on Beds of Moss. Let loose, my Fancy, swift of foot to trace With a sagacious scent the noble chase, And with a joyful cry pursue the Prey; ’Tis hidden Nature we must rouse to day, 15 Set all our Gins, let every Toil be plac’d, Through all her Tracks let flying Truth be chas’d, And seize her panting with her eager hast. Nor yet disdain, my Muse, in Groves to range, Or humbler Woods for nobler Orchards change. 20 Here Deities of old have made abode, And once secur’d Great Charles our earthly God. The Royal Youth, born to out-brave his Fate, Within a neighbouring Oak maintain’d his State: The faithful Boughs in kind Allegiance spread 25 Their sheltring Branches round his awful Head, Twin’d their rough Arms, and thicken’d all the Shade. To thee, belov’d of Heaven, to thee we sing Of sacred Groves blooming perpetual Spring. Mayst thou be to my Rural Verse and Me, 31230 A present and assisting Deity. Disdain not in this leafy Court to dwell, Who its lov’d Monarch did secure so well. Th’ Eternal Oak now consecrate to thee No more thy Refuge, but thy Throne shall be. 35 We’ll place thee Conqueror now, and crown thy brows With Garlands made of its young gayest boughs: While from our oaten Pipes the world shall know How much they to this sacred shelter owe. And you, the soft Inhabitants of the Groves, 40 You Wood-Nymphs, Hamadryades and Loves, Satyrs and Fauns, who in these Arbors play, Permit my Song, and give my Muse her way. She tells of ancient Woods the wondrous things, Of Groves long veil’d in sacred darkness sings, 45 And a new Light into your Gloom she brings. Let it be lawful for me to unfold Divine Decrees that never yet were told: The Harangues of the Wood Gods to rehearse, And sing of Flowry Senates in my Verse. 50 Voices unknown to Man he now shall hear, Who always ignorant of what they were, Have pass’d ’em by with a regardless ear; Thought ’em the murmurings of the ruffled Trees, That mov’d and wanton’d with the sporting Breeze. But Daphne knew the Mysteries of the Wood, Daphne being turn’d into a Laurel. 55 And made discoveries to her amorous God; Apollo me inform’d, and did inspire My Soul with his Divine Prophetic fire: And I, the Priest of Plants, their sense expound. 60 Hear, O ye Worlds, and listen all around. ’Twas now when Royal Charles that Prince of peace, (That pious Off spring of the Olive Race) Sway’d Englands Scepter with a God-like hand, Scattering soft Ease and Plenty o’r the Land, 65 Happy ’bove all the neigbouring Kings, while yet Unruffled by the rudest storms of Fate, More fortunate the People, till their Pride Disdain’d Obedience to the Sovereign Guide, And to a base Plebeian Senate gave 31370 The Arbitrary Priv’lege to enslave; Who through a Sea of Noblest Blood did wade, To tear the Diadem from the Sacred Head. Now above Envy, far above the Clouds The Martyr sits triumphing with the Gods. 75 While Peace before did o’r the Ocean fly On our blest Shore to find security: In British Groves she built her downy nest, No other Climate could afford her rest: For warring Winds o’r wretched Europe range, 80 Threatning Destruction, universal Change. The raging Tempest tore the aged Woods, Shook the vast Earth, and troubl’d all the Floods. Nor did the fruitful Goddess brood in vain, But here in safety hatch’d her golden train. 85 Justice and Faith one Cornucopia fill, Of useful Med’cines known to many an Ill. Such was the Golden Age in Saturn’s sway, Easie and innocent it pass’d away: But too much Luxury and good Fortune cloys, 90 And Virtues she should cherish she destroys. What we most wish, what we most toil to gain Enjoyment palls, a[n]d turns the Bliss to pain. Possession makes us shift our Happiness, From peaceful Wives to noisie Mistrisses. 95 The Repetition makes the Pleasure dull; ’Tis only Change that’s gay and beautiful. O Notion false! O Appetite deprav’d, That has the nobler part of Man enslav’d, Man born to Reason, does that Safety quit, 100 To split upon the dangerous Rock of Wit. Physicians say, there’s no such danger near, As when, though no signs manifest appear, Self-tir’d and dull, man knows not what he ails, And without toil his Strength and Vigor fails. 105 Such was the State of England, sick with Ease, Too happy, if she knew her Happiness. This relation of Prodigies, Mr. Cowley assures to be true; Veram esse in me recipio. In the Margin to the Original. Their Crime no Ignorance for Excuse can plead, That wretched refuge for Ingratitude. 314’Twas then that from the pitying Gods there came 110 A kind admonishing Anger to reclaim In dreadful Prodigies; but, alas, in vain. So rapid Thunder-bolts before the Flame Fly, the consuming Vengeance to proclaim. I, then a Boy, arriv’d to my tenth year, 115 And still those horrid Images I bear. The mournful Signs are present to my Eyes, I saw o’r all the Region of the Skies, The History of our approaching Wars Writ in the Heav’ns in wondrous Characters. 120 The vaulted Firmament with Lightning burns. And all the Clouds were kindled into Storms, And form’d an Image of th’ Infernal Hell; (I shake with the portentous things I tell) Like sulph’rous waves the horrid Flames did roll, 125 Whose raging Tides were hurl’d from Pole to Pole; Then suddenly the bursting Clouds divide, A Fire-like burning mounts on either side, Discovering (to th’ astonish’d World) within At once a dreadful and a beauteous Scene: 130 Two mighty Armies clad in Battle-array Ready by Combat to dispute the day: Their waving Plumes and glittering Armour shone, Mov’d by the Winds and guilded by the Sun. So well in order seem’d each fearless Rank, 135 As they’d been marshall’d by our Hero, Monk, Monk, born for mighty things and great command, The glorious Pillar of our falling Land. Perhaps his Genius on the Royal side One of those Heav’nly Figures did describe, 140 Here pointed out to us his noble force, And form’d him Conqueror on a flaming Horse. We heard, or fancy’d that we heard, around, The Signal giv’n by Drum and Trumpet sound, We saw the fire-wing’d Horses fiercely meet, 145 And with their fatal Spears each other greet. Here shining brandish’d Pikes like Lightning shook, While from Ethereal Guns true Thunder broke. With gloomy Mists th’ involv’d the Plains of Heaven, And to the Cloud-begotten men was given 150 A memorable Fate — 315By the dire Splendor which their Arms display’d, And dreadful Lightning that from Cannons play’d, We saw extended o’re the Aereal Plain The wounded Bodies of the numerous slain. 155 (Their Faces fierce with anger understood) Turning the Sky red with their gushing Blood, At last that Army we the Just esteem’d, And which adorn’d by noblest Figures seem’d Of Arms and Men, alas! was put to flight; 160 The rest was veil’d in the deep Shades of Night, And Fates to come secur’d from humane sight. But stupid England touch’d with no remorse, Beholds these Prodigies as things of course. (With many more, which to the Just appear’d 165 As ominous Presages.) Then who fear’d The Monsters of the Caledonian Woods, Or the hid ferments of Schismatic Crowds? Nor had the impious Cromwel then a Name, For England’s Ruin, and for England’s Shame. 170 Nor were the Gods pleas’d only to exhort By signs the restive City and the Court. Th’ impending Fates o’r all the Thickets reign’d, And Ruin to the English Wood proclaim’d, We saw the sturdy Oaks of monstrous growth, 175 Whose spreading roots fix’d in their native Earth, Where for a thousand years in peace they grew, Torn from the Soil, though none but Zeph’rus blew. But who such violent Outrages could find To be th’ effects of the soft Western wind? 180 The Dryads saw the right hand of the Gods O’rturn the noblest shelters of the Woods. Others their Arms with baneful leaves were clad, That new unusual Forms and Colours had, Whence now no Aromatic moisture flows, 185 Or noble Misseltoe enrich the boughs. But bow’d with Galls, within whose boding hulls Lurk’d Flies, diviners of ensuing ills. Whose fatal buz did future slaughters threat, And confus’d murmurs full of dread, repeat. 190 When no rude winds distur’d the ambient Air, The Trees, as weary of repose, made war. With horrid noise grappling their knotty Arms, 316Like meeting Tides they ruffle into Storms; But when the Winds to ratling Tempests rise, 195 Instead of warring Trees we heard the Cries Of warring Men, whose dying Groans around The Woods and mournful Echo’s did resound. The dismal Shades with Birds obscene were fill’d, Which, spight of Phœbus, he himself beheld. 200 On the wild Ashes tops the Bats and Owls, With all night, ominous and baneful Fowls Sate brooding, while the Scrieches of these Droves Prophan’d and violated all the Groves. If ought that Poets do relate be true, 205 The strange Spinturnix led the feather’d crew. What this Bird truly was, is not known, but it was much dreaded by the Aruspices. Plin. Servius, &c. Of all the Monsters of the Earth and Air Spinturnix bears the cruelst Character. The barbarous Bird to mortal Eyes unknown Is seen but by the Goddesses alone: 210 And then they tremble; for she always bodes Some fatal Discord, even among the Gods. But that which gave more wonder than the rest, Within an Ash a Serpent built her nest, For the truth hereof take Pliny’s word, l, 16. 13. And laid her Eggs; when once, to come beneath 215 The very shadow of an Ash, was death: Rather, if Chance should force, she through the Fire From its faln Leaves so baneful, would retire. But none of all the Sylvan Prodigies Did more surprise the Rural Deities, 220 Than when the Lightning did the Laurel blast, The Lightning their lov’d Laurels all defac’d: The Laurel, which by Jove’s Divine Decree Since ancient time from injuring Tempests free; No angry threats from the celestial powers 225 Could make her fear the ruin of her Bowers: But always she enjoy’d a certain Fate, Which she cou’d ne’r secure the Victor yet. In vain these Signs and Monsters were not sent 317From angry Heav’n; the wise knew what they meant. 230 Their coming by Conjectures understood, As did the Dryads of the British wood, There is an ancient Forest known to fame The Forest of Dean. On this side separate from the Cambrian Plain By wandering Wye; whose winding Current glides, 235 And murmuring Leaves behind its flowry sides. On that, ’Tis wash’d by nobler Severn’s streams Whose Beauties scarce will yield to famous Thames. Of Yore ’twas Arden call’d, but that great Name, As like her self diminish’d, into Dean. 240 The cursed Weapons of destructive War In all their Cruelties have made her share; The Iron has its noblest Shades destroy’d, Then to melt Iron is its Wood employ’d; And so unhappy ’Tis as it presents 245 Of its own Death the fatal Instruments. With Industry its ruin to improve Bears Minerals below, and Trees above. Oh Poverty! thou happiness extreme, (When no afflicting want can intervene) 250 And oh thou subtle Treasure of the Earth, From whence all Rapes and Mischiefs take their birth; And you, triumphing Woods, secur’d from spoil By the safe blessing of your barren Soil. Here, unconsum’d, how small a part remains 255 Of that rich Store that once adorn’d the Plains. Yet that small part that has escap’d the Ire Of lawless Steel, and avaritious Fire, By many Nymphs and Deities possest Of all the British shades continues still the best. 260 Here the long Reverend Dryas (who had been Of all the shady verdant Regions Queen, To which by Conquest she had forc’d the Sea His constant tributary Waves to pay) Proclaim’d a general Council through her Court 265 To which the Sylvan Nymphs shou’d all resort. All the Wood-Goddesses do strait appear, At least who cou’d the British Climate bear, And on a soft ascent of rising Ground Their Queen, their charming Dryas they surround, 318270 Who all adorn’d was in the middle plac’d, And by a thousand awful Beauties grac’d. These Goddesses alike were drest in Green, The Ornaments and Liveries of their Queen. Had Travellers at any distance view’d 275 The beauteous Order of this stately Crowd, They wou’d not guess they’d been Divinities, But Groves all sacred to the Deities. Such was the Image of this leafy Scene, On one side water’d by a cooling Stream, 280 Upon whose brink the Poplar took her place, The Poplar whom Alcides once did grace, Whose double colour’d shadow’d Leaves express The Labours of her Hero Hercules: Whose upper sides are black, the under white 285 To represent his Toil and his Delight. The Phaetonian Alder next took Place, Still sensible of the burnt Youths disgrace, She loves the purling Streams, and often Laves Beneath the Floods, and wantons with the Waves. 290 Close by her side the Pensive Willows join’d, Chast Sisters all, to Lovers most unkind. * Olesicarpians call’d, in Youth severe Before the Winter age had snow’d their Hair. In Rivers take delight, whose chilling Streams, 295 Mixt with the native coldness of their Veins, Like Salamanders can all Heat remove, And quite extinguish the quick fire of Love. Firm lasting Bonds they yield to all beside, But take delight the Lovers to divide. 300 The Elders next, who though they Waters love The same from Humane Bodies yet remove, And quite disperse the humid moisture thence, And parly with the Dropsie in this sense. “Why do you linger here, O lazy Flood? 305 “This Soil belongs to Rivolets of Blood. “Why do you Men torment, when many a shade, “And honest Trees and Plants do want your Aid? “Begon, from Humane Bodies quick begon, “And back into your native Channels run 310 “By every Pore, by all the ways you can. The Moisture frightned flies at the command, 319And awful terror of her powerful wand. The Hospitable Birch does next appear, Joyful and Gay in hot or frigid Air, 315 Flowing her Hair, her Garments soft and white, And yet in Cruelty she takes delight, No wild Inhabitant of the Woods can be So quick in Wrath, and in Revenge as she; In Houses great Authority assumes, 320 And’s the sole punisher of petty Crimes. But most of all her Malice she employs In Schools, to terrifie and awe young Boys, If she chastise, ’Tis for the Patients good, Though oft she blushes with their tender Blood. 325 Not so the generous Maples; they present What e’r the City Luxury can invent, Who with industrious Management and Pains Divide the Labyrinth of their curious Grains, And many necessary things produce, 330 That serve at once for Ornament and Use. But thou, O Pteleas, to the Swain allows The Elm. Shades to his Cattel, Timber for his Plows, Ennobled thou above the leafie Race In that an Amorous God does thee embrace. Bacchus, or the Vine. 335 Next the Oxias of her self a Grove, Whose spreading shade the Flocks and Shepherds love, The Beech. Whether thy murmurs do to sleep invite, Or thy soft noise inspire the rural Pipe; Alike thou’rt grateful, and canst always charm, 340 In Summer cooling, and in Winter warm. Tityrus of yore the Nymph with Garlands hung, And all his Love-lays in her shadow sung. When first the infant-World her reign began, Ere Pride and Luxury had corrupted Man, 345 Before for Gold the Earth they did invade, The useful Houshold-stuff of Beech was made; No other Plate the humble Side board drest, No other Bowls adorn’d the wholesom Feast, Which no voluptuous Cookery cou’d boast, 350 The home-bred Kid or Lamb was all the cost. The Mirth, the Innocence, and little Care, 320Surpast the loaded Boards of high priz’d Fare. There came no Guest for Interest or Design, For guilty Love, fine Eating or rich Wine. 355 The Beechen-Bowl without Debauch went round, And was with harmless Mirth and Roses crown’d: In these — the Ancients in their happy state Their Feasts and Banquets us’d to celebrate. Fill’d to the Brim with uncorrupted Wine, 360 They made Libations to the Powers Divine To keep ’em still benign, no Sacrifice They need perform the angry Gods t’ appease. They knew no Crimes the Deities to offend, But all their care was still to keep ’em kind. 365 No Poyson ever did those Bowls infest, Securely here the Shepherd quench’d his thirst; ’Twas not that any Vertue in the Wood Against the baneful Liquor was thought good, But Poverty and Innocence were here 370 The Antidotes against all Ills, and Fear. Such was the Ash, the Nymph was Melias nam’d, For peaceful Use, and liberal Virtues fam’d: But when Achilles Spear was of her Wood Fatally form’d, and drank of Hector’s Blood, 375 O wretched Glory! O unhappy Power, She loves the Rain, and neighbouring Floods no more, No more the falling Showers delight her now, She only thirsts to drink of bloody Dew. Philyra, not Inferiour to her Race, The Lime-tree. 380 For her Bel-taille, good Mien and handsome Grace, For pious use, and noblest studies fit, Minerva here might exercise her wit, And on the lasting Vellum which she brings, May in small Volumes write Seraphic things; 385 ’Mongst all the Nymphs and Hamadryades, There’s none so fair, and so adorn’d as this. All soft her Body, Innocent and White, In her Green flowing Hair she takes delight, Proud of her perfum’d Blossoms far she spreads 390 Her lovely, charming, odoriferous Shades. Her native Beauties even excelling Art; Her Vertues many Medicines still impart; The dowry of each Plant in her does rest, 321And she deserv’dly triumphs o’er the Best. 395 Next her Orcimelis and Achras stood, Wood-pear and Crab-apple. Whose Off-spring is a sharp and rigid Brood, A Fruit no Season e’er cou’d work upon, Not to be mellow’d by th’ all ripening Sun. Hither the fair Amphibious Nymphs resort, 400 Who both in Woods and Gardens keep their Court, The Ouas, but of no ignoble Fame, Service-Tree. Although she bears a base and servile Name, Sharp Oxyacantha, next the Mulberry stood, Barberry. Pyramus and Thisbe. The Mulberry dy’d in hapless Lovers blood. 405 Craneia, a Nymph too lean to be admir’d, But hard-gain’d Carya is by all desir’d, Cornelian-berry. Wall-Nut. Small Nuts. The pretty Corylus so neat and trim, And Castanis with rough ungrateful Skin. These Nymphs of all their Race live rich and high, 410 They taste the City Garden Luxury, And Woods their Country Villa’s do supply. Nor was the Hawthorn absent from this place, All Soils are native to her harden’d Race, Though her the Fields and Gardens do reject, 415 She with a thorny Hedge does both protect. Helvetia rough with Cold and Stones first bred Switzerland. The Nymph, who thence to other Climates fled, Of her a warlike sturdy Race was born, Whose dress nor Court, nor City can adorn, 420 But with a faithful hand they both defend While they upon no Garison depend, No show, or noisie Grandeur they affect, But to their Trust they’r constant and exact: Should you behold ’em rang’d in Battel-array, 425 All muster’d in due order, you wou’d say, That no Militia were so fine and gay. Let none the Ancients rashly then reproach, Who cut from hence the Hymeneal Torch. Since they such safeguards were ’gainst Thieves and Beasts, 430 Which with an equal force their charge molests. And ’twas commanded they should always bear Their watchful Twigs before the married Pair. 322With the Helvetian Nymph, a pretty Train, All her Companions to the Circle came. 435 The fruitful Bullace first, whose Off-spring are, Though harsh and sharp, yet moderately fair. The prickly Bramble, neat and lovely Rose So nice and coy, they never will dispose Their valu’d Favours, but some wounds they give 440 To those who will their guarded Joys receive. No less a Troop of those gay Nymphs were seen, Who nobly flourish in Eternal Green, Unsubject to the Laws o’th’ changing Year, They want no Aids of kindly Beams or Air. 445 But happy in their own peculiar Spring, While the Pole weeps in showers, they laugh and sing. The generous Pyxias, who a Conquest gains The Box-tree. O’r armed Winter with her Host of Rains, All Ages she subdues: devouring Time 450 In vain endeavours to destroy her prime; Still in her Youth and Beauty she survives, When all the Spring is dead, she smiles and lives: Yet though she’s obstinate to time, and storms, She’s kindly pliable to all curious Forms; 455 To artful Masters she Obedience lends, And to th’ ingenious hand with ease she bends. Into a thousand True-loves knots she twines, And with a verdant Wall the Flowers confines, Still looking up with gay and youthful Love 460 To the triumphing Flow’rs that reign above. Or if you please, she will advance on high, And with the lofty Trees her stature vie, And chearfully will any figure take, Whether Man, or Lyon, or a Bird you make, 465 Or on her Trunk like a green Parrot show, Or sometimes like a Hercules she grow: And hence Praxiteles fair Statues forms, When with Green Gods the Gardens he adorns. Nor yet being dead does of less use appear 470 To the Industrious Artificer: From her the noblest Figures do arise, And almost are Immortal Deities; Of her the Berecynthian Pipe is made, 323That charms its native mountain and its shade, 475 That in such tuneful Harmonies express The Praises of their Goddess Cibeles. With this the lovely Females dress their Hair, Combs made of its Wood. That not least powerful Beauty of the Fair, Their noblest Ornament and th’ Lovers snare. 480 This into form the beauteous Nets still lay That the poor heedless Gazer does betray. Agrias is content with easier spoils, The Holly. Hereof Bird-Lime is made. Onely for silly Birds she pitches toyls. The wanton Bird she stops upon the wing, 485 And can forbid the insolence of Men; With a Defence the Garden she supplys, And does perpetually delight the Eyes: Her shining Leaves a lovely green produce, And serve at once for Ornament and Use. 490 Deform’d December by her Posie-boughs All deck’d and drest like joyful April shows Cold Winter days she both adorns and chears, While she her constant springing Livery wears. * Camaris, who in Winter give their Birth, 495 Not humbly creeping on the servile Earth, But rear aloft their nobler fruitful heads, Whose Sylvan food unhappy Janus feeds. His hungry Appetite he here destroys And both his ravenous Mouths at once destroys. 500 * Phillyrea, here and Pyracantha rise, Whose Beauty onely gratifies the Eyes Of Gods and Men, no Banquets they afford But to the welcome though unbidden Bird, Here gratefully in Winter they repay 505 For all the Summer Songs that made their Groves so gay. Next came the melancholy Yew, who mourns With silent Languor at the Warriers Urns, See where she comes all in black shadow veil’d, Ah too unhappy Nymph on every side assail’d! 510 Whom the Greek Poets and Historians blame, 324(Deceiv’d by easie faith and common fame) Thee as a guilty poisoner they present; Oh false Aspersers of the Innocent! If Poets may find credit when they speak, 515 (At least all those who are not of the Greek) No baneful Poison, no Malignant dew Lurks in, or hangs about the harmless Yew, No secret mischief dares the Nymph invade, And those are safe that sleep beneath her shade. 520 * Nor thou Arceuthis, art an Enemy To the soft Notes of charming Harmony. Falsly the chief of Poets would persuade That Evil’s lodg’d in thy Eternal shade, Thy Aromatick shade, whose verdant Arms 525 Even thy own useful fruits secures from harms; Many false Crimes to thee they attribute, Wou’d no false Virtues too, they wou’d to thee impute. But thou Sabina, my impartial Muse Savin. Cannot with any honesty excuse, 530 By thee, the first new sparks of Life, not yet Struck up to shining flame to mature heat, Sprinkled by thy moist Poison fade and die, Fatal Sabina Nymph of Infamy. For this the Cypress thee Companion calls, 535 Who piously attends at Funerals: But thou more barbarous, dost thy pow’r employ, And even the unborn Innocent destroy. Like Fate destructive thou, without remorse, While she the Death of even the Ag’d deplores. 540 Such Cyparissus was, that bashful Boy, Who was belov’d by the bright God of Day; Of such a tender mind, so soft a Breast, With so compassionate a Grief opprest, For wounding his lov’d Dear, that down he lay 545 And wept, and pin’d his sighing Soul away. Apollo pitying it, renew’d his fate And to the Cypress did the Boy translate, And gave his hapless life a longer Date. Then thus decreed the God —— and thou oh Tree, 550 Chief Mourner at all Funerals shall be. And since so small a cause such grief cou’d give, Be’t still thy Talent (pitying youth) to grieve. 325Sacred be thou in Pluto’s dark abodes, For ever sacred to th’ Infernal Gods! 555 This said, well skill’d in truth he did bequeath Eternal life to the dire Tree of Death, A substance that no Worm can e’r subdue Whose never dying Leaves each Day renew, Whose Figures like aspiring flames still rise, 560 And with a noble Pride salute the Skies. Next the fair Nymph that Phœbus does adore, But yet as nice and cold as heretofore: She hates all fires, and with aversion still She chides and crackles if the flame she feel. 565 Yet though she’s chast, the burning God no less Adores, and makes his Love his Prophetess. And even the Murmurs of her scorn do now For joyful Sounds and happy Omens go. Nor does the Humble, though the sacred Tree 570 Fear wounds from any Earthly Enemy; For she beholds when loudest storms abound, The flying thunder of the Gods around, Let all the flaming Heav’ns threat as they will Unmov’d th’ undaunted Nymph out-braves it still. 575 Oh thou! ——— Of all the woody Nations happiest made Thou greatest Princess of the fragrant shade, But shou’d the Goddess Dryas not allow That Royal Title to thy Vertue due, 580 At least her justice must this truth confess If not a Princess, thou’rt a Prophetess, And all the Glories of immortal Fame Which conquering Monarchs so much strive to gain, Is but at best from thy triumphing Boughs 585 To reach a Garland to adorn their Brows, And after Monarchs, Poets claim a share As the next worthy thy priz’d wreaths to wear. Among that number, do not me disdain, Me, the most humble of that glorious Train. 590 I by a double right thy Bounties claim, Both from my Sex, and in Apollo’s Name: Let me with Sappho and Orinda be The Translatress in her own Person speaks. Oh ever sacred Nymph, adorn’d by thee; And give my Verses Immortality. 326595 The tall Elate next, and Peuce stood The stateliest Sister-Nymphs of all the wood. The flying Winds sport with their flowing Hair, While to the dewy Clouds their lofty heads they rear. As mighty Hills above the Valleys show, 600 And look with scorn on the descent below, So do these view the Mountains where they grow. So much above their humbler Tops they rise, So stood the Giants that besieg’d the Skies, The terror of the Gods! they having thrown 605 Huge Ossa on the Leafy Pelion, The Firr with the proud Pine thus threatning stands Lifting to Heav’n two hundred warring hands, In this vast prospect they with ease survey The various figur’d Land and boundless Sea, 610 With joy behold the Ships their timber builds, How they’ve with Cities stor’d once spacious Fields. This Grove of English Nymphs, this noble train In a large Circle compass in their Queen, The Scepter bearing Dryas ——— 615 Her Throne-arising Hillock where she sat With all the Charms of Majesty and State, With awful Grace the numbers she survey’d, Dealing around the favours of her shade. If I the voice of the loud winds cou’d take 620 Which the re echoing Oaks do agitate, ’Twould not suffice to celebrate thy Name Oh sacred Dryas of Immortal Fame. If we a faith can give Antiquity That sings of many Miracles, from thee 625 In the worlds Infant Age Mankind broke forth, From thee the noble Race receiv’d their Birth; Thou then in a green tender Bark wert clad, But in Deucalion’s Age a rougher covert had, More hard and warm, with crusted white all o’r, 630 As noble Authors sung in times of yore; Approv’d by some, condemn’d and argu’d down By the vain troop of Sophists, and the Gown, The scoffing Academy, and the School Of Pyrrho; who Traditions over-rule: 635 But let ’em doubt, yet they must grant this truth Those Brawny Men that then the Earth brought forth, 327Did on thy Acorns feed, and feast and thrive And with this wholsom Nourishment survive In health and strength an equal Age with thee, 640 Secur’d from all the Banes of Luxury. Oh happy Age! oh Nymph Divinely good! That mak’st thy shade Mans house, thy fruit his food. When onely Apples of the Wood did pass For noble Banquets spread on Beds of Grass. 645 Tables not yet by any Art debauch’d, And fruit that ne’r the Grudgers hand reproach’d. Thy Bounties Ceres were of little use, And thy sweet food ill Manners did produce: Unluckily they did thy Virtues find 650 With that of the wild Boar and hunted Hind; With all wild Beasts on which their Luxury prey’d, While new desires their Appetites invade. The Natures they partake of what they eat, And salvage they become as was their Meat. 655 Hence the Republick of the world did cease, Hence they might date the forfeit of their peace. The common good was now peculiar made, A generous Int’rest now became a Trade, And Men began their Neighbour’s rights t’ invade. 660 For now they measur’d out their common ground, And outrages commit t’ inlarge their Bound: Their own seem’d despicable, poor and small; Each wants more room and wou’d be Lord of all. The Plowman with disdain his Field surveys, 665 Forsakes the Land, and plows the faithless Seas. The Fool in these deep furrows seeks his gain, Despising Dangers, and induring pain. The sacred Oak her peaceful Mansion leaves Transplanted to the Mountains of the Waves. 670 Oh Dryas, Patron to th’ industrious kind, If Man were wise and wou’d his safety find; What perfect Bliss thy happy Shade wou’d give? And Houses that their Masters wou’d out-live. All necessaries thou afford’st alone 675 For harmless Innocence to live upon, Strong yokes for Oxen, handles for the Plow, What Husbandry requires thou dost allow; But if the madness of desiring Gain, 328Or wild Ambition agitate the Brain, 680 Straight to a wandering Ship they Thee transfer, And none more justly serves the Mariner. Thou cutst the Air, dost on the waves rebound Wild Death and Fury raging all around, Disdaining to behold the manag’d Wood, 685 Out-brave the Storms and baffle the rude Flood. To Swine, O richest Oak, thy Acorns leave, And search for Man what e’er the Earth can give, All that the spacious Universe brings forth, What Land and Sea conceals of any worth, 690 Bring Aromaticks from the distant East, And Gold so dangerous from the rifl’d West, What e’er the boundless Appetite can feast. With thee the utmost bounds of Earth w’ invade, By thee the unlockt Orb is common made. 695 By thee —— The great Republique of the World revives, And o’er the Earth luxurious traffick thrives; If Argos Ship were valued at that rate, Which Ancient Poets so much celebrate, 700 From Neighbouring Colchos only bringing home The Golden Fleece from Seas whose Tracts were known: If of the dangers they so much have spoke (More worthy smiles) of the Cyanean Rock, What Oceans then of Fame shall thee suffice? 705 What Waves of eloquence can sing thy Praise! O sacred Oak, that great Columbus bore IO! thou bearer of a happier Ore, Than celebrated Argo did before. And Drake’s brave Oak that past to Worlds unknown, 710 Whose Toils, O Phebus, were so like thy own; Who round the Earths vast Globe triumphant rode, Deserves the Celebration of a God. O let the Pegasean Ship no more Be worshipt on the too unworthy shore. 715 After her watery life, let her become A fixt Star shining equal with the Ram. Long since the Duty of a Star she’s done, 329And round the Earth, with guiding light has shone. Oh how has Nature blest the British Land, 720 Who both the valued Indies can command! What tho thy Banks the Cedars do not grace Those lofty Beauties of fam’d Libanus. The Pine, or Palm of Idumean Plaines, Arabs rich Wood or its sweet smelling Greens, 725 Or lovely Plantan whose large leafy boughs A pleasant and a noble shade allows. She has thy warlike Groves and Mountains blest With sturdy Oak’s, ore all the World the best, And for the happy Islands sure Defence 730 Has wall’d it with a Mote of Seas immense, While to declare her Safety and thy Pride, With Oaken Ships that Sea is fortifi’d. Nor was that Adoration vainly made, Which to the Oak the Ancient Druids paid, 735 Who reasonably believed a God within, Where such vast wonders were produc’d and seen. Nor was it the dull Piety alone, And superstition of our Albion, Nor ignorance of the future Age, that paid 740 Honours Divine to thy surprising shade. But they foresaw the Empire of the Sea, Great Charles, should hold from the Triumphant Thee. No wonder then that Age should thee Adore, Who gav’st out sacred Oracles heretofore, 745 The hidden pleasure of the Gods was then In a hoarse voice deliver’d out to Men. So vapors from Cyrrhean Caverns broke Inspir’d Apollo’s Priestess when she spoke. While ravisht the fair Enthusiastic stood, 750 Upon her Tripos, raging with the God. So Priest Inspir’d with sacred fury shook, When the Winds ruffld the Dodonian Oak, And tost their Branches, till a dreadful sound Of awful horror they proclaim around, 755 Like frantic Bacchanals; and while they move Possess with trembling all the sacred Grove. Their rifl’d leaves the tempest bore away, And their torn Boughs scatter’d on all sides lay. The tortur’d thicket knew not that there came 330760 A God Triumphant in the Hurricane, Till the wing’d winds with an amazing cry, Deliver’d down the pressing Deity. Whose thundering voice strange secrets did unfold, And wond’rous things of Worlds to come he told. 765 But truths so veil’d in obscure Eloquence, They ’muze the Adoring crowd with double sense. But by Divine Decree the Oak no more, Declares security as heretofore, With words, or voice, yet to the listening Wood, 770 Her differing Murmurs still are understood: For sacred Divinations while the sound, Informs, all but Humanity, around Nor e’er did Dryas Murmur awful truth More clear and plain, from her Prophetic mouth, 775 Than when she spoke to the Chaonian Wood, While all the Groves with eager silence stood. And with erected Leaves themselves dispose, To listen to the Language of her Boughs. You see (oh my companions) that the Gods, 780 Threaten a dire Destruction to the Woods, And to all human kind — the black portents Are seen, of many sinister Events; But lest their quick Approach too much should press, (Oh my astonish’d Nymphs) your Tenderness, 785 The Gods command me to foretel your Doom, And prepossess ye with the Fate to come: With heedful Reverence then their Will observe, And in your Barks deep Chinks my Words preserve: Believe me, Nymphs, nor is your Faith in vain, 790 This Oaken Trunk in which conceal’d I am From a long Honored Ancient Lineage came, Who in the fam’d Dodonian Grove first spoke, When with astonish’d Awe the Sacred Valley shook. ’Know then that Brutus by unlucky Fate 795 ’Murdering his Sire, did bear an immortal Hate ’To his own Kingdom, who’s ungrateful shore ’He leaves with Vows ne’er to revisit more. ’Then to Epirus a sad Exile came, ’(Unhappy Son who hast a Father slain, 800 ’But happy Father of the British Name.) ’There by victorious Arms he did restore 331’Those Scepters once the Race of Priam bore. ’In their paternal Thrones his Kindred plac’d, ’And by that Piety his fatal Crime defac’d. 805 ’There Jupiter disdain’d not to relate ’Thorough an Oaken Mouth his future Fate. ’Who for his Grandsire’s, great Æneas, sake ’Upon the Royal Youth will pity take: ’Whose Toils to his shall this Resemblance bear 810 ’A long and tedious Wandring to endure. ’Tis said the Deity-retaining Oak ’Bursting her Bark, thus to the Hero spoke, ’Whose Voice the Nymphs surpriz’d with awful Dread, ’Who in Chaonian Groves inhabited. 815 ’Oh noble Trojan of great Sylvia’s Blood, ’Haste from the Covert of this threatening Wood. ’A Mansion here the Fates will not permit, ’Vast Toils and Dangers thou’rt to conquer yet, ’Ere for a murder’d Father thou canst be 820 ’Absolv’d, tho innocently slain by thee, ’But much must bear by Land, and much by Sea. ’Then arm thy solid mind, thy Virtues raise, ’And thro’ thy rough Adventures cut new Ways, ’Whose End shall crown thee with immortal Bays. 825 ’Tho Hercules so great a Fame atchiev’d, ’His Conquests but to th’ Western Cales arriv’d: ’There finish’d all his Glories and his Toils, ’He wish’d no more, nor sought more distant Spoils. ’But the great Labors which thou hast begun 830 ’Must, fearless of the Oceans Threats, go on. ’And this remember, at thy lanching forth, ’To set thy full spread Sails against the North. ’In Charles’s Wain thy Fates are born above ’Bright Stars descended from thy Grandsire Jove, 835 ’Of motion certain, tho they slowly move. ’The Bear too shall assist thee in thy Course ’With all her Constellations glittering Force. ’And as thou goest, thy Right Hand shall destroy ’Twice six Gomeritish Tyrants in thy way. 840 ’Tho exil’d from the World, disdain all Fear, ’The Gods another World for thee prepare, ’Which in the Bosom of the deep conceal’d ’From Ages past, shall be to thee reveal’d. 332’Reserv’d, O Brutus, to renown thy Fame, 845 ’And shall be bless’d still with thy Race and Name. ’All that the Air surrounds, the Fates decree ’To Brutus and Æneas Progeny, ’Æneas all the Land, and Brutus all the Sea. This said the God, from the Prophetick Oak, 850 Who stretching out her Branches further spoke: ’Here fill thy Hands with Acorns from my Tree, ’Which in thy tedious Toils of use shall be, ’And Witnesses of all I promise thee. ’And when thy painful wandring shall be o’er, 855 ’And thou arriv’d on happy Britains shore, ’Then in her fruitful Soil these Acorns sow, ’Which to vast Woods of mighty use shall grow. ’Not their Chaonian Mother’s sacred Name ’Shall o’er the World be sung with greater Fame. 860 ’Then holy Druids thou shalt concentrate, ’My Honor and my Rites to celebrate. ’Teutates in the sacred Oak shall grow, ’To give bless’d Omens of the Misseltoe. Thus spake the Oak — with reverend Awe believ’d, 865 And in no one Prediction was deceiv’d. My Lineage from Chaonian Acorns came, I two Descents from that first Parent am; And now Oraculous Truths to you proclaim. My Grandam Oak her Blooming Beauties wore, 870 When first the Danish Fleet surpriz’d our Shore: When Thor and Tuisco and the Saxon Gods Were angry with their once belov’d Abodes, Her Age two hundred years; a small Account To what our long-lived Numbers do amount, 875 Such Prodigies then she saw as we behold; And such our Ruins, as their signs foretold. Now from the Caledonian Mountains came New risen Clouds that cover’d all the Plain, The quiet Tweed regards her Bounds no more, 880 But driv’n by Popular Winds usurps the Shore; In her wild Course a horrid Murmur yields, And frightens with her Sound the English Fields. Nor did they hear in vain, or vainly fear Those raging Prologues to approaching War. 885 But Silver Showers did soon the Foe subdue, 333Weapons the Noble English never knew. The People, who for Peace so lavish were, Did after buy the Merchandise more dear. Curst Civil War even Peace betray’d to Guilt, 890 And made her blush with the first Blood was spilt. O cruel Omens of those future Woes, Which now sate brooding in the Senate House! That Den of Mischief, where obscur’d she lyes, And hides her purple Face from human Eyes. 895 The working Furies there, lay unreveal’d Beneath the Privilege of the House conceal’d. There, by the Malice of the Great and Proud, And unjust Clamors of the frantick Crowd, The Great, the Learned Strafford met his Fate; 900 O Sacred Innocence! what can expiate For guiltless Blood, but Blood? and much must flow Both from the Guilty and the Faultless too. O Worcester, condemn’d by Fate to be The Mournful Witness of our Misery, 905 And to bewail our first Intestine Wars By thy soft Severn’s Murmurs, and her Tears; Wars that more formidable did appear Even at their End, than their Beginnings were. Me to Kintonian Hills some God convey, Keinton-Field. Edge-Hill. 910 That I the horrid Valley may survey; Which like a River seem’d of human Blood, Swell’d with the numerous Bodies of the Dead. What Slaughters makes fierce Rupert round the Field, Whose Conquests Pious Charles with Sighs beheld; 915 And had not Fate the Course of Things forbade, This Day an End of all our Woes had made. But our Success the angry Gods controul, And stopt our Race of Glory near the Goal. Where e’er the British Empire did extend, 920 The Tyrant War with Barbarous Rigor reign’d, From the remotest Parts it rifled Peace From the * Belerian Horn even to the Orcades. The Fields opprest, no joyful Harvests bear, War ruin’d all the Product of the Year. 925 Unhappy Albion! by what Fury stung? What Serpent of Eumenides has flung 334His Poison thro’ thy Veins? thou bleed’st all o’er, Art all one Wound, one universal Gore. Unhappy Newberry, I thy fatal Field, 930 (Covered with mighty Slaughters, thrice beheld.) In horrors thou Philippi’s Fields outvi’d Which twice the Civil Gore of Romans di’d. Long mutual Loss, and the alternate Weight Of equal Slaughters, pois’d each others Fate. 935 Uncertain Ruin waver’d to and fro, And knew not where to fix the deadly Blow; At last in Northern Fields like Lightening broke; And Naseby doubl’d every fatal Stroke. But, Oh ye Gods, permit me not to tell 940 The Woes, that after this, the Land befel: Oh, keep ’em to your selves, lest they shou’d make Humanity your Rites, and Shrines forsake: To future Ages let ’em not be known, For wretched England’s Credit, and your own. 945 And take from me, ye Gods, Futurity, And let my Oracles all silent lye, Rather than by my Voice they shou’d declare The dire Events of England’s Civil War. And yet my Sight a confus’d Prospect fills, 950 A Chaos all deform’d, a Heap of Ills; Such as no mortal Eyes cou’d e’r behold, Such as no human Language can unfold. But now ——— The Conquering evil Genius of the Wars, 955 The impious Victor all before him bears; And oh, — behold the Sacred Vanquish’d flies, And tho in a Plebean’s mean Disguise, I know his God-like Face; the Monarch sure Did ne’er dissemble till this fatal hour. 960 But oh he flies, distrest, forlorn he flies, And seeks his safety ’mong his Enemies. His Kingdoms all he finds hostile to be, No place to th’ vanquish’d proves a Sanctu’ry. Thus Royal Charles ————— 965 From his own People cou’d no safety gain, Alas, the King! (their Guest) implores in vain. The Pilot thus the burning Vessel leaves, And trusts what most he fears, the threatning Waves. 335But oh the cruel Flood with rude Disdain 970 Throws him all struggling to the Flames again: So did the Scots, alas, what shou’d they do, That Prize of War (the Soldiers Interest now) By Prayers and Threatnings back they strive to bring, But the wise Scot will yield to no such thing; 975 And England to retrieve him buys her King. Oh shame to future Worlds! who did command, As powerful Lord of all the Sea and Land, Is now a Captive-Slave exposed to Sale; And Villainy o’er Virtue must prevail. 980 The Servant his bought Master bears away, Oh shameful Purchase of so glorious Prey. But yet, O Scotland, far be it from me, To charge thee wholly with this Infamy; Thy Nations Virtues shall reverse that Fate, 985 And for the Criminal Few shall expiate: Yet for these Few the Innocent Rest must feel, The dire Effects of the avenging Steel. But now, by Laws to God and Man unknown, Their Sovereign, Gods anointed they dethrone, 990 Who to the Isle of Wight is Prisoner sent: What Tongue, what cruel Hearts do not lament? That thee, O Scotland, with just Anger moves, And Kent who valued Liberty so loves; And thee, O Wales, of still as noble Fame, 995 As were the Ancient Britains whence ye came. But why should I distinctly here relate All I behold, the many Battels fought Under the Conduct still of angry Stars: Their new-made Wounds and old ones turn’d to Scars; 1,000 The Blood that did the trembling Ribla dy, Stopping its frighted Stream that strove to fly. Or thou, O Medway, swell’d with Slaughters, born Above the flowery Banks that did thee once adorn. Or why, O Colchester, shou’d I rehearse 1,005 Thy brave united Courage and thy Force, Or Deaths of those illustrious Men relate, Who did with thee deserve a kinder Fate. Or why the miserable Murders tell Of Captives who by cooler Malice fell. 1,010 Nor to your Griefs will this Addition bring, 336The sad Idea’s of a Martyred King; A King who all the Wounds of Fortune bore, Nor will his mournful Funerals deplore, Lest that Celestial Piety (of Fame 1,015 O’er all the World) should my sad Accents blame. Since Death he still esteem’d, how e’er ’twas given, The greatest Good, and noblest Gift of Heaven. But I deplore Man’s wretched Wickedness, (Oh horrid to be heard, or to express.) 1,020 Whom even Hell can ne’er enough torment With her eternal Pains and Punishment. But oh what do I see! alas they bring Their Sacred Master forth, their God-like King, There on a Scaffold rais’d in solemn State, 1,025 And plac’d before the Royal Palace Gate, ’Midst of his Empire the black Deed was done, While Day, and all the World were looking on. By common Hangman’s Hands — Here stopt the Oak, When from the bottom of its Root there broke 1,030 A thousand Sighs, which to the Sky she lifts, Bursting her solid Bark into a thousand Clefts. Each Branch her Tributary sorrow gives, And Tears run trickling from her mournful Leaves; Such numbers after rainy Nights they shed, 1,035 When showering Clouds that did surround her Head, Are by the rising Goddess of the Morn Blown off, and flie before the approaching Sun. At which the Troop of the Green Nymphs around Ecchoing her Sighs, in wailing Accents groan’d, 1,040 Whose piercing sounds from far were understood, And the loud Tempest shook the wondering Wood: And then a cruel Silence did succeed. As in the gloomy Mansions of the Dead. But after a long awful Interval 1,045 Dryas assum’d — her sad Prophetick Tale. Now Britany o’erwhelm’d with many a Wound, Her Head lopt off, in her own Blood lies drown’d: A horrid Carcase, without: Mind or Soul, A Trunk not to be known, deform’d and foul. 1,050 And now who wou’d not hope there shou’d have been After so much of Death, a quiet Scene: Or rather with their Monarch’s Funeral 337Eternal Sleep shou’d not have seis’d ’em all. But nothing less, for in the room of One, 1,055 Who govern’d justly on his peaceful Throne, A thousand Heads sprung up, deform’d and base, With a tumultuous and ignoble Race; The vile, the vulgar Off-spring of the Earth, Insects of poisonous kinds, of monsterous Birth, 1,060 And ravenous Serpents now the Land infest; And Cromwel viler yet than all the rest. That Serpent even upon the Marrow preys, Devouring Kingdoms with insatiate Jaws. Now Right and Wrong (mere Words) confounded ly, 1,065 Rage sets no Bounds to her Impiety; And having once transgrest the Rules of Shame, Honor or Justice counts an empty Name. In every Street, as Pastime for the Crowd, Erected Scaffolds reek’d with Noble Blood. 1,070 Prisons were now th’ Apartments of the Brave, Whom Tyranny commits, and only Death retrieve; Whose Paths were crowded ere the Morning dawn, Some to the Dungeon, some to Gibbets drawn. But tir’d-out Cruelty pauses for a while, 1,075 To take new Breath amidst her Barbarous Toil. So does not Avarice, she unwearied still, Ne’er stops her greedy Hand from doing ill; The Warrior may a while his Spear forsake, But Sequestrators will no Respit take. 1,080 What a long Race of Kings laid up with Care, The Gifts of happy Peace, and Spoils of War, What ever liberal Piety did present, Or the Religion (all magnificent) Of our Fore-fathers, to the Church had given, 1,085 And consecrated to the Pow’rs of Heav’n, Altars, or whatso’er cou’d guilty be Of tempting Wealth, or fatal Loyalty, Was not enough to satisfie the Rage Of a few Earth-begotten Tyrants of the Age. 1,090 The impious Rout thought it a trivial thing To rob the Houses of their God and King, Their Sacrilege admitting of no Bound, Rejoyc’d to see ’em levell’d with the Ground; As if the Nation (wicked and unjust) 1,095 338Had even in Ruin found a certain Lust, On every side the labouring Hammers sound, And Strokes from mighty Hatchets do rebound: On every side the groaning Earth sustains The ponderous weight of Stones and wonderous Beams. 1,100 Fiercely they ply their Work, with such a noise, As if some mighty Structure they wou’d raise For the proud Tyrant; no, this clamorous Din Is not for building but demolishing. — When (my Companions) these sad things you see, 1,105 And each beholds the dead Beams of her Parent Tree, Long since repos’d in Palaces of Kings, Torn down by furious Hands as useless things; Then know your Fate is come; those Hands that cou’d From Houses tear dead Beams, and long hewn Wood, 1,110 Those cruel Hands by unresisted Force, Will for your living Trunks find no remorse. Religion, which was great of old, commands, No Woods shou’d be profaned by impious Hands, Those noble Seminaries for the Fleet, 1,115 Plantations that make Towns and Cities great: Those Hopes of War, and Ornaments of Peace Shou’d live secure from any Outrages, Which now the barbarous Conqueror will invade, Tear up your Roots, and rifle all your shade, 1,120 For gain they’ll sell you to the covetous Buyer, A Sacrifice to every common Fire, They’ll spare no Race of Trees of any Age, But murder infant Branches in their Rage: Elms, Beeches, tender Ashes shall be fell’d, 1,125 And even the Grey and Reverend Bark must yield: The soft, the murmuring Troop shall be no more, No more with Musick charm as heretofore, No more each little Bird shall build her House, And sing in her Hereditary Boughs, 1,130 But only Philomel shall celebrate In mournful Notes a new unhappy Fate: The banish’d Hamadryads must be gone, And take their flight with sad, but silent Moan; For a Celestial Being ne’er complains, 1,135 Whatever be her Grief, in noisie Strains. 339The Wood-Gods fly, and whither shall they go, Not all the British Orb can scarce allow, A Trunk secure for them to rest in now. But yet these wild Saturnals shall not last, 1,140 Oppressing Vengeance follows on too fast; She shakes her brandish’d Steel, and still denies Length to immoderate Rage and Cruelties. Do not despond, my Nymphs; that wicked Birth Th’ avenging Powers will chase from off the Earth; 1,145 Let ’em hew down the Woods, destroy and burn, And all the lofty Groves to Ashes turn; Yet still there will not want a Tree to yield Timber enough old Tiburn to rebuild, Where they may hang at last; and this kind one 1,150 Shall then revenge the Woods of all their Wrong. In the mean time (for Fate not always shows A swift complyance to our Wish and Vows) The Off-spring of great Charles forlorn and poor, And exil’d from their cruel native Shore, 1,155 Wander in foreign Kingdoms, where in vain They seek those Aids, alas, they cannot gain; For still their pressing Fate pursues ’em hard, And scarce a place of Refuge will afford. Oh pious Son of such a holy Sire! 1,160 Who can enough thy Fortitude admire? How often tost by Storms of Land and Sea, Yet unconcern’d thy Fate thou didst survey, And her Fatigues still underwent with Joy. Oh Royal Youth, pursue thy just Disdain, 1,165 Let Fortune and her Furies frown in vain, Till tir’d with her Injustice she give out, And leaves her giddy Wheel for thee to turn about. Then that great Scepter which no human Hand From the tenacious Tyrant can command, 1,170 Scorning the bold Usurper to adorn, Shall ripe and falling to thy Hand be born. But oh, he rowzes now before his time! Illustrious Youth, whose Bravery is a Crime, Alas, what wilt thou do? Ah, why so fast? 1,175 The Dice of Fate, alas, not yet are cast. While thou all fire, fearless of future Harms, And prodigal of life, assumest thy Arms. 340And even provoking Fame he cuts his way Through hostile Fleets, and a rude Winters Sea. 1,180 But neither shall his daring Course oppose, Even to those Shores so very late his Foes, And still to be suspected; but mean while The Oliverian Demons of the Isle, With all Hells Deities, with Fury burn, 1,185 To see great Charles preparing to return; They call up all their Winds of dreadful Force In vain, to stop his sacred Vessels course. In vain their Storms a Ruine do prepare, For what Fate means to take peculiar care; 1,190 And trembling find great Cesar safe at Land, By Heav’n conducted, not by Fortunes Hand. But Scotland, you your King recal in vain, While you your unchang’d Principles retain; But yet the time shall come, when some small share 1,195 Of Glory, that great Honor shall confer, When you a conquering Hero forth shall guide, While Heav’n and all the Stars are on his side, Who shall the exil’d King in Peace recal, And England’s Genius be esteem’d by all: 1,200 But this, not yet my Nymphs,—but now’s the time, When the illustrious Heir of Fergus Line, From full a hundred Kings, shall mount the Throne, Who now the Temple enters, and at Scone, After the ancient manner he receives the Crown; 1,205 But, oh, with no auspicious Omens done, The Left Hand of the Kingdom put it on. But now th’ insulting Conqueror draws nigh, Disturbing the August Solemnity; When with Revenge and Indignation fir’d, 1,210 And by a Father’s Murder well inspir’d, The brave, the Royal Youth for War prepares, O Heir most worthy of thy hundred Scepter’d Ancestors: With Thoughts all Glorious now he sallies forth; Nor will he trust his Fortune in the North, 1,215 That Corner of his Realms, nor will his haste Lazily wait till coming Winter’s past; He scorns that Aid, nor will he hope t’ oppose High Mountains ’gainst the Fury of his Foes, 341Nor their surrounding Force will here engage, 1,220 Or stay the Pressures of a shameful Siege; But boldly further on resolves t’ advance, And give a generous Loose to Fortunes Chance. And shut from distant Tay he does essay To Thames, even with his Death to force his way. 1,225 Behind he leaves his trembling Enemies, Amaz’d at this stupendous Enterprise. And now the wish’d for happy Day appears, Sought for so long by Britain’s Prayers and Tears; The King returns, and with a mighty Hand, 1,230 Avow’d Revenger of his Native Land. And through a thousand Dangers and Extremes, Marches a Conqueror to Sabrina’s Streams; (Ah, wou’d to Heaven Sabrina had been Thames.) So wish’d the King, but the persuasive Force 1,235 Of kind mistaken Councils stopt his Course. Now, warlike England, rouze at these Alarms, Provide your Horses, and assume your Arms, And fall on the Usurper, now for shame, If Piety be not Pretence and Name; 1,240 Advance the Work Heaven has so well begun, Revenge the Father, and restore the Son. No more let that old Cant destructive be, Religion, Liberty and Property. No longer let that dear-bought Cheat delude, 1,245 (Oh you too credulous, senseless Multitude,) Words only form’d more easily to enslave, By every popular and pretending Knave. But now your bleeding Land expects you shou’d Be wise, at the expence of so much Blood; 1,250 Rouze then, and with awaken’d Sense prepare To reap the Glory of this Holy War, In which your King and Heaven have equal share. His Right Divine let every Voice proclaim, And a just Ardor every Soul inflame. 1,255 But England’s evil Genius watchful still To ruin Virtue, and incourage Ill; Industrious, even as Cromwel, to subvert Honor and Loyalty in every Heart; A baneful Drug of four-fold Poison makes, 1,260 And an infernal sleepy Asp he takes 342Of cold and fearful Nature, adds to this Opium that binds the Nerves with Laziness, Mixt with the Venom of vile Avarice: Which all the Spirits benum, as when y’ approach 1,265 The chilling wonderful Torpedo’s Touch. Next Drops from Lethe’s Stream he does infuse, And every Brest besprinkles with the Juice, Till a deep Lethargy o’er all Britain came, Who now forgot their Safety and their Fame. 1,270 Yet still Great Charles’s Valour stood the Test; By Fortune tho forsaken and opprest, Witness the Purple of Sabrina’s Stream, And the Red Hill, not call’d so now in vain. And Worster thou, who didst the Misery bear, 1,275 And saw’st the End of a long fatal War. The King, tho vanquish’d, still his Fate outbraves, And was the last the captiv’d City leaves; Which from the Neighbouring Hills he does survey, Where round about his Bleeding Numbers lay. 1,280 He saw ’em rifled by th’ insulting Foe, And sighs for those he cannot rescue now. But yet his Troops will rally once again, Those few escap’d, all scatter’d o’er the Plain; Disdain and Anger now resolves to try 1,285 How to repair this Days Fatality, The King has sworn to conquer, or to dye. Darby and Willmot, Chiefs of mighty Fame, With that bold lovely Youth, great Buckingham, Fiercer than Lightening; to his Monarch dear, 1,290 That brave Achates worth Æneas Care, Applaud his great Resolve! there’s no delay But toward the Foe in haste they take their way, Not by vain hopes of a new Victory fir’d, But by a kind Despair alone inspir’d. 1,295 This was the King’s Resolve, and those great Few Whom Glory taught to die, as well as to subdue, Who knew that Death and the reposing Grave No Foes were to the Wretched or the Brave. But oh this noble Courage did not rest 1,300 In each ungenerous unconsidering Brest, They fearfully forsake their General, Who now in vain the flying Cowards call, 343Deaf to his Voice will no Obedience yield; But in their hasty Flight scowr o’er the dreadful Field. 1,305 Oh vainly gallant Youth, what pitying God Shall free thee from this Soul-oppressing Load Of Grief and Shame; abandon’d and betray’d By perjur’d Slaves, whom thou hast fed and pay’d. Prest with more Woes than mortal Force could bear, 1,310 And Fortune still resolv’d to be severe. But yet that God ——— To whom no Wonders are impossible Will, to preserve thee, work a Miracle. And for the sacred Father’s Martydom 1,315 Will with a Crown reward the injur’d Son, While thou, great Charles, with a prevailing Pray’r Dost to the Gods commend the safety of thy Heir; And the Celestial Court of Powers Divine With one consent do in the Chorus joyn. 1,320 But why, oh why must I reveal the Doom, (Oh my Companions) of the years to come; And why divulge the Mysteries that lye Inroll’d long since in Heav’ns vast Treasury, In Characters which no Dreamer can unfold, 1,325 Nor ever yet Prophetick Rapture told; Nor the small Fibres of the victim’d Beast, Or Birds which Sacred Auguries have exprest; No Stars, or any Divination Shows Made Mystick by the Murmurs of the Boughs. 1,330 Yet I must on, with a Divine Presage, And tell the Wonders of the coming Age. In that far part where the rich Salop gains An ample View o’er all the Western Plains, A Grove appears, which Boscobel they name, 1,335 Not known to Maps; a Grove of scanty Fame, Scarce any human thing does there intrude, But it enjoys it self in its own Solitude. And yet henceforth no celebrated Shade, Of all the British Groves shall be more Glorious made. 1,340 Near this obscure and destin’d happy Wood, A Sacred House of lucky Omen stood, White Lady call’d; and old Records relate ’Twas once ———— To Men of Holy Orders consecrate; 3441,345 But to a King a Refuge now is made, The first that gives a wearied Monarch Bread. Oh Present of a wonderous Excellence! That can relieve the Hunger of a Prince. Fortune shall here a better Face put on, 1,350 And here the King shall first the King lay down; Here he dismisses all his Mourning Friends, Whom to their kinder Stars he recommends, With Eyes all drown’d in Tears, their Fate to see, But unconcern’d at his own Destiny: 1,355 Here he puts off those Ornaments he wore Through all the Splendor of his Life before; Even his Blew Garter now he will discharge, Nor keep the Warlike Figure of Saint George, That holy Champion now is vanquish’d quite; 1,360 Alas, the Dragon has subdu’d the Knight; His Crown, that restless weight of Glory now Divests a while from his more easie Brow: And all those charming Curls that did adorn His Royal Head—those Jetty Curls are shorn; 1,365 Himself he cloaths in a coarse Russet Weed, Nor was the poor Man feign’d, but so indeed; And now the greatest King the World e’er saw Is subject to the Houses ancient Law. (A Convent once, which Poverty did profess, 1,370 Here, here puts off all worldly Pomp and Dress,) And like a Monk a sad Adieu he takes Of all his Friends, and the false World forsakes. But yet ere long, even this humble State, Alas, shall be denied him by his Fate; 1,375 She drives him forth even from this mean Abode, Who wanders now a Hermit in the Wood, Hungry and tir’d, to rest and seek his Food. The dark and lonely Shade conceals the King, Who feeds on Flowers, and drinks the murmuring Spring; 1,380 More happy here than on a restless Throne, Cou’d he but call’d those Shades and Springs his own: No longer Fate will that Repose allow, Who even of Earth it self deprives him now. A Tree will hardly here a Seat afford 1,385 Amidst her Boughs, to her abandon’d Lord. 345Then (O my Nymphs) you who your Monarch love, To save your Darling, hasten to that Grove; (Nor think I vain Propheticks do express) In silence let each Nymph her Trunk possess; 1,390 O’er all the Woods and Plains let not a Tree Be uninhabited by a Deity; While I the largest Forest-Oak inspire, And with you to this Leafy Court retire. There keep a faithful Watch each night and day, 1,395 And with erected Heads the Fields survey, Lest any impious Soldier pass that way: And shou’d profanely touch that Pledge of Heaven, Which to our guarding Shade in charge was given: Here then, my Nymphs, your King you shall receive, 1,400 And safety in your darkest Coverts give. But ha, what rustick Swain is that I see Sleeping beneath the Shade of yonder Tree, Upon whose knotty Root he leans his Head, And on the Mossy Ground has made his Bed? 1,405 And why alone? Alas, some Spy I fear, For only such a Wretch would wander here, Who even the Winds and Showers of Rain defies, Out-daring all the Anger of the Skies. Observe his Face, see his disordered Hair 1,410 Is ruffl’d by the Tempest-beaten Air. Yet look what Tracts of Grief have ag’d his Face, Where hardly twenty years have run their Race, Worn out with numerous Toils; and even in sleep Sighs seem to heave his Brest, his Eyes to weep. 1,415 Nor is that Color of his Face his own, That sooty Veil, for some Disguise put on, To keep the Nobler Part from being known; For ’midst of all—something of Sacred Light Beams forth, and does inform my wondering sight, 1,420 And now — arises to my View more bright. Ha — can my Eyes deceive me, or am I At last no true presaging Deity? Yet if I am, that wretched Rustick Thing, Oh Heavens, and all your Powers, must be the King. 1,425 — Yes ’Tis the King! his Image all Divine Breaks thro’ that Cloud of Darkness; and a Shine Gilds all the sooty Vizar!—but alas, 346Who is’t approaches him with such a Pace? Oh—’Tis no Traytor, the just Gods I find 1,430 Have still a pitying Care of human kind. This is the Gallant, Loyal Carles, thrown (By the same Wreck by which his King’s undone) Beneath our Shades; he comes in Pious Care (Oh happy Man! than Cromwel happier far 1,435 On whom ill Fate this Honor does confer) He tells the King the Woods are overspread With Villains arm’d to search that Prize, his Head: Now poorly set to sale; — the Foe is nigh, What shall they do? Ah whither shall they fly? 1,440 They from the danger hasty Counsel took, And by some God inspir’d, ascend my Oak, My Oak, the largest in the faithful Wood; Whom to receive I my glad Branches bow’d. And for the King a Throne prepar’d, and spread 1,445 My thickest Leaves a Canopy o’er his Head. The Misseltoe commanded to ascend Around his sacred Person to attend, (Oh happy Omen) straight it did obey, The Sacred Misseltoe attends with Joy. 1,450 Here without fear their prostrate Heads they bow, The King is safe beneath my shelter now; And you, my Nymphs, with awful silence may Your Adorations to your Sovereign pay, And cry, all hail, thou most belov’d of Heaven, 1,455 To whom its chiefest Attributes are given; But above all that God-like Fortitude, That has the Malice of thy Fate subdu’d. All hail! Thou greatest now of Kings indeed, while yet 1,460 With all the Miseries of life beset, Thy mighty mind cou’d Death nor Danger fear, Nor yet even then of safety cou’d despair. This is the Virtue of a Monarch’s Soul, Who above Fortunes reach can all her Turns controul; 1,465 Thus if Fate rob you of your Empires Sway, You by this Fortitude take hers away; O brave Reprisal! which the Gods prefer, That makes you triumph o’er the Conqueror. The Gods who one day will this Justice do 3471,470 Both make you Victor and Triumpher too. That Day’s at hand, O let that Day come on, Wherein that wonderous Miracle shall be shown: May its gay Morn be more than usual bright, And rise upon the World with new created Light; 1,475 Or let that Star whose dazling Beams were hurl’d Upon his Birth-Day, now inform the World, That brave bold Constellation, which in sight. Of Mid-day’s Sun durst lift its Lamp of Light. Now, happy Star again at Mid-day rise, 1,480 And with new Prodigies adorn the Skies; Great Charles again is born, Monk’s valiant Hand At last delivers the long labouring Land. This is the Month, Great Prince, must bring you forth, May pays her fragrant Tributes at your Birth; 1,485 This is the Month that’s due to you by Fate, O Month most Glorious, Month most Fortunate: When you between your Royal Brothers rode, Amidst your shining Train attended like some God, One would believe that all the World were met 1,490 To pay their Homage at your Sacred Feet. The wandering Gazers, numberless as these, Or as the Leaves on the vast Forest Trees. He comes! he comes! they cry, while the loud Din Resounds to Heaven: and then, Long live the King: 1,495 And sure the Shouts of their re-ecchoed Joys Reach’d to the utmost Bounds of distant Seas, Born by the flying Winds thro’ yielding Air, And strike the Foreign Shores with awful Fear. O ’Tis a wonderous Pleasure to be mad, 1,500 Such frantick Turns our Nations oft has had. Permit it now ye Stoicks, ne’er till now, The Frenzy you more justly might allow, Since ’Tis a joyful Fit that ends the Fears, And wretched Fury of so many years. 1,505 Nor will the Night her Sable Wings display T’ obscure the Lustre of so bright a day. At least the much transported Multitude Permits not the dark Goddess to intrude; The whole Isle seem’d to burn with joyful Flames, 1,510 Whose Rays gilt all the Face of Neighbouring Thames. But how shall I express the Vulgar Joys, 348Their Songs, their Feasts, their Laughter and their Cries; How Fountains run with the Vines precious Juice, And such the flowing Rivers shou’d produce, 1,515 Their Streams the richest Nectar should afford: The Golden Age seems now again restor’d. See — smiling Peace does her bright Face display, Down thro’ the Air serene she cuts her way, Expels the Clouds, and rises on the Day. 1,520 Long exil’d from our Shores, new Joy she brings, Embracing Albion with her Snowy Wings; Nor comes she unattended, but a Throng Of Noble British Matrons brings along. Plenty, fair Fame, and charming Modesty, 1,525 Religion, long since fled with Loyalty, And in a decent Garb the lovely Piety: Justice from Fraud and Perjury forc’d to fly; Learning, fine Arts, and generous Liberty. Blest Liberty, thou fairest in the Train, 1,530 And most esteem’d in a just Prince’s Reign. With these, as lov’d, Great Mary too return’d, In her own Country who long Exile mourn’d. You, Royal Mother! you, whose only Crime Was loving Charles, and sharing Woes with him. 1,535 Now Heaven repays, tho slow, yet just and true, For him Revenge, and just Rewards for you. Hail, mighty Queen, form’d by the Pow’rs divine, The Shame of our weak Sex, and Pride of thine, How well have you in either Fortune shown, 1,540 In either, still your Mind was all your own; The giddy World roll’d round you long in vain, Who fix’d in Virtues Centre still remain. And now, just Prince! thou thy great Mind shalt bring To the true weighty Office of a King. 1,545 The gaping Wounds of War thy Hand shall cure, Thy Royal Hand, gentle alike, and sure: And by insensible Degrees efface Of foregone Ill the very Scars and Trace. Force to the injur’d Law thou shalt restore, 1,550 And all that Majesty it own’d before. Thou long corrupted Manners shalt reclaim, And Faith and Honor of the English Name; 349Thus long-neglected Gardens entertain Their banish’d Master, when return’d again. 1,555 All over-run with Weeds he finds, but soon Luxuriant Branches carefully will prune, The weaken’d Arms of the sick Vine he’ll raise, And with kind Bands sustain the loosen’d Sprays. Much does he plant, and much extirpate too, 1,560 And with his Art and Skill make all things new. A Work immense, yet sweet, and which in future Days, When the fair Trees their blooming Glories raise, The happy Gard’ners Labor over-pays. Cities and Towns, Great Prince, thy Gardens be 1,565 With Labor cultivated, worthy Thee. In decent Order thou dost all dispose: Nor are the Woods, nor Rural Groves disdain’d; He who our Wants, who all our Breaches knows, He all our drooping Fortunes has sustain’d. 1,570 As young Colonies of Trees thou dost replace I’th’ empty Realms of our Arboreal Race; Nay, dost our Reign extend to future Days; And blest Posterity, supinely laid, Shall feast and revel underneath thy Shade. 1,575 Cool Summer Arbors then thy Gift shalt be, And their bright Winter Fires they’ll owe to thee. To thee those Beams their Palaces sustain, And all their floating Castles on the Main. Who knows, Great Prince, but thou this happy Day 1,580 For Towns and Navies mayst Foundations lay After a thousand years are roll’d away. Reap thou those mighty Triumphs then which for thee grow, And mighty Triumphs for succeeding Ages sow: Thou Glory’s craggy Top shalt first essay, 1,585 Divide the Clouds, and mark the shining Way; To Fame’s bright Temples shalt thy Subjects guide, Thy Brit[o]ns bold, almost of Night deny’d. The foaming Waves thy dread Commands shall stay, Thy dread Commands the foaming Waves obey. 1,590 The watry World no Neptune owns but thee, And thy three Kingdoms shall thy Trident be. What Madness, O Batavians! you possest, 350That the Sea’s Scepter you’d from Britain wrest, Which Nature gave, whom she with Floods has crown’d, 1,595 And fruitful Amphitrite embraces round; The rest o’th’ World just kiss’d by Amphitrite, Albion sh’ embraces, all her dear delight. You scarce th’ insulting Ocean can restrain, Nor bear the Assaults of the besieging Main, 1,600 Your Graafts and Mounds, and Trenches all in vain. And yet, what fond Ambition spurs you on? You dare attempt to make the Seas your own. O’er the vast Ocean, which no Limit knows, The narrow Laws of Ponds and Fens Impose: 1,605 But Charles his lively Valour this defies, And this the sturdy British Oak denies. O’er empty Seas the fierce Batavian Fleet Sings Triumphs, while there was no Foe to meet. But fear not, Belgian, he’ll not tarry long, 1,610 He’ll soon be here, and interrupt thy Song, Too late thou’lt of thy hasty Joys complain, And to thy Native Shores look back in vain. Great James, as soon as the first Whisper came, Prodigal of his Life, and greedy but of Fame, 1,615 With eager haste returns, as fast as they After the dreadful Fight will run away. And now the Joyful English from afar Approaching saw the floating Belgian War. Hark what a Shout they give, like those who come 1,620 From long East-Indy Voyage rich loaden home, When first they make the happy British Land, The dear White Rocks, and Albion’s Chalky Strand. The way to all the rest, brave Rupert show’d, And thro’ their Fleet cuts out his flaming Road, 1,625 Rupert, who now had stubborn Fate inclin’d, Heaven on his side engaging, and the Wind: Famous by Land and Sea; whose Valor soon Blunts both the Horns of the Batavian Moon. Next comes illustrious James, and where he goes, 1,630 To Cowards leaves the Crowd of vulgar Foes, To th’ Royal Sovereign’s Deck he seems to grow, Shakes his broad Sword, and seeks an equal Foe. Nor did bold Opdam’s mighty Mind refuse 351The dreadful Honor which ’twas Death to chuse. 1,635 Both Admirals with haste for Fight prepare, The rest might stand and gaze; themselves a War. O whither, whither, Opdam, dost thou flie? Can this rash Valor please the pow’rs on high: It can’t, it won’t—or woud’st thou proudly die. 1,640 By such a mighty Hand? no Opdam, no: Thy Fate’s to perish b’ yet a nobler Foe. Heav’n only, Opdam, shall thy Conqu’ror be, A Labor worth its while, to conquer thee. Heav’n shall be there, to guard its best lov’d House, 1,645 And just Revenge inflict on all your broken Vows. The mighty Ship a hundred Canons bore, A hundred Canons which like Thunder roar; Six times as many Men in Shivers torn, E’er one Broadside, or single Shot’t had born, 1,650 Is with a horrid Crack blown up to th’ Sky In Smoak and Flames o’er all the Ocean nigh, Torn, half-burnt Limbs of Ships and Seamen scatter’d lie. Whether a real Bolt from Heav’n was thrown Among the guilty Wretches is not known, 1,655 Tho likely ’Tis: Amboina’s Wickedness, And broken Peace and Oaths deserv’d no less, Or whether fatal Gunpowder it were By some unlucky Spark enkindled there; Even Chance, by Heaven directed, is the Rod, 1,660 The fiery Shaft of an avenging God, The flaming Wrack the hissing Deep floats o’er, Far, far away, almost to either shore, Which ev’n from pious Foes wou’d pity draw, A trembling pity, mixt with dreadful aw. 1,665 But pity yet scarce any room can find, What Noise, what Horror still remains behind? On either side does wild confusion reign, Ship grapples Ship, and sink into the Main. The Orange careless of lost Opdam’s Fate 1,670 Will next, To attack victorious James prepare, Worthy to perish at the self same rate, But English Guns sufficient Thunder bear; By English Guns, and human Fire o’erpowr’d, ’Tis quickly in the hissing Waves devour’d. 3521,675 Three Ships besides are burnt, if Fame says true, None of whose baser Names the Goddess knew; As many more the Dolphin did subdue. Their Decks in Show’rs of kindled Sulphur steep, And send ’em flaming to th’ affrighted deep. 1,680 So burns a City, storm’d and fir’d by night, The Shades are pierc’d with such a dreadful Light; Such dusky Globes of Flame around ’em broke Through the dark Shadow of the Guns and Smoke. Can Fire in Water then such Licence claim? 1,685 Justly the Water hides it self for shame: The dreadful Wrack outstretching far away Vast Ruins o’er its trembling Bosom lay; Here Masts and Rudders from their Vessels torn, There Sails and Flags across the Waves are born, 1,690 A thousand floating Bodies there appear, As many half-dead Men lie groaning here. If any where the Sea it self’s reveal’d With horrid purple Tracks the azure Wave’s conceal’d. All sunk or took, ’twere tedious to relate, 1,695 And all the sad variety of Fate One day produces — with what Art and Skill Ev’n Chance ingenious seems, to save or kill, To spare, or to torment who e’er she will, The vulgar Deaths, below the Muse to heed 1,700 Not only Faith, but Number too exceed, Three noble Youths by the same sudden Death, A brave Example to the World bequeath; Fam’d for high Birth, but Merits yet more high, All at one fatal Moment’s Warning die, 1,705 Torn by one Shot, almost one Body they, Three Brothers in one Death confounded lay. Who wou’d not Fortune harsh and barbarous call, Yet Fortune was benign and kind withal, For next to these — I tremble still with fear, 1,710 My Joys disturb’d while such a danger near, Fearless, unhurt, the Royal Adm’ral stood, Stunn’d with the Blow, and sprinkled with their Blood. Fiercer he presses on, while they retir’d, He presses on with Grief, and Anger fir’d. 1,715 Nor longer can the Belgian Force engage The English Valor, warm’d with double Rage. Breaks with their Losses, and a Cause so ill, Their shatter’d Fleet all the wide Ocean fill, Till trembling Rhine opens his Harbors wide, 1,720 Seeing the Wretches from our Thunder fly: From our hot Chase their shatter’d Fleet he’d hide, And bends his conquer’d Horns as we go by. In sacred Rage the Dryad this reveal’d, Yet many future wond’rous things conceal’d, 1,725 But this to grace some future Bard will serve, For better Poets this the Gods reserve.