The Father of the people open'd wide
His stores, and all the poor with plenty fed: Thus God's anointed God's own place supplied, And fill'd the empty with his daily bread.
This royal bounty brought its own reward,
And in their minds so deep did print the sense,
That if their ruins sadly they regard,
'Tis but with fear the sight might drive him thence.
But so may he live long that Town to sway,
Which by his auspice they will nobler make,
As he will hatch their ashes by his stay,
And not their humble ruins now forsake.
They have not lost their loyalty by fire;
Nor is their courage or their wealth so low,
That from his wars they poorly would retire,
Or beg the pity of a vanquish'd foe.
Not with more constancy the Jews of old,
By Cyrus from rewarded exile sent,
Their royal city did in dust behold,
Or with more vigour to rebuild it went.
The utmost malice of the stars is past,
[Town, And two dire comets, which have scourg'd the In their own plague and fire have breath'd their last, Or, dimly, in their sinking sockets frown.
Now frequent trines the happier lights among, And high-rais'd Jove from his dark prison freed, (Those weights took off that on his planet hung) Will gloriously the new-laid works succeed.
Methinks already, from this chemic flame,
I see a city of more precious mould: Rich as the town 5 which gives the Indies name, With silver pav'd, and all divine with gold.
Already, labouring with a mighty fate,
She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow. And seems to have renew'd her charter's date, Which Heav'n will to the death of Time allow.
More great than human, now, and more august,
New deified she from her fires does rise;
Her widening streets on new foundations trust,
And, opening, into larger parts she flies.
Before she like some shepherdess did show,
Who sat to bathe her by a river's side;
Not answering to her fame, but rude and low,
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.
Now, like a maiden queen, she will behold,
From her high turrets, hourly suitors come:
The East with incense, and the West with gold,
Will stand, like suppliants, to receive her doom.
The silent Thames, her own domestic flood,
Shall bear her vessels, like a sweeping train;
And often wind, as of his mistress proud,
With longing eyes to meet her face again.
The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine,
The glory of their towns no more shall boast,
And Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join,
Shall find her lustre stain'd, and traffic lost.
The venturous merchant, who design'd more far,
And touches on our hospitable shore,
Charm'd with the splendour of this northern star,
Shall here unlade him, and depart no more.
Our powerful navy shall no longer meet
The wealth of France or Holland to invade; The Beauty of this Town, without a fleet,
From all the world shall vindicate her trade.
And while this fam'd emporium we prepare,
The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, That those who now disdain our trade to share, Shall rob, like pirates, on our wealthy coast.
Already we have conquer'd half the war,
And the less dangerous part is left behind;
Our trouble now is but to make them dare,
And not so great to vanquish as to find.
Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go,
But now the Cape once doubled, fear no more;
A constant trade-wind will securely blow,
And gently lay us on the spicy shore.
BY MR. DRYDEN AND THE EARL OF MULGRAVE.
How dull and how insensible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!
Philosophers and poets vainly strove,
In every age, the lumpish mass to move;
But those were pedants, when compar'd with these,
Who know not only to instruct, but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way
Mysterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; so that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
'To tell men freely of their foulest faults,
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.
In satire, too, the wise took different ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd 'em into shame.
But of these two the last succeeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr'd;
In this alone, methinks, the ancients err'd;
Against the grossest follies they declaim;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:
Besides, 'tis labour lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?
'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind;
That little speck, which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil:
Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage;
Above all censure, too, each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit,
Who judging better, though concern'd the most,
Of such correction will have cause to boast.
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And every fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers, too, must pine and die,
To see their antiquated wit laid by ;
Like her who miss'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev❜d to find herself decay'd so soon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Nor the dull train of dancing sparks appear,
Nor fluttering officers who never fight;
Of such a wretched rabble who would write?
Much less half wits: that's more against our rules;
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar,
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr1?
Probably Sir Carr Scrope.
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