He's come, he's safe at shore; I hear the noise
Of a whole land which does at once rejoice,
I hear th' united people's sacred voice.

The sea, which circles us around,

Ne'er sent to land so loud a sound;
The mighty shout sends to the sea a gale,
And swells up every sail :

The bells and guns are scarcely heard at all;
The artificial joy's drown'd by the natural.
All England but one bonfire seems to be,
One Ætna shooting flames into the sea:
The starry worlds, which shine to us afar,
Take ours at this time for a star.

}

With wine all rooms, with wine the conduits, flow; And we, the priests of a poetic rage,

Wonder that in this golden age

The rivers too should not do so.

There is no Stoick, sure, who would not now

Ev'n some excess allow;

And grant that one wild fit of cheerful folly
Should end our twenty years of dismal melancholy.

Where's now the royal mother, where,

To take her mighty share

In this so ravishing sight,

And, with the part she takes, to add to the delight? Ah! why art thou not here,

Thou always best, and now the happiest Queen!

To see our joy, and with new joy be seen?

God has a bright example made of thee,
To shew that woman-kind may be
Above that sex which her superior seems,
In wisely managing the wide extremes
Of great affliction, great felicity.

How well those different virtues thee become,
Daughter of triumphs, wife of martyrdom!
Thy princely mind with so much courage bore
Affliction, that it dares return no more;
With so much goodness us'd felicity,

That it cannot refrain from coming back to thee; 'Tis come, and seen to-day in all its bravery!

Who's that heroic person leads it on,
And gives it like a glorious bride
(Richly adorn'd with nuptial pride)
Into the hands now of thy son?
"T is the good General, the man of praise,
Whom God at last, in gracious pity,
Did to th' enthralled nation raise,
Their great Zerubbabel to be;
To loose the bonds of long captivity,
And to rebuild their temple and their city!
For ever blest may he and his remain,
Who, with a vast, though less-appearing, gain,
Preferr'd the solid Great above the Vain,

And to the world this princely truth has shown-
That more 't is to restore, than to usurp a crown!
Thou worthiest person of the British story!

(Though 't is not small the British glory)

Did I not know my humble verse must be
But ill-proportion'd to the height of thee,
Thou and the world should see

How much my Muse, the foe of flattery,
Does make true praise her labour and design;
An Iliad or an Eneid should be thine.

And ill should we deserve this happy day,
If no acknowledgments we pay
To you, great patriots of the two
Most truly Other Houses now;

Who have redeem'd from hatred and from shame
A Parliament's once venerable name;

And now the title of a House restore,

To that which was but Slaughter-house before.
If my advice, ye worthies! might be ta'en,
Within those reverend places,

Which now your living presence graces,
Your marble-statues always should remain,
To keep alive your useful memory,
And to your successors th' example be
Of truth, religion, reason, loyalty:

For, though a firmly-settled peace

May shortly make your publick labours cease,
The grateful nation will with joy consent
That in this sense you should be said

(Though yet the name sounds with some dread)

To be the Long, the Endless, Parliament.

ON THE

QUEEN'S REPAIRING SOMERSET-HOUSE.

WHEN God (the cause to me and men unknown)
Forsook the royal houses, and his own,

And both abandon'd to the common foe;
How near to ruin did my glories go!
Nothing remain'd t' adorn this princely place
Which covetous hands could take, or rude deface.
In all my rooms and galleries I found

The richest figures torn, and all around
Dismember'd statues of great heroes lay;
Such Naseby's field seem'd on the fatal day!
And me, when nought for robbery was left,
They starv'd to death: the gasping walls were cleft,
The pillars sunk, the roofs above me wept,
No sign of spring, or joy, my garden kept;
Nothing was seen which could content the eye,
Till dead the impious tyrant here did lie.

See how my face is chang'd! and what I am Since my true mistress, and now foundress, came! It does not fill her bounty to restore

Me as I was (nor was I small before):

She imitates the kindness to her shown;

She does, like Heaven (which the dejected throne At once restores, fixes, and higher rears), Strengthen, enlarge, exalt, what she repairs.

i

And now I'dare (though proud I must not be,
Whilst my great mistress I so humble see
In all her various glories) now I dare
Ev'n with the proudest palaces compare.
My beauty and convenience will, I'm sure,
So just a boast with modesty endure;
And all must to me yield, when I shall tell
How I am plac'd, and who does in me dwell.

Before my gate a street's broad channel goes, Which still with waves of crowding people flows; And every day there passes by my side,

Up to its western reach, the London tide,
The spring-tides of the term; my front looks down
On all the pride and business of the town;
My other front (for, as in kings we see
The liveliest image of the Deity,

We in their houses should heaven's likeness find,
Where nothing can be said to be Behind)

My other fair and more majestic face

(Who can the fair to more advantage place?) For ever gazes on itself below,

`In the best mirror that the world can show.

And here behold, in a long bending row,

How two joint-cities make one glorious bow!
The midst, the noblest place, possest by me,
Best to be seen by all, and all o'er-see!

Which way, soe'er I turn my joyful eye,

Here the great court, there the rich town, I spy;
On either side dwells safety and delight ;
Wealth on the left, and power upon the right..