Like the blest oil, the widow's lasting feast,
Your treasure, as you pourd it out, increas'd.
While some your beauty, some your bounty sing,
Your native isle does with your praises ring:
But above all, a nymph' of your own train
Gives us your character in such a strain,
As none but she, who in that court did dwell,
Could know such worth, or worth describe so well.
So while we mortals here at Heav'n do guess,
And more our weakness than the place express,
Some angel, a domestic there, comes down,
And tells the wonders he hath seen and known.





Great Queen! that does our island bless
With princes and with palaces ;
Treated so ill, chas'd from your throne,
Returning, you adorn the Town;
And with a brave revenge do show
Their glory went and came with you.
While Peace from hence and you were gone,
Your houses in that storm o'erthrown,
Those wounds which civil rage did.give,
At once you pardon and relieve.

Constant to England in your love,
As birds are to their wonted grove,
Though by rude hands their nests are spoil'd,
"There the next spring again they build.

1 Lady Anne Hyde.
* Henrietta Maria, queen dowager of King Charles I.

Accusing some malignant star, Not Britain, for that fatal war, Your kindness banishes your fear, Resolved to fix for ever here.

But what new mine this work supplies?
Can such a pile from ruin rise?
This, like the first creation, shows,
As if at your command it rose.

Frugality and bounty too,
(Those differing virtues) meet in you:
From a confin'd, well-manag'd store,
You both employ and feed the poor.

Let foreign princes vainly boast
The rude effects of pride and cost;
Of vaster fabrics, to which they
Contribute nothing but the pay:

This, by the Queen herself design'd,
Gives us a pattern of her mind :
The state and order does proclaim
The genius of that Royal Dame.
Each part with just proportion gracid,
And all to such advantage plac'd,
That the fair view her window yields,
The town, the river, and the fields,
Entering, beneath us we descry,
And wonder how we came so high.

She needs no weary steps ascend;
All seems before her feet to bend;
And here, as she was born, she lies,
High, without taking pains to rise..

OF A TREE CUT IN PAPER. FAIR band! that can on virgin-paper write, Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white ; Whose travel o'er that silver field does show Like track of leverets in morning snow. Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought, Without a spot or blemish to the thought. Strange that your fingers should the pencil foil, Without the help of colours or of oil ! For though a painter boughs and leaves can make, 'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake; Whose breath salutes your new-created grove, Like southern winds, and makes it gently move. Orpheus could make the forest dance, but you Can make the motion and the forest too.



As once the lion honey gave,

Out of the strong such sweetness came; A royal hero, no less brave,

Produc'd this sweet, this lovely dame.

To her the prince, that did oppose

Such mighty armies in the field, And Holland from prevailing foes

Could so well free, himself does yield.

Not Belgia's fleet (his high command)

Which triumphs where the sun does rise, Nor all the force he leads by land,

Could guard him from her conquering eyes.

Orange with youth experience has ;

In action young, in council old: Orange is what Augustus was,

Brave, wary, provident, and bold.

On that fair tree which bears his name,

Blossoms and fruit at once are found: In him we all admire the same,

His flowery youth with wisdom crown'd!

Empire and freedom reconcil'd

In Holland are by great Nassan :
Like those he sprung from just and mild,

To willing people he gives law.

Thrice-happy pair! so near allied

In royal blood, and virtue too! Now Love has you together tied,

May none this triple knot undo!

The church shall be the happy place

Where streams which from the same source run, Though divers lands awhile they grace,

Unite again, and are made one.

A thousand thanks the nation owes

To him that does protect us all, For while he thus his niece bestows,

About our isle he builds a wall ;

A wall! like that which Athens had,

By the’ oracle's advice, of wood:
Had their's been such as Charles lias made,

That miglity state till now had stood.


Poets may boast, as safely vain,
Their works shall with the world remain :
Both bound together live or die,
The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his line shall long
Last in a daily-changing tongue?
While they are new envy prevails,
And as that dies our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin or in Greek:
We write in sand, onr language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows..

Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers lost!
Years have defac'd his matchless strain,
And yet he did not sing in vain.

The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
Hoping they should iminortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.

« 前へ次へ »