Where every Virtue in fuch Light appears,
As fpeaks the facred Image that he bears.
On his left Hand the Prince does move along,
Sedate, yet fprightly; beautiful, yet strong.
Third Edward's Son we fee in him revive;
And view the Black-Prince, once again, alive.
May like Success still sparkle on his Sword,
To conquer Rebels, and confefs it's Lord;
To raise new Subjects for the Poet's Song;
Trophies in joyful Britain's Temple hung,
Wreath'd round with Lawrel, ever green, and
Paint him, ye Poets, in immortal Strains:
His Virtues will excite your utmost Pains,
To me, the meaneft of your Tribe belongs,
To show the HERO worthy of your Songs:
For nobler Pens I leave the great Design,
Those who cou'd fing great William on the Boyn,
May find a Subject here, which can ev'n that outshine.
Henceforth, the Bard no more fhall rack his Brain,
And from old Stories for Examples strain;
To paint a future Hero in his Verse,
Thy Virtues, Prince, he only needs rehearse:
That copious Subject will his Pen employ,
And Repetitions, there, will never cloy.
But now the wish'd-for lovely Morning gilds
The ftately Palace, and the verdant Fields:
From every quarter of the Town repair,
To fee, and to be feen, the well-dreft Fair.
The propt Balconies bend beneath the Weight;
But Beauties Charms uphold their urged Fate.
The Silphs, and Silphids, bufy, fly around,
And peevish Gnomes are spread o'er all the Town:
Yet all in vain; for Beauties Queen attends:
And, with her little Guards, the Nymphs defends:
That no ill Whifper might, that Day, defame
The rich Brocade, or fpotlefs Virgin's Name:
The facred Day, to GEORGE's Glory due;
And
may that facred Day be ever new!
Each throng'd Balcony various luftre Rays,
And fills the Streets with one continued Blaze:
With blufhing Light, behold the chearing Sun,
Afham'd to find his Brightnefs fo outdone.
Now, cou'd I fing the Grandeur of the Day,
And all the different Scenes of Joy display;
'Twou'd more than fully recompence my Pains,
And add a Brightness to my languid Strains.
But stop, my Muse, the Flight too high I see:
Thou ne'er Pretences mad❜st to Extasy.
Enough, if humble, thou can't rightly fing
The joyful Paffage of the glorious KING:
Which does all other Triumphs far outshine,
As Virgil's heav'nly Strains compar'd with thine.
Ne'er Pompey heard, nor Cafar, Roman Lords,
(Tho' Victory fat smiling on their Swords)
Such Shouts of Joy, as thou moft welcome Prince;
For, Liberty enflay'd was their Offence:
Thou mak'ft the heav'n-born Goddefs, ftill, more bright;
Secur❜ft her Empire, and uphold'ft her Right.
Heav'n with delighted Views, looks down below;
And fmiles to fee ТHEE live, and govern too:
To see THEE live, the Partner of his Sway;
Whilft Nations THEE, as thou doft Heav'n obey.
Whofe chiefeft Care we, in this Work, may fee;
To place us under fo much Piety.
Now may the Hindes fecurely Plow the Field;
And reap the bounteous Harveft, which they yield:
No Danger, but from Winds, and Clouds may fear,
To spoil the wholesome Fruits, and taint the Year.
Whilft loaded Ships may Plow the boift'rous Main,
And well reward the Merchant's toilfome Pain:
His Right fecur'd, will still advance his Gain.
Each Heart Unites, and vain Diffentions cease;
And Faction fhall no more difturb our Peace.
So when two angry Billows foam, and
Neptune alone their Fury can affwage:
With curling Streams, they meet each others Breaft,
And join'd in Love, no more the God moleft.
POEM
To the MEMORY of
THOMAS,
Late Marquis of Wharton,
AIN are thefe Pomps, thy Funeral Rites
And blazon.forth thy long Patrician Race,
Thefe Banners mark'd with boasted † Feats
And Streamers waving with diftinguish'd Gold:
*The Marquis of Wharton was Interr'd at Winchindon, April 22. 1715. the total Eclipfe of the Sun happening whilft his Remains were upon the Road thither.
† Plaifir en fait d'Armes. The Motto of the Wharton's Arms.
Proud Hieroglyphicks! where are darkly shown
Thy brave Fore-fathers Merits, not thy own.
Herald forbear! thefe painted Honours give,
To Names that only in thy Paint can live.
Thy Colours fade near this illuftrious Clay,
And all thy gawdy gilding dyes away.
See, Heav'n difpleas'd thy fond Attempt upbraids,
And claims the Province thy bold Hand invades ;-
Untimely Darkness gathering round the Skies,
Blackens the Morn to grace his Obfequies.
The fickning Sun fhines dim, and in the fight
Of gazing Crowds, refigns his waining Light;
Mark how he labours with Relapfe of Night!
How his diminish'd Face a Crefcent feems,
Like Cynthia newly filver'd with his Beams.
But as in full Eclipfe his Light expires,
Back to its Source our gelid Blood retires;
Chill'd with Surprize, our trembling Joints unbrace,
And pale Confufion fits on ev'ry Face..
The bleating Flocks, no more the Shepherds Care,
Stray from thofe Folds to which they would repair.
Home to his Young the Raven wings his Way,
And leaves behind him his untafted Prey.
While tow'ring Larks their rival Notes prolong,
They drop benighted in their Morning Song.
Darkness and Horror reign o'er Earth and Skies,
And Nature for a while with WHARTON dies.
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