THE
RESTAURATION;
OR,
A Change for the Better.
BEING
A Paper of VERSES in Memory of the Citizens of Londons
Gratitude, in Chusing
Sir William Pritchard, Sir John Fleet,
Sir Francis Child, and Gilbert Heathcot, Esq;
For their Members to Serve in Parliament.
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CAlvin lament, thy Conquer'd Champions Mourn,
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And weep thy Sons Successless and Forlorn,
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Oppress'd with Grief to see the Church's Reign,
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After a Thirteen Years Attempt in Vain,
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After so many Tryals to Restore
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Eusebia to the Strength Possess'd before.
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Behold with Envy, and with Sorrow see
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What must be always view'd with Joy by Me,
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Faction dethron'd, and Schismaticks subdued,
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And Anarchy with its Republick Brood;
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As Stuarts Injur'd Race Ascends the Throne,
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And shews a Queen by Natures Laws our own,
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Whose Right's unquestion'd, and whose Sacred Veins
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Swell with no Blood but their's or'e whom She Reigns;
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Sure of our Choice, if we again could Chuse,
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Or Royalty once more the Claims of Birth-Right lose.
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A Queen like this, and of the Stuarts Name,
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Our Hearts does call for, and our Voices claim,
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And Albion's Sons by late Elections shew
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How much they Pay, tho' not how much they Owe;
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As Real Merit is to Prefer'd,
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And change of Members proves that Towns have Err'd,
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Have falsely been Misled by seeming Grace,
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And Chose a Sinner for a Saint-like Face.
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Perverse in Chief Augustas City stood,
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And enviously flung out the Wise and Good,
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A Foe to Justice, as a Foe to Shame,
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And lost to ev'ry Glory but her Name:
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Whilst Hypocrites for Patriots current pass'd,
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And Men were Chose that long could Cant and Fast;
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Their Abstinence, design'd at City Polls,
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To save their Victuals, not to save their Souls.
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But lo! The wish'd for Time at last appears,
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And Hopes prevent the growth of former Fears,
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Lo! She Repents for what her Sons have done,
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And makes Amends for Thirteen Years, in One;
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Fam'd for the Generous Choice she since has made,
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And Zealous for the Cause she once Betray'd;
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As Cl------n's Expectations fade and die,
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And he drives sighing home to Belchingly;
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As Baffled A------t in a wonderous Hear,
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Deserts the City for his Country Seat
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Puff'd up with Pride, as if a Collonel still,
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And mixes Spleen with Air of Highgate-Hill,
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As Say-Grace A------ mourns his Party's Fall,
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And Mortifies himself at Salters-Hall,
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While the prevailing Candidates bestow
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Their Thoughts on those to whom their Thoughts they owe,
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And meditate Augustas Fame to Raise,
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And bring her to the Height of former Days,
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Resolv'd t' Encourage War to Purchase Peace,
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And Charless Reign Restore by Charles[']s Niece.
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Oh! Could my Pen but equal their Deserts,
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And speak their Triumphs in the Peoples Hearts,
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Describe the Transports, and the Joys Reveal,
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That honest Breasts in honest Patriots feel,
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Not Rome herself should boast a Nobler Song,
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For nobler Sons to Rome did ne're belong;
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Not Homers Strains should more Exalted be,
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Or Maro touch a sweeter Pipe than Me.
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PRITCHARD should to the highest Glory rise,
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And Verse should bear his Merits to the Skies,
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As every Tongue should hold his Worth confest,
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And Praise what none could ever have Express'd.
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FLEET should a Monumental Pattern stand
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Amidst a Treach'rous Race and Thankless Land,
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Steadfast, and Bold, as Gen'rous and Sincere,
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Deep in his Thought, yet in his Judgment cleare,
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Fit for the Trust which in him we Repose,
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And Active to subdue Brittanias Foes.
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Nor shouldst thou CHILD, the Muses Favourite, raise
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The Peoples Hopes without the Muses Praise,
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Doubly thou'rt Lov'd, and hast been doubly Chose,
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And doubly should the Muse her Joys disclose,
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As in Consent the Town and Country join,
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And shew no Love like theirs, or Zeal like thine.
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HEATHCOT should shine Immortal in my Song,
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And Fam'd for Justice, should not suffer wrong;
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A Patriot Wise as Affable and Meek;
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Not Rash to Judge, as he's not Rash to Speak,
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Lov'd by all PARTIES for his Goodness sake,
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And every where Esteem'd, tho' He'll no Parties make.
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But it's a Task too great for Human Lays,
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And would exhaust the Stock of Human Praise,
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Tho' ev'ry Bard the Glorious Theme should Chuse,
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And claim the Noblest Strains of ev'ry Muse.
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Ye Patriots whom Apollos self might sing,
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Pardon th' unhallow'd Offring which I bring;
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Verse I have try'd, but what can Numbers do
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From such a worthless Hand, to such as You?
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Oh! Grant me leave, since fruitless my Design,
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And I in Vain Invoke the Sacred Nine,
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Ask 'em in Vain the Guidance of their Skill,
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Or wait their Inspiration on my Quill,
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That I my gain Acceptance for my Heart,
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And Wonder may supply the Place of Art,
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As I for want of Words, not Zeal, Retire,
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And what I cannot duly Praise, Admire.
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