TO HIS
Royal Highness,
AT HIS
Happy Return
FROM
SCOTLAND.
Written by a Person of Quality.
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WHen all the Glories of Triumphant Rome,
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Seem'd Sick to death, likely to be o'recome
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By a Barbarian Sword; one Man was found
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T' rebate its Edge and heal his Country's Wound.
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But theirs were Foreign Foes. Our ravenous breed
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(Those crawling Insects in our Bowels bred,)
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Like their Egyptian Predecessors, swarm:
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The Reble Dust doth with the Vermin Arm,
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Threatning again, if Heav'n don't interpose,
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A second Ax, to make Kings glorious.
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In vain, with patience, did we long indure;
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In vain from Senates, have we sought our cure.
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But what will an aspiring Senate hear,
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When Factious Zeal and City Baggs appear,
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With Wapping Reformades and Tilted Peer:
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But Godlike Charles, letting Alpheus loose,
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With timely Care cleans'd the Augean-House;
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Yet Spite and Venome through the Limbs are spread,
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The Monster struggles tho 't has lost its Head;
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Serpents retain their Stings when they are dead:
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And an associated immortal Tail
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Doth once more the Imperial Crown assail,
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And what even They did not in Councel dare,
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Expects its Birth from a Sham Court of War:
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For the World hath not such obedient things
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As Whigs, except to God, Bishops and Kings.
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Yet, Royal Sir, the Genius of our Isle,
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Lifts his pain'd Head, and welcomes with a smile
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Your
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Your blest Return. No more, says he, no more
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Shall I my Albions Miseries deplore,
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When the two heav'nly Brothers shine so bright,
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No dread of Tempests from those Sons of night.
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Go on, great Prince, in all thy ways approve
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A Subject's Duty in a Brother's Love,
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Until thy Piety expose with Shame
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All the Suborn'd Blasphemers of thy Fame.
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Redeem the injur'd Muses from the Stains
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Of such who think strong Lines can hide weak Brains,
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Claiming Apollo's Chair; as if to Ly,
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Were Fancy; or to Rail, were Poetry.
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A Spurious Race, who Wit and Sence disown,
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Nor Gold, nor Lawrel, will such Temples Crown.
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Next, Sir, your dearest Consort doth command
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An humble Off'ring from each Loyal hand;
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But where the beautious Theme's so heav'nly bright,
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It is much easier to Adore, than Write.
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'Tis not for Poets to discourse of Eyes,
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Have made an Heroes heart their Sacrifice:
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Words are too narrow to describe such light,
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Or speak my Duteous Joys for the blest sight;
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For Sovereign Beauty like the Ark doth stand,
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'Tis death to touch, unless with hallowed hand.
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Here a retiring Reverence is due,
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They could have conquer'd Worlds that conquer'd you.
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It is enough, good Heavens! We welcome home,
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The Hope of Kingdoms, in her fruitful Womb.
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For if when time shall Sacred Charles remove,
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(Long, long, be it first!) to the blest Seats above,
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Our black dy'd Sins should cause the mourning Throne
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To be unblest with Issue of his Own;
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What could the miserable Breach repair,
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But Pitious Heav'n and this Illustrious Pair.
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Heaven, who declares in Wonders so Divine
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Care of Succession, in the rightful Line;
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That it protects you with a guardian hand
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From Whiggish Lemans both of Sea and Land.
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Your gen'rous Heart the mighty Debt doth know,
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Which you your God and God-like Brother owe.
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But, Sir, the Church of Englands in distress,
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The Spouse once more driv'n to the Wilderness,
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With joy she thinks she may her Doctrins own,
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By what her Sons have in your Service done.
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If steady Faith, to Monarchs can approve,
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Such, which, nor Storms nor Int'rest could remove,
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She begs your Care, and fain would hope your Love.
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