O famous leader of the Belgian fleet, Thy monument inscrib'd such praise shall wen, As Varro timely flying once did meet, Because he did not of his Rome despair. Behold that navy, which a while before Whoe'er would English monuments survey, Into a victory, which we disdain; And now no longer letted of his prey, He leaps up at it with enrag'd desire: bold,O'erlooks the neighbours with a wide survey, And nods at every house his threatening fire. But ah! how insincere are all our joys! [no stay: Which, sent from Heaven, like lightning make Their palling taste the journey's length destroys, Or grief sent post o'ertakes them on the way. Swell'd with our late successes on the foe, Which France and Holland wanted power to cross, We urge an unseen fate to lay us low, And feed their envious eyes with English loss. Each element his dread command obeys, Who makes or ruins with a smile or frown; Who, as by one he did our nation raise, So now he with another pulls us down. Yet, London, empress of the northern clime, As when some dire usurper Heaven provides, To scourge his country with a lawless sway; His birth, perhaps, some petty village hides, And sets his cradle out of Fortune's way: Till, fully ripe, his swelling fate breaks out, Such was the rise of this prodigious Fire, Which in mean buildings first obscurely bred, From thence did soon to open streets aspire, And straight to palaces and temples spread. The diligence of trades and noiseful gain, And luxury more late, asleep were laid: All was the Night's; and in her silent reign No sound the rest of Nature did invade. In this deep quiet, from what source unknown, Those seeds of Fire their fatal birth disclose; And first few scattering sparks about were blown, Big with the flames that to our ruin rose. Then in some close-pent room it crept along, And, smouldering as it went, in silence fed; Till th' infant monster, with devouring strong, Walk'd boldly upright with exalted head. Now like some rich or mighty murderer, So scapes th' insulting Fire his narrow jail, The winds, like crafty courtezans, withheld His flames from burning, but to blow them more: And every fresh attempt he is repell'd With faint denials weaker than before. The ghosts of traitors from the bridge descend, And sing their sabbath notes with feeble voice. Our guardian angel saw them where they sate Above the palace of our slumbering king: He sigh'd, abandoning his charge to Fate, And drooping, oft look'd back upon the wing. At length the crackling noise and dreadful blaze The next to danger, hot pursued by Fate, One mighty squadron with a side-wind sped, Another backward to the Tower would go, And slowly eats his way against the wind: But the main body of the marching foe Against th' imperial palace is design'd. Now day appears, and with the day the king, Whose early care had robb'd him of his rest: Far off the cracks of falling houses ring, And shrieks of subjects pierce his tender breast. Near as he draws, thick harbingers of smoke With gloomy pillars cover all the place; Whose little intervals of night are broke By sparks, that drive against his sacred face. More than his guards his sorrows made him known, And pious tears which down his cheeks did shower: The wretched in his grief forgot their own; So much the pity of a king has power. He wept the flames of what he lov'd so well, Nor with an idle care did he behold: Subjects may grieve, but monarchs must redress; He cheers the fearful, and commends the bold, And makes despairers hope for good success. Himself directs what first is to be done, And orders all the succours which they bring : The helpful and the good about him run, And form an army worthy such a king. He sees the dire contagion spread so fast, The powder blows up all before the Fire: Th' amazed Flames stand gather'd on a heap; And from the precipice's brink retire, Afraid to venture on so large a leap. Thus fighting Fires awhile themselves consume, But straight, like Turks, forc'd on to win or die, They first lay tender bridges of their fume, And o'er the breach in unctuous vapours fly. Part stay for passage, till a gust of wind Thus to some desert plain, or old wood side, Dire night-hags come from far to dance their round; And o'er broad rivers on their fiends they ride, Or sweep in clouds above the blasted ground. No help avails: for, hydra-like, the Fire Lifts up his hundred heads to aim his way: And scarce the wealthy can one half retire, Before he rushes in to share the prey. | The rich grow suppliant, and the poor grow proud Those offer mighty gain, and these ask more: So void of pity is th' ignoble crowd, When others' ruin may increase their store. As those who live by shores with joy behold So these but wait the owners' last despair, And what's permitted to the flames invade; Ev'n from their jaws they hungry morsels tear, And on their backs the spoils of Vulcan lade. The days were all in this lost labour spent ; Night came, but without darkness or repose, Those who have homes, when home they do repair, To a last lodging call their wandering friends: Their short uneasy sleeps are broke with care, To look how near their own destruction tends Those who have none, sit round where once it was And with full eyes each wonted room require: Haunting the yet warm ashes of the place, As murder'd men walk where they did expire. Some stir up coals and watch the vestal fire, The most in fields like herded beasts lie down, While by the motion of the flames they guess And meets, instead of milk, a falling tear. No thought can ease them but their sovereign's care, Meantime he sadly suffers in their grief, How they may be supply'd and he may want. "O God," said he, "thou patron of my days, "Be thou my judge, with what unweary'd care I since have labour'd for my people's good; To bind the bruises of a civil war, And stop the issues of their wasting blood. or could thy fabric, Paul's, defend thee long, Though thou wert sacred to thy Maker's praise: hough made immortal by a poet's song; And poets' songs the Theban walls could raise. he daring flames peep'd in, and saw from far ow down the narrow streets it swiftly came, And now four days the Sun had seen our woes: Four nights the Moon beheld th' incessant fire: It seem'd as if the stars more sickly rose, And further from the feverish North retire. In th' empyrean Heaven, the bless'd abode, At length th' Almighty cast a pitying eye, An hollow crystal pyramid he takes, And hoods the flames that to their quarry drove. The vanquish'd Fires withdraw from every place, And from the hearths the little Lares creep. Our king this more than natural change beholds; And thanks him low on his redeemed ground. As when sharp frosts had long constrain❜d the earth, By such degrees the spreading gladness grew The father of the people open'd wide His stores, and all the poor with plenty fed: Thus God's anointed God's own place supply'd, And fill'd the empty with his daily bread. This royal bounty brought its own reward, And in their minds so deep did print the sense; That if their ruins sadly they regard, 'Tis but with fear the sight might drive him thence. But so may he live long, that town to sway, Which by his auspice they will nobler make, As he will hatch their ashes by his stay, And not their humble ruins now forsake. They have not lost their loyalty by fire; Nor is their courage or their wealth so low, That from his wars they poorly would retire, Or beg the pity of a vanquish'd foe. Now frequent trines the happier lights among, Methinks already from this chymic flame, Already labouring with a mighty fate, She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, And seems to have renew'd her charter's date, Which Heaven will to the death of Time allow. More great than human now, and more august, Before she like some shepherdess did show, Now like a maiden queen she will behold, From her high turrets, hourly suitors come: The East with incense, and the West with gold, Will stand like suppliants to receive her doom. The silver Thames, her own domestic flood, Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train; And often wind, as of his mistress proud, With longing eyes to meet her face again. The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine, The glory of their towns no more shall boast, And Seyne, that would with Belgian rivers join, Shall find her lustre stain'd, and traffic lost. The venturous merchant, who design'd more far, Our powerful navy shall no longer meet, The wealth of France or Holland to invade ; The beauty of this town without a fleet, From all the world shall vindicate her trade. And while this fam'd emporium we prepare, The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, That those, who now disdain our trade to share, Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast. Already we have conquer'd half the war, And the less dangerous part is left behind: Our trouble now is but to make them dare, And not so great to vanquish as to find. Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go, ALEXANDER'S FEAST: OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. An Ode in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day. 'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were plac'd around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: (So should desert in arms be crown'd) The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate, like a blooming eastern bride, In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, With ravish'd ears And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musician sung Now give the hautboys breath: he comes, he comes Drinking joys did first ordain; Rich the treasure, |