Whose rigid letter, while pronounc'd by you,
Is softer made: so winds that tempests brew,
When through Arabian groves they take their flight,
Made wanton with rich odours, lose their spite: 270

And as those lees, that trouble it, refine
The agitated soul of generous wine;
So tears of joy, for your returning spilt,
Work out, and expiate our former guilt.
Methinks I see those crowds on Dover's strand, 275
Who, in their haste to welcome you to land,
Chok'd up the beech with their still-growing store,
And made a wilder torrent on the shore;
While, spurr'd with eager thoughts of past delight,
Those who had seen you court a second sight; 280
Preventing still your steps, and making haste
To meet you often wheresoe'er you past.
How shall I speak of that triumphant day,
When you renew'd th' expiring pomp of May!
(A month that owns an int'rest in your name; 285
You and the flow'rs are its peculiar claim.)
That star that at your birth shone out so bright,
It stain'd the duller sun's meridian light,
Did once again its potent fires renew,
Guiding our eyes to find and worship you.

And now Time's whiter series is begun,
Which in soft centuries shall smoothly run :
Those clouds, that overcast your morn, shall fly,
Dispell'd to farthest corners of the sky.

290

Our nation with united int'rest bless'd,
Not now content to poise, shall sway the rest.

295

Abroad your empire shall no limits know,

But, like the sea, in boundless circles flow.

Your much-lov'd fleet shall, with a wide command,

300

Besiege the petty monarchs of the land;
And as old Time his offspring swallow'd down,
Our ocean in its depths all seas shall drown.
Their wealthy trade from pirates' rapine free,
Our merchants shall no more advent'rers be;
Nor in the farthest East those dangers fear,
Which humble Holland must dissemble here.
Spain to your gift alone her Indies owes;
For what the pow'rful takes not, he bestows:
And France, that did an exile's presence fear,
May justly apprehend you still too near.
At home the hateful names of party cease,
And factious souls are weary'd into peace.
The discontented now are only they,

3°5

Whose crimes before did your just cause betray:
Of those your edicts some reclaim from sin,

310

315

But most your life and bless'd example win.
Oh happy prince, whom Heav'n hath taught the way,

By paying vows, to have more vows to pay!

Oh happy age! oh times like those alone,

By fate reserv'd for great Augustus' throne! When the joint growth of arms and arts foreshew The world a Monarch, and that monarch You.

320

THE YEAR OF WONDERS, M.DC.LXVI.

AN HISTORICAL POEM.

AN ACCOUNT OF THE

ENSUING POEM,

In à Letter to the

HON. SIR ROBERT HOWARD.

SIR,

I AM SO many ways obliged to you, and so little able to return your favours, that, like those who owe too much, I can only live by getting farther into your debt. You have not only been careful of my fortune, which was the effect of your nobleness, but you have been solicitous of my reputation, which is that of your kindness. It is not long since I gave you the trouble of perusing a play for me, and now, instead of an acknowledgment, I have given you a greater, in the correction of a Poem. But since you are to bear this persecution, I will at least give you the encouragement of a martyr; you could never suffer in a nobler cause. For I have chosen the most heroic subject which any Poet could desire: I have taken upon me to describe the motives, the beginning, progress, and successes, of a most just and necessary war; in it the care, management, and prudence of our King; the conduct and valour of a royal admiral, and of two incomparable generals; the invincible courage of our captains and seamen; and three glorious victories, the result of all. After this I have, in the fire, the most deplorable, but, withal, the greatest argument that can be imagi. ned; the destruction being so swift, sosudden, so vast and miserable, as nothing can parallel in story. The former part of this Poem, relating to the war, is but a due expiation for mynot serving my king and country in it. All gentlemen are almost obliged to it; and I know no reason we should give that advantage to the commonalty of England, to be foremost in brave actions, which the nobles of France would never suffer in their peasants. I should not have written this, but to a person who has been ever forward to appear in all employments whither his honour and generosity have called him. The latter part of my Poem, which describes the fire, I owe, first to the piety and fatherly affection of our Monarch to his suffering subjects; and, in the second place, to the courage, loyalty, and magnanimity of the City; both which were so conspicuous, that I have wanted words to celebrate them as they deserve. I have called my Poem Historical, not Epic, though both the actions and actors are as much heroic as any poem can contain. But, since the action is not properly one, nor that accomplished in the last successes, I have judged it too bold a title for a few stanzas, which are little more in number than a single Iliad, or the longest of the Æneids. For this reason (I mean not of length, but broken action, tied too severely to the laws of History) I am apt to agree with those who rank Lucan rather among historians in verse, than Epic poets; in whose room, if I am not deceived, Silius Italicus, though a worse writer, may more justly be admitted. I have chosen to write my Poem in quatrains, or stanzas of four in alternate rhyme, because I have ever judged them more noble, and of greater dignity both for the sound and number than any other verse in use amongst us; in which I am sure I have your approbation. The learned languages have, certainly, a great advantage of us, in not being tied to the slavery of any rhyme, and were less constrained in the quantity of every syllable, which they might vary with spondees or dactyls, besides so many other helps of grammatical figures, for the lengthening or abbreviation of them, than the modern are in the close of that one syllable, which often confines, and more often corrupts, the sense of all the rest. But in this necessity of our rhymes, I have always found the couplet verse most easy, though not so proper for this occasion; for there the work is sooner at an end, every two lines concluding the labour of the poet; but in quatrains he is to carry it farther on, and not only so, but to bear