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To His Sacred MAJESTY, a Panegyrick on His Coronation, 1660.

By Mr. DRYDEN.

N that wild Deluge where the World was drown'd,

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The firft fmall Profpe&t of a rifing Hill
With various Notes of Joy the Ark did fill:
Yet when that Flood in its own depths was drown'd,
It left behind it falfe and flipp'ry Ground;
And the more folemn Pomp was ftill deferr'd
Till new-born Nature in fresh Looks appear'd;
Thus (Royal Sir,) to fee you landed here
Was caufe enough of Triumph for a Year:
Nor would your Care thofe glorious Joys repeat,
Till they at once might be fecure and great:
Till your kind Beams by their continu'd stay
Had warm'd the Ground, and call'd the Damps away.
Such Vapours, while your pow'rful Influence dries,
Then fooneft vanish when they highest Rife.
Had greater hafte thefe facred Rights prepar'd,
Some guilty Months had in your Triumphs fhar'da
But this untainted Year is all your own,
Your Glory's may without our Crimes be shown.
We had not yet exhaufted all our Store,
When you refresh'd our Joys by adding more:
As Heav'n, of old, difpens'd Celestial Dew,
You give us Manna, and still give us new.

Now our fad Ruins are remov'd from fight,
The Seafon too comes fraught with new Delight;
Time feems not now beneath his Years to ftoop,
Nor do his Wings with fickly Feathers droop:
Soft western Winds waft o'er the gaudy Spring,
And open'd Scenes of Flow'rs and Bloffoms bring
To grace this happy Day, while you appear
Not King of us alone but of the Year,

All Eyes you draw, and with the Eyes the Heart,
Of your own Pomp, your self the greatest Part:
Loud Shouts the Nation's Happiness proclaim,
And Heav'n this Day is feafted with your Name.
Your Cavalcade the fair Spectators view,
From their high Standings, yet look up to you.
From your brave Train each singles out a Prey,
And longs to date a Conqueft from your Day.
Now charg'd with Blessings while you seek repose,
Officious Slumbers hafte your Eyes to clofe:
And glorious Dreams ftand ready to restore
The pleafing Shapes of all you faw before.
Next, to the facred Temple you are led,
Where waits a Crown for your more facred Head:
How justly from the Church that Crown is due,
Preferv'd from Ruin and reftor'd by you!
The grateful Quire their Harmony employ
Not to make greater but more folemn Joy.
Wrapt foft and warm your Name is fent on high
As Flames do on the Wings of Incenfe fly:
Mufick her felf is loft, in vain fhe brings
Her choiceft Notes to praise the best of Kings:
Her melting Strains in you a Tomb have found,
And lye like Bees in their own Sweetness drown'd
He that brought Peace and Discord could atone,
His Name is Mufick of it felf alone.

Now while the facred Oil anoints your Head,
And fragrant Scents, begun from you, are spread
Through the large Dome, the Peoples joyful Sound
Sent back, is ftill preferv'd in hallow'd Ground:
Which in one Bleffing mixt defcends on you,
As heightned Spirits fall in richer Dew.
Not that our Wishes do increase your Store,
Full of your felf you can admit no more:
We add not to your Glory, but employ
Our time like Angels in expreffing Joy.
Nor is it Duty or our Hopes alone
Create that Joy, but full Fruition.

We know thofe Bleffings which we must poflefs,
And judge of future by past Happiness :
No Promife can oblige a Prince fo much
Still to be good, as long to have been fuch.
A noble Emulation heats your Breaft,

And your own Fame now robs you of your Reft:
Good Actions still must be maintain'd with good,
As Bodies nourish'd with resembling Food.
You have already quench'd feditious Brand;
And Zeal (which burnt it) only warms the Land.
The jealous Sects that dare not truft their Cause
So far from their own will as to the Laws,
You for their Umpire and their Synod take,
And their Appeal alone to Cafar make.
Kind Heav'n fo rare a Temper did provide,
That Guilt repenting might in it confide.
Among our Crimes oblivion may be fet,
But 'tis our King's Perfection to forget.
Virtues unknown to these rough Northern Climes
From milder Heav'ns you bring, without their Crimes:
Your Calmnefs does no after-Storms provide,
Nor feeming Patience mortal Anger hide.
When Empire first from Families did spring,
Then every Father govern'd as a King;
But you that are a Sovereign Prince, allay
Imperial Pow'r with your paternal Sway.
From those great Cares when cafe your Soul unbends,
Your Pleasures are defign'd to noble Ends:
Born to command the Miftrefs of the Seas,
Your Thoughts themselves in that blue Empire please.
Hither in Summer Ev'nings you repair
To take the fraifcheur of the purer Air:
Undaunted here you ride when Winter raves,
With Cafar's Heart that rofe above the Waves.
More I could fing, but Fear my Numbers ftays;
No Loyal Subject dares that Courage praise.
In ftately Frigats most delight you find,
Where well-drawn Battels fire your martial Mind,'

What to your Cares we owe, is learnt from hence,
When ev'n your Pleafures ferve for our Defence.
Beyond your Court flows in th' admitted Tide,
Where in new Depths the wond'ring Fishes glide:
Here in a Royal Bed the Waters fleep,

When tir'd at Sea within this Bay they creep.
Here the mistrustful Foul no harm fufpects,
So fafe are all things which our King protects.
From your lov'd Thames a Bleffing yet is due,
Second alone to that it brought in you;

A Queen, from whose chaft Womb, ordain'd by Fate,
The Souls of Kings unborn for Bodies wait.
It was your Love before made Discord cease:
Your Love is deftin'd to your Country's Peace.
Both Indies (Rivals in your Bed) provide
With Gold or Jewels to adorn your Bride.
This to a mighty King prefents rich Ore,
While that with Incenfe does a God implore.
Two Kingdoms wait your Doom, and as you chufe,
This muft receive a Crown, or that must lose.
Thus from your Royal Oak, like Jove's of old,
Are anfwers fought, and destinies fore-told:
Propitious Oracles are begg'd with Vows,
And Crowns that grow upon the facred Boughs.
Your Subjects, while you weigh the Nation's Fate,
Sufpend to both their doubtful Love or Hate:
Chufe only, (Sir,) that fo they may poffefs
With their own Peace their Childrens Happiness.

To my Lord CHANCELLOR, prefented on New-Years-Day, 1662.

My LORD,

By Mr. DRYDEN.

We give themselves, not you, an happy Year

Hile flattering Crouds officiously appear

And by the greatnefs of their Presents prove
How much they hope, but not how well they love;
The Mufes (who your early Courtship boast,
Though now your Flames are with their Beauty loft,)
Yet watch their time, that if you have forgot,
They were your Miftreffes, the World may not:
Decay'd by Time and Wars, they only prove
Their former Beauty by your former Love;
And now prefent, as ancient Ladies do,
That courted long, at length, are forc'd to wooe.
For ftill they look on you with such kind Eyes,
As thofe that fee the Churches Sov'reign rife;
From their own Order chofe, in whofe high State,
They think themselves the second Choice of Fate.
When our great Monarch into Exile went,
Wit and Religion fuffer'd Banishment:

Thus once when Troy was wrapt in Fire and Smoak,
The helpless Gods their burning Shrines forfook;
They with the vanquifht Prince and Party go,
And leave their Temples empty to the Foe:
At length the Mufes ftand, reftor'd again
To that great Charge which Nature did ordain;
And their lov'd Druids feem reviv'd by Fate,
While you dispense the Laws and guide the State.
The Nations Soul (our Monarch) does difpenfe,
Through you, to us his vital Influence;
You are the Chanel where those Spirits flow,
And work them higher as to us they go.

In open profpect nothing bounds our Eye,
Until the Earth feems join'd unto the Sky:
So in this Hemisphere our utmost view
Is only bounded by our King and you:
Our fight is limited where you are join'd,
And beyond that no farther Heav'n can find.
So well your Virtues do with his agree,
That though your Orbes of different Greatness be
Yet both are for each others ufe difpos'd,
His to inclofe, and yours to be inclos'd,

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