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What may not then our Isle presume
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear

If thus he crowns each year?

As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,

And to all states not free
Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-coloured mind,
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid.

Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son,
March indefatigably on,

And for the last effect
Still keep the sword erect:

Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

Andrew Marvell.

XIV

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In the Ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along
The listening winds received this song.

'What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks
That lift the deep upon their backs,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
He lands us on a grassy stage,

Safe from the storms and prelates' rage:
He gave us this eternal spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by His hand
From Lebanon He stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
O let our voice His praise exalt
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay!'

Thus sang they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note:

And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

Andrew Marvell.

XV

THE KING'S EXILE

LET rogues and cheats prognosticate
Concerning kings' or kingdoms' fate,
I think myself to be as wise
As he that gazeth on the skies,
Whose sight goes beyond
The depth of a pond

Or rivers in the greatest rain;
For I can tell

All will be well,

When the King enjoys his own again!

Though for a time we see Whitehall
With cobwebs hanging on the wall,
Instead of gold and silver brave,
Which formerly 'twas wont to have,
With rich perfume

In every room,

Delightful to that princely train,--
Yet the old again shall be

When the happy time you see
That the King enjoys his own again.

Full forty years this royal crown
Hath been his father's and his own;

And is there any one but he

That in the same should sharer be?
For who better may

The sceptre sway

Than he that hath such right to reign?

Then let's hope for a peace,
For the wars will not cease

Till the King enjoys his own again.

Martin Parker.

XVI

HERE'S A HEALTH

HERE'S a health unto His Majesty,
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la !
Confusion to his enemies,

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la !
And he that will not drink his health,
I wish him neither wit nor wealth,
Nor yet a rope to hang himself,
With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la l

Anonymous.

XVII

A SONG OF KING ARTHUR

COME, if you dare, our trumpets sound;
Come, if you dare, the foes rebound:
We come, we come, we come, we come,
Says the double, double, double beat of the thunder-
ing drum.

Now they charge on amain,

Now they rally again:

The gods from above the mad labour behold,
And pity mankind, that will perish for gold.

The fainting Saxons quit their ground,
Their trumpets languish in the sound:
They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly;
Victoria, Victoria, the bold Britons cry.

Now the victory's won,

To the plunder we run:

We return to our lasses like fortunate traders, Triumphant with spoils of the vanquish'd invaders.

John Dryden.

XVIII

LONDON IN 1666

METHINKS already from this chymic flame
I see a city of more precious mould,
Rich as the town which gives the Indies name,
With silver paved, and all divine with gold.

Already, labouring with a mighty fate,

She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, And seems to have renewed her charter's date Which Heaven will to the death of time allow.

More great than human now and more august,
New deified she from her fires does rise:
Her widening streets on new foundations trust,
And, opening, into larger parts she flies.

Before, she like some shepherdess did show
Who sate to bathe her by a river's side,
Not answering to her fame, but rude and low,
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.

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 dome.

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,
The Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join,
Shall find her lustre stained and traffic lost.

The venturous merchant, who designed more far,
And touches on our hospitable shore,
Charmed with the splendour of this northern star
Shall here unlade him and depart no more.

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