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Th' increasing sound is borne to either shore,
And for their stakes the throwing nations fear:
Their passions double with the cannons' roar,
And with warm wishes each man combats there.

Ply'd thick and close as when the fight begun,
Their huge unwieldy navy wastes away:
So sicken waneing Moons too near the Sun,
And blunt their crescents on the edge of day.

And now reduc'd on equal terms to fight,

Their ships like wasted patrimonies show ; Where the thin scattering trees admit the light, And shun each other's shadows as they grow.

The warlike prince had sever'd from the rest

Two giant ships, the pride of all the main; Which with his one so vigorously he press'd, And flew so home they could not rise again.

Already batter'd, by his lee they lay,

In vain upon the passing winds they call : The passing winds through their torn canvass play, And flagging sails on heartless sailors fall.

Their open'd sides receive a gloomy light,

Dreadful as day let into shades below; Without grim Death rides barefac'd in their sight, And urges entering billows as they flow.

When one dire shot, the last they could supply, Close by the board the prince's main-mast bore: All three now helpless by each other lie,

And this offends not, and those fear no more.

So have I seen some fearful hare maintain

A course, till tir'd before the dog she lay : Who stretch'd behind her pants upon the plain, Past power to kill, as she to get away.

With his loll'd tongue he faintly licks his prey; His warm breath blows her flix up as she lies; She, trembling, creeps upon the ground away, And looks back to him with beseeching eyes.

The prince unjustly does his stars accuse, Which hinder'd him to push his fortune on; For what they to his courage did refuse,

By mortal valour never must be done.

This lucky hour the wise Batavian takes,

And warns his tatter'd fleet to follow home: Proud to have so got off with equal stakes,

Where 'twas a triumph not to be o'ercome.

The general's force, as kept alive by fight,

Now, not oppos'd, no longer can pursue : Lasting till Heaven had done his courage right; When he had conquer'd he his weakness knew.

He casts a frown on the departing foe,

And sighs to see him quit the watery field: His stern fix'd eyes no satisfaction show,

For all the glories which the fight did yield.

Though, as when fiends did miracles avow,

He stands confess'd ev'n by the boastful Dutch: He only does his conquest disavow,

And thinks too little what they found too much.

Return'd, he with the fleet resolv'd to stay;
No tender thoughts of home his heart divide;
Domestic joys and cares he puts away;

[guide. For realms are households which the great must

As those who unripe veins in mines explore, On the rich bed again the warm turf lay, Till time digests the yet imperfect ore,

And know it will be gold another day:

So looks our monarch on this early fight,

Th' essay and rudiments of great success: Which all-maturing Time must bring to light, While he like Heaven does each day's labour bless.

Heaven ended not the first or second day,

Yet each was perfect to the work design'd: God and kings work, when they their work survey, A passive aptness in all subjects find.

In burthen'd vessels first, with speedy care,

His plenteous stores do season'd timber send: Thither the brawny carpenters repair,

And as the surgeons of maim'd ships attend.

With cord and canvass, from rich Hamburgh sent,
His navy's molted wings he imps once more:
Tall Norway fir, their masts in battle spent,
And English oak, sprung leaks and planks, restore.

All hands employ'd the royal work grows warm:
Like labouring bees on a long summer's day,
Some sound the trumpet for the rest to swarm,
And some on bells of tasted lilies play.

With glewy wax some new foundations lay
Of virgin-combs, which from the roof are hung:
Some arm'd within doors upon duty stay,

Or tend the sick, or educate the young.

So here some pick out bullets from the sides,
Some drive old oakum through each seam and rift:
Their left hand does the caulking iron guide,
The rattling mallet with the right they lift.

With boiling pitch another near at hand,

From friendly Sweden brought, the seams instops: Which, well paid o'er, the salt sea waves withstand, And shakes them from the rising beak in drops.

Some the gall'd ropes with dawby marline bind,
Or sear-cloth masts with strong tarpawling coats:
To try new shrouds one mounts into the wind,
And one below their ease or stiffness notes.

Our careful monarch stands in person by,

His new-cast cannons' firmness to explore: The strength of big-corn'd powder loves to try, And ball and cartridge sorts for every bore.

Each day brings fresh supplics of arms and men,
And ships which all last winter were abroad;
And such as fitted since the fight had been,
Or new from stocks, were fall'n into the road.

The goodly London in her gallant trim,

The Phenix, daughter of the vanish'd old, Like a rich bride does to the ocean swim, And on her shadow rides in floating gold.

Her flag aloft spread ruffling to the wind,

And sanguine streamers seem the flood to fire: The weaver, charm'd with what his loom design'd, Goes on to sea, and knows not to retire.

With roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength, Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves :

Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length,
She seems a sea-wasp flying on the waves.

This martial present, piously design'd,
The loyal city give their best-lov'd king:
And with a bounty ample as the wind,

Built, fitted, and maintain'd, to aid him bring.

By viewing Nature, Nature's handmaid, Art,
Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow:
Thus fishes first to shipping did impart,

Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.

Some log perhaps upon the waters swam,

An useless drift, which, rudely cut within, And hollow'd first, a floating trough became, And cross some rivulet passage did begin.

In shipping such as this, the Irish kern,

And untaught Indian on the stream did glide : Ere sharp-keel'd boats to stem the flood did learn, Or fin-like oars did spread from either side.

Add but a sail, and Saturn so appear'd,
When from lost empire he to exile went,
And with the golden age to Tyber steer'd,
Where coin and commerce first he did invent.

Rude as their ships was navigation then;
No useful compass or meridian known;
Coasting, they kept the land within their ken,
And knew no north but when the Pole-star shone.

Of all who since have us'd the open sea,
Than the bold English none more fame have won :
Beyond the year, and out of Heaven's high way,
They make discoveries where they see no Sun.

But what so long in vain, and yet unknown,
By poor mankind's benighted wit is sought,
Shall in this age to Britain first be shown,
And hence be to admiring nations taught.

The ebbs of tides and their mysterious flow,
We, as Art's elements, shall understand,
And as by line upon the ocean go,
Whose paths shall be familiar as the land.

Instructed ships shall sail to quick commerce,
By which remotest regions are ally'd;
Which makes one city of the universe,
Where some may gain, and all may be supply'd.

Then we upon our globe's last verge shall go,
And view the ocean leaning on the sky:
From thence our rolling neighbours we shall know,
And on the lunar world securely pry.

This I foretell from your auspicious care,
Who great in search of God and Nature grow;
Who best your wise Creator's praise declare,
Since best to praise his works is best to know.

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So the false spider, when her nets are spread,
Deep ambush'd in her silent den does lie:
And feels far off the trembling of her thread,
Whose filmy cord should bind the struggling fly.

Then if at last she find him fast beset,

She issues forth, and runs along her loom : She joys to touch the captive in her net,

And drags the little wretch in triumph home.

The Belgians hop'd that, with disorder'd haste,

Our deep-cut keels upon the sands might run : Or if with caution leisurely were past, [one. Their numerous gross might charge us one by

But with a fore-wind pushing them above,

And swelling tide that heav'd them from below, O'er the blind flats our warlike squadrons move, And with spread sails to welcome battle go.

It seem'd as there the British Neptune stood,
With all his hosts of waters at command,
Beneath them to submit th' officious flood;
And with his trident shov'd them off the sand.

To the pale foes they suddenly draw near,
And summon them to unexpected fight:
They start like murderers when ghosts appear,
And draw their curtains in the dead of night.

Now van to van the foremost squadrons meet, The midmost battles hastening up behind, Who view far off the storm of falling sleet, And hear their thunder rattling in the wind.

At length the adverse admirals appear:

The two bold champions of each country's right: Their eyes describe the lists as they come near,

And draw the lines of death before they fight.

The distance judg'd for shot of every size,

The linstocs touch, the ponderous ball expires: The vigorous seaman every port-hole plies,

And adds his heart to every gun he fires!

Fierce was the fight on the proud Belgians' side, For honour, which they seldom sought before: But now they by their own vain boasts were ty'd, And forc'd at least in show to prize it more.

But sharp remembrance on the English part, And shame of being match'd by such a foe, Rouze conscious virtue up in every heart,

And seeming to be stronger makes them so.

Nor long the Belgians could that fleet sustain, Which did two generals' fates, and Cæsar's bear : Each several ship a victory did gain,

As Rupert or as Albemarle were there.

Their batter'd admiral too soon withdrew,

Unthank'd by ours for his unfinish'd fight: But he the minds of his Dutch masters knew, Who call'd that providence which we call'd flight.

Never did men more joyfully obey,

Or sooner understood the sign to fly : With such alacrity they bore away,

As if, to praise them, all the States stood by.

O famous leader of the Belgian flect,

Thy monument inscrib'd such praise shall wear, As Varro timely flying once did meet,

Because he did not of his Rome despair.

Behold that navy, which a while before
Provok'd the tardy English close to fight;
Now draw their beaten vessels close to shore,
As larks lie dar'd to shun the hobby's flight.
Whoe'er would English monuments survey,
In other records may our courage know:
But let them hide the story of this day,
Whose fame was blemish'd by too base a foe.

Or if too busily they will inquire

Into a victory, which we disdain ;
Then let them know the Belgians did retire
Before the patron saint of injur'd Spain.

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Our greedy seamen rummage every hold,

Smile on the booty of each wealthier chest, And, as the priests who with their gods make bold, Take what they like, and sacrifice the rest.

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,
By an high fate thou greatly didst expire;
Great as the world's, which, at the death of Time,
Must fall, and rise a nobler frame by Fire.

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,
And hurries him to mighty mischiefs on :
His prince, surpris'd at first, no ill could doubt,
And wants the power to meet it when 'tis known.

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,
Too great for prison, which he breaks with gold;
Who fresher for new mischiefs does appear,
And dares the world to tax him with the old :

So scapes th' insulting Fire his narrow jail, And makes small outlets into open air : There the fierce winds his tender force assail, And beat him downward to his first repair.

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.

And now no longer letted of his prey,
He leaps up at it with enrag'd desire:
O'erlooks the neighbours with a wide survey,
And nods at every house his threatening fire.

The ghosts of traitors from the bridge descend,
With bold fanatic spectres to rejoice:
About the fire into a dance they bend,

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
Call'd up some waking lover to the sight;
And long it was ere he the rest could raise,
Whose heavy eyelids yet were full of night.

The next to danger, hot pursued by Fate,
Half-cloth'd, half-naked, hastily retire:
And frighted mothers strike their breasts too late,
For helpless infants left amidst the fire.

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One mighty squadron with a side-wind sped,
Through narrow lanes his cumber'd fire does haste,
By powerful charms of gold and silver led,
The Lombard bankers and the 'Change to waste.

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,
And what so well had merited his love :
For never prince in grace did more excel,
Or royal city more in duty strove.

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,
That where it seizes all relief is vain :
And therefore must unwillingly lay waste
That country, which would else the foe maintain.

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

Ships o'er their forces in a shining sheet: Part creeping under ground their journey blind, And climbing from below their fellows meet.

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
Some wealthy vessel split or stranded nigh,
And from the rocks leap down for shipwreck'd gold,
And seek the tempests which the others fly:

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 ;
And when the weary king gave place to night,
His beams he to his royal brother lent,

And so shone still in his reflective light.

Night came, but without darkness or repose,
A dismal picture of the general doom;
Where souls distracted when the trumpet blows,
And half unready with their bodies come.

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,
Others in vain from sight of ruin run;
And while through burning labyrinths they retire,
With loathing eyes repeat what they would shun.

The most in fields like herded beasts lie down,
To dews obnoxious on the grassy floor;
And while their babes in sleep their sorrows drown,
Sad parents watch the remnants of their store.

While by the motion of the flames they guess
What streets are burning now, and what are near,
An infant waking to the paps would press,

And meets, instead of milk, a falling tear.

No thought can ease them but their sovereign's care, Whose praise th' afflicted as their comfort sing: Ev'n those, whom want might drive to just despair, Think life a blessing under such a king.

Meantime he sadly suffers in their grief, Outweeps an hermit, and outprays a saint: All the long night he studies their relief,

How they may be supply'd and he may want.

“O God,” said he, “ thou patron of my days,
Guide of my youth in exile and distress!
Who me unfriended brought'st, by wondrous ways,
The kingdom of my fathers to possess:

"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.

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