Pleas'd to be call'd th' Avenger of our Guilt,
For Cafar's Blood, with Horror fpilt;
Late may you go to Heav'n again,
And long o'er Romans happy reign;
Nor at our Crimes offended fly

Too foon from hence to blefs your native Sky.
Here rather ftill Great Triumphs love;
Here your juft Titles ftill approve;

Be ftill call'd Prince and Father of our Land, Nor let our Foes infult, while you our Troops command.

ODE III.

Infcrib'd to the Earl of ROSCOMMON, on his intended Voyage to Ireland.

S

By Mr. DRYDEN.

Printed in the Second Mifcellany, Page 74o

O may th' aufpicious Queen of Love,

And the Twin Stars (the Seed of Jove)

And he, who rules the raging Wind,

To thee, O facred Ship, be kind,
And gentle Breezes fill thy Sails,
Supplying foft Elyfian Gales;

As thou, to whom the Mufe commends
The beft of Poets and of Friends,
Doft thy committed Pledge reftore,

And land him fafely on the Shore:

And

1

And fave the better part of me,
From perishing with him at Sea,
Sure he, who firft the Paffage try'd,
In harden'd Oak his Heart did hide,
And Ribs of Iron arm'd his Side!
Or his at least, in hollow Wood,
Who tempted firft the briny Flood:
Nor fear'd the Winds contending 10oar,
Nor Billows beating on the Shore;
Nor Hyades portending Rain;
Nor all the Tyrants of the Main.
What Form of Death cou'd him affright,
Who unconcern'd with ftedfaft Sight
Cou'd view the Surges mounting steep,
And Monsters rolling in the Deep;
Cou'd thro' the Ranks of Ruin go,
With Storms above, and Rocks below!
In vain did Nature's wife Command,
Divide the Waters from the Land,
If daring Ships, and Men prophane,
Invade th' inviolable Main;
Th'eternal Fences over-leap;

And pafs at will the boundless Deep.
No Toil, no Hardship can restrain
Ambiticus Man inur'd to Pain;

The more confin'd the more he tries,

And at forbidden Quarry flies.

Thus bold Prometheus did aspire,

And stole from Heaven the Seed of Fire;

A Train of Ills, a Ghaftly Crew,

The Robber's blazing track purfue;

Fierce Famine, with her Meager Face,
And Fevers of the fiery Race,

In Swarms th' offending Wretch furround,
All brooding on the blasted Ground:
And limping Death lash'd on by Fate
Comes up to fhorten half our Date,
This made not Dedalus beware,
With borrow'd Wings to Sail in Air:
To Hell Alcides forc'd his Way,

Plung'd thro' the Lake and fnatch'd his Prey.
Nay, fcarce the Gods, or Heavenly Climes
Are fafe from our audacious Crimes;
We reach at Jove's Imperial Crown,
And pull th'unwilling Thunder down.

ODE IV.

# By the E of R

Printed in the First Part of Mifcellany Poems, Page 104.

Conquer'd with foft and pleafing Charms,

And never-failing Vows of her Return,

Winter unlocks his frofty Arms

To free the joyful Spring;

Which for fresh Loves with youthful Heat does burn; Warm South-Winds court her, and with fruitful Showers Awake the drowfie Flowers

Who hafte and all their Sweetness bring

To pay their yearly Offering.

No nipping White is seen,

But all the Fields are clad in pleasant Green,

And

And only fragrant Dews now fall:

The Ox forfakes his once warm Stall

To bask i'th' Sun's much warmer Beams;
The Plowman leaves his Fire and his Sleep,
Well pleas'd to whistle to his lab'ring Teams;
Whilst the glad Shepherd pipes to's frisking Sheep.
Nay, tempted by the smiling Sky

Wreckt Merchants quit the Shore;
Refolving once again to try

The Wind and Sea's Almighty Power; Chufing much rather to be Dead than Poor.

Upon the flow'ry Plains,

Or under fhady Trees,

The Shepherdeffes and their Swains
Dance to their rural Harmonies;

Then fteal in private to their covert Groves,
There finish their well heighten'd Loves.
The City Dime takes this Pretence
(Weary of Husband and of Innocence)

To quit the Smoke and Business of the Town,
And to her Country-Houfe retires,

Where the may bribe, then grafp fome Country Clown,
Or her appointed Gallant come

To feed her loose Defires;

Whilft the poor Cuckold by his Sweat at home
Maintains her Luft and Pride,

Bleft as he thinks with fuch a beauteous Bride.

Since all the World's thus gay and free,

Why fhould not we?

Let's then accept our Mother Nature's Treat,
And please our feives with all that's sweet;

Let's

Let's to the fhady Bowers,

Where, Crown'd with gaudy Flowers,

We'll drink and laugh away the gliding Hours.
Truft me, Thyrfis, the grim Conqueror Death
With the fame freedom fnatches a King's Breath,
He hurdles the poor fetter'd Slave

To's unknown Grave.

Tho' we each Day with Coft repair,

He mocks our greatest Skill and utmoft Care;
Nor loves the Fair, nor fears the Strong,
And he that lives the longest dies but young;
And once depriv'd of Light,

We're wrapt in Mifts of endless Night.
Once come to thofe dark Cells, of which we're told
So many ftrange romantick Tales of old
(In things unknown Invention's justly bold)
No more fhall Mirth and Wine

Our Loves and Wit refine.
No more fhall you your Phyllis have,
Phyllis fo long you've priz'd;

Nay fhe too in the Grave
Shall lye like us defpis'd.

ODE