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They thought it great their Sovereign to control, And nam'd their pride, nobility of soul.

'Tis true, the Pigeons, and their prince elect, Were short of

power
their
purpose

to effect :
But with their quills did all the hurt they could,
And cuff'd the tender Chickens from their food :
And much the Buzzard in their cause did stir,
Though naming not the patron, to infer,
With all respect, he was a gross idolater.

But when the imperial owner did espy That thus they turn'd his grace to villany, Not suffering wrath to discompose his mind, He strove a temper for the extremes to find. 2525 So to be just, as he might still be kind ; Then, all maturely weigh'd, pronounc'd a doom Of sacred strength for every age to come. By this the Doves their wealth and state possess, No rights infring'd, but license to oppress : Such power have they as factious lawyers long To crowns ascrib’d, that Kings can do no wrong. But since his own domestic birds have tried The dire effects of their destructive pride, 2519 And much the Buzzard in their cause did stir,

Though naming not the patron, &c.] On the fifth of November, 1684, Burnet preached a sermon in the Rolls chapel against Popery, in which he dropped some oblique reflections on the king. On this account it was ordered he should preach in that place no more, and he soon after found it necessary to withdraw to Holland. The king demanded him of the states as a traitor, but they refused to acquiesce. It is said 30001. was ordered to be paid by the treasury to any person that could contrive to deliver him into the king's hands. D.

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He deems that proof a measure to the rest,
Concluding well within his kingly breast,
His fowls of nature too unjustly were opprest.
He therefore makes all birds of every sect
Free of his farm, with promise to respect
Their several kinds alike, and equally protect.
His gracious edict the same franchise yields
To all the wild increase of woods and fields,
And who in rocks aloof, and who in steeples builds:
To Crows the like impartial grace affords,
And Choughs and Daws, and such republic birds :
Secur'd with ample privilege to feed,
Each has his district, and his bounds decreed :
Combin'd in common interest with his own,
But not to pass the Pigeons' Rubicon.

Here ends the reign of this pretended Dove;
All prophecies accomplish'd from above,
For Shiloh comes the sceptre to remove.
Reduc'd from her imperial high abode,
Like Dionysius to a private rod,
The Passive Church, that with pretended grace
Did her distinctive mark in duty place,
Now touch'd, reviles her Maker to his face
What after happen'd is not hard to guess :
The small beginnings had a large increase,
And arts and wealth succeed (the secret spoils of

peace.) 'Tis said, the Doves repented, though too late, Become the smiths of their own foolish fate : Nor did their owner hasten their ill hour;

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But, sunk in credit, they decreas'd in power :
Like snows in warmth that mildly pass away,
Dissolving in the silence of decay.

The Buzzard, not content with equal place,
Invites the feather'd Nimrods of his race;
To hide the thinness of their flock from sight, :
And all together make a seeming goodly flight:
But each have separate interests of their own;
Two Czars are one too many for a throne.
Nor can the usurper long abstain from food;
Already he has tasted Pigeons' blood :
And may be tempted to his former fare,
When this indulgent lord shall late to heaven
repair.

(come, Bare benting times, and moulting months may When, lagging late, they cannot reach their home; Or rent in schism (for so their fate decrees) Like the tumultuous college of the bees, They fight their quarrel, by themselves opprest ; The tyrant smiles below, and waits the falling feast.

Thus did the gentle Hind her fable end, Nor would the Panther blame it, nor commend; But, with affected yawnings at the close, Seem'd to require her natural repose: For now the streaky light began to peep; And setting stars admonish'd both to sleep. The dame withdrew, and, wishing to her guest The

peace of heaven, betook herself to rest. 2590 Ten thousand angels on her slumbers wait, With glorious visions of her future state.

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BRITANNIA REDIVIVA;

A POEM ON THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCE, BORN ON THE

TENTH OF JUNE, 1688.

Dii Patrii Indigetes, et Romule, Vestaque Mater,
Quæ Tuscum Tiberim, et Romana Palatia servas,
Hunc saltem everso Puerum succurrere sæclo
Ne prohibete : satis jampridem sanguine nostro
Laomedontææ luimus Perjuria Trojæ.

VIRG. GEORG. I.

OUR vows are heard betimes ! and Heaven takes

care

To grant, before we can conclude the prayer :
Preventing angels met it half the way,
And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.

Just on the day, when the high-mounted sun 5
Did farthest in his northern progress run,
He bended forward, and e'en stretch'd the sphere
Beyond the limits of the lengthen'd year,
To view a brighter sun in Britain born ;
That was the business of his longest morn;
The glorious object seen, 'twas time to turn.

Departing Spring could only stay to shed
Her bloomy beauties on the genial bed,
But left the manly Summer in her stead,

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With timely fruit the longing land to cheer,
And to fulfil the promise of the year.
Betwixt two seasons comes the auspicious heir,
This age to blossom, and the next to bear.

* Last solemn sabbath saw the Church attend ;
The Paraclete in fiery pomp descend;
But when his wondrous + octave rollid again,
He brought a royal infant in his train.
So great a blessing to so good a king
None but the Eternal Comforter could bring.

Or did the mighty Trinity conspire,
As once, in council to create our sire?
It seems as if they sent the new-born guest
To wait on the procession of their feast;
And on their sacred anniverse decreed
To stamp their image on the promis'd seed.
Three realms united, and on one bestow'd,
An emblem of their mystic union show'd :
The Mighty Trine the triple empire shar'd,
As every person would have one to guard.

Hail, son of prayers ! by holy violence
Drawn down from heaven; but long be banish'd
And late to thy paternal skies retire : [thence,
To mend our crimes whole ages would require;
To change the inveterate habit of our sins,
And finish what thy godlike sire begins.
Kind heaven, to make us Englishmen again,
No less can give us than a patriarch's reign.

* Whit Sunday. Orig. ed.
+ Trinity Sunday. Orig. ed.

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