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Their weekly frauds his keen replies detect;
He undeceives more fast than they infect.
So Moses, when the pest on legions prey'd, 1035
Advanc'd his signal, and the plague was stay'd.

Once more, my fainting muse, thy pinions try,
And strength's exhausted store let love supply.
What tribute, Asaph, shall we render thee?
We'll crown thee with a wreath from thy own tree !
Thy laurel grove no envy's flash can blast;
The song of Asaph shall for ever last.

With wonder late posterity shall dwell On Absalom and false Achitophel : Thy strains shall be our slumbering prophets’dream, And when our Sion virgins sing their theme; Our jubilees shall with thy verse be grac'd, The song of Asaph shall for ever last. How fierce his satire loos’d; restrain'd, how tame; How tender of the offending young man's fame! How well his worth, and brave adventures styl’d; Just to his virtues, to his error mild. No page of thine that fears the strictest view, But teems with just reproof, or praise as due; Not Eden could a fairer prospect yield, All paradise without one barren field : Whose wit the censure of his foes has past, The song of Asaph shall for ever last.

What praise for such rich strains shall we allow? What just rewards the grateful crown bestow? While bees in flowers rejoice, and flowers in dew,

1055 1070


While stars and fountains to their course are true: While Judah's throne and Sion's rock stand fast, The

song of Asaph and the fame shall last. Still Hebron’s honour'd happy soil retains 1065 Our royal hero's beauteous dear remains; Who now sails off, with winds nor wishes slack, To bring his sufferings' bright companion back. But e'er such transport can our sense employ, A bitter grief must poison half our joy; Nor can our coasts restor'd those blessings see Without a bribe to envious destiny ! Curs'd Sodom's doom for ever fix the tide Where by inglorious chance the valiant died. Give not insulting Askalon to know, Nor let Gath's daughters triumph in our woe! No sailor with the news swell Egypt's pride, By what inglorious fate our valiant died ! Weep, Arnon! Jordan, weep thy fountains dry ! While Sion's rock dissolves for a supply.

Calm were the elements, night's silence deep, The waves scarce murm’ring, and the winds asleep; Yet fate for ruin takes so still an hour, And treacherous sands the princely bark devour; Then death unworthy seiz'd a generous race, 1085 To virtue's scandal, and the stars' disgrace! Oh! had the indulgent powers vouchsafed to yield, Instead of faithless shelves, a listed field ; A listed field of heaven's and David's foes, Fierce as the troops that did his youth oppose,


Each life had on his slaughter'd heap retir'd,
Not tamely, and unconquering thus expir'd :
But destiny is now their only foe,
And dying e'en o'er that they triumph too;
With loud last breaths their master's 'scape applaud,
Of whom kind force could scarce the fates defraud;
Who for such followers lost, О matchless mind!
At his own safety now almost repin’d !
Say, royal Sir, by all your fame in arms,
Your praise in peace, and by Urania's charms;
If all your sufferings past so nearly press’d,
Or pierc'd with half so painful grief your breast?

Thus some diviner muse her hero forms,
Not sooth'd with soft delights, but toss'd in storms.
Nor stretch'd on roses in the myrtle grove,
Nor crowns his days with mirth, his nights with

love, But far remov'd in thundering camps is found, His slumbers short, his bed the herbless ground : In tasks of danger always seen the first, Feeds from the hedge, and slakes with ice his thirst, Long must his patience strive with fortune's rage, And long opposing gods themselves engage, Must see his country flame, his friends destroy'd, Before the promis’d empire be enjoy'd : Such toil of fate must build a man of fame, 1115 And such, to Israel's crown, the godlike David



What sudden beams dispel the clouds so fast, Whose drenching rains laid all our vineyards waste ?


The spring so far behind her course delay'd,
On the instant is in all her bloom array'd ;
The winds breathe low, the element serene;
Yet mark what motion in the waves is seen!
Thronging and busy as Hyblæan swarms,
Or straggled soldiers summond to their arms.
See where the princely bark, in loosest pride, 1123
With all her guardian fleet, adorns the tide !
High on her deck the royal lovers stand,
Our crimes to pardon e'er they touch'd our land.
Welcome to Israel and to David's breast!
Here all your toils, here all your sufferings rest.

did Ziloah rule Jerusalem,

This year


1129 Welcome to Israel] The Duke of Buckingham gave this character of the two royal brothers, that Charles could see things if he would, and James would see things if he could. The conduct of James, and his behaviour in his visit to Oxford, is marvellously weak, preposterous, and absurd. It is recorded in Anthony Wood's life-Charles II. used to say with respect to the mistresses of his brother, which were plain and homely, that his confessor had imposed such mistresses upon him as Mrs. Williams, Lady Bellasyse, Mrs. Sedley, and Mrs. Churchill, by way of penance. Charles II.'s favourite mistress retained her beauty till near seventy years of age. Sir Peter Lely, in a high strain of flattery, drew her portrait, and that of her son the Duke of Richmond, as a Madonna and Child, for a convent in France. Dr. J. W.

1131 This year did Ziloah rule Jerusalem, &c.] Sir John Moor, Lord Mayor of London in 1681, and one of the representatives of the city in parliament, was a most zealous and corrupt partisan of the court. He nominated two sheriffs




And boldly all sedition's surges stem,
Howe'er encumber'd with a viler pair
Than Ziph or Shimei to assist the chair ;
Yet Ziloah's loyal labours so prevail'd
That faction at the next election fail'd,
When e'en the common cry did justice sound,
And merit by the multitude was crown'd:
With David then was Israel's peace restor’d,
Crowds mourn'd their error, and obey'd their lord.

whom he knew would be perfectly subservient to the ministry and the arbitrary measures of the king. Dr. J. W.

In a congratulatory poem, addressed to Sir William Pritchard (the successor of Sir John Moor), published on a half sheet in 1682, the humble bard hurls his indignation, not without an allusion to Dryden's poem, against

. That long-ear'd rout, and their Achitophel,
That think it sin to live and not rebel ;
Those pious elders, that Geneva rabble.
That hope, once more, to make old Paul's a stable.' T.

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