292 Now frequent trines the happier lights among, And high-raised Jove, from his dark prison freed, Those weights took off that on his planet hung, Will gloriously the new-laid work succeed.

293 Methinks already from this chemic 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.

294 Already labouring with a mighty fate, She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, And seems to have renew'd her charter's date, Which Heaven will to the death of time allow.

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

296 Before, she like some shepherdess did show, Who sat 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.

297 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 doom!

298 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.

299 The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine, The glory of their towns no more shall boast; And Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join, Shall find her l.u.s.tre stain'd, and traffic lost.

300 The venturous merchant who design'd more far, And touches on our hospitable sh.o.r.e, Charm'd with the splendour of this northern star, Shall here unlade him, and depart no more.

301 Our powerful navy shall no longer meet, The wealth of France or Holland to invade; The beauty of this town without a fleet, From all the world shall vindicate her trade.

302 And while this famed emporium we prepare, The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, That those, who now disdain our trade to share, Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast.

303 Already we have conquer'd half the war, And the less dangerous part is left behind: Our trouble now is but to make them dare, And not so great to vanquish as to find.

304 Thus to the Eastern wealth through storms we go, But now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more; A constant trade-wind will securely blow, And gently lay us on the spicy sh.o.r.e.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 36: Prince Rupert and General Monk, Duke of Albemarle.]

[Footnote 37: 'Lawson:' Sir John Lawson, rear admiral of the red, killed by a ball that wounded him in the knee.]

[Footnote 38: 'Wholly lost:' the Dutch ships on their return home, being separated by a storm, the rear and vice-admirals of the East India fleet, with four men of war, were taken by five English frigates. Soon after, four men of war, two fire-ships, and thirty merchantmen, being driven out of their course, joined our fleet instead of their own, and were all taken. These things happened in 1665.]

[Footnote 39: 'Munster's prelate:' the famous Bertrand Von Der Chalen, Bishop of Munster, excited by Charles, marched twenty thousand men into the province of Overyssel, under the dominion of the republic of Holland, where he committed great outrages.]

[Footnote 40: 'Two chiefs:' Prince Rupert and Monk.]

[Footnote 41: 'Berkeley:' Vice-admiral Berkeley fought till his men were all killed, and was found in the cabin dead and covered with blood.]

[Footnote 42: 'Cacus:' see Virgil in Cowper's translation, 2d vol. of this edition.]

[Footnote 43: 'Albemarle:' Monk.]

[Footnote 44: 'Flix:' old word for hare fur.]

[Footnote 45: 'Allen:' Sir Thomas Allen, admiral of the white. 'The Achates:' Sir Robert Holmes was rear-admiral of the white.]

[Footnote 46: 'Leader:' De Ruyter.]

[Footnote 47: 'Patron saint:' St James, on whose day the victory was gained.]

[Footnote 48: 'Usurper:' this seems a reference to Cromwell; if so, it contradicts Scott's statement quoted above in the 'Life.']

[Footnote 49: 'Letted:' hindered.]

AN ESSAY UPON SATIRE.

BY ME DRYDEN AND THE EARL OF MULGRAVE,[50] 1679.

How dull, and how insensible a beast Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!

Philosophers and poets vainly strove In every age the lumpish ma.s.s to move: But those were pedants, when compared with these, Who know not only to instruct, but please.

Poets alone found the delightful way, Mysterious morals gently to convey In charming numbers; so that as men grew Pleased with their poems, they grew wiser too. 10 Satire has always shone among the rest, And is the boldest way, if not the best, To tell men freely of their foulest faults; To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer thoughts.

In satire too the wise took different ways, To each deserving its peculiar praise.

Some did all folly with just sharpness blame, Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into shame.

But of these two, the last succeeded best, As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest. 20 Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides, And censure those who censure all besides, In other things they justly are preferr'd.

In this alone methinks the ancients err'd,-- Against the grossest follies they declaim; Hard they pursue, but hunt ign.o.ble game.

Nothing is easier than such blots to hit, And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit: Besides, 'tis labour lost; for who would preach Morals to Armstrong,[51] or dull Aston teach? 30 'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball, Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.

But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find, Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind; That little speck which all the rest does spoil, To wash off that would be a n.o.ble toil; Beyond the loose writ libels of this age, Or the forced scenes of our declining stage; Above all censure too, each little wit Will be so glad to see the greater hit; 40 Who, judging better, though concern'd the most, Of such correction, will have cause to boast.

In such a satire all would seek a share, And every fool will fancy he is there.

Old story-tellers too must pine and die, To see their antiquated wit laid by; Like her, who miss'd her name in a lampoon, And grieved to find herself decay'd so soon.

No common c.o.xcomb must be mentioned here: Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear; 50 Nor fluttering officers who never fight; Of such a wretched rabble who would write?

Much less half wits: that's more against our rules; For they are fops, the other are but fools.

Who would not be as silly as Dunbar?

As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?[52]

The cunning courtier should be slighted too, Who with dull knavery makes so much ado; Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast, Like aesop's fox becomes a prey at last. 60 Nor shall the royal mistresses be named, Too ugly, or too easy to be blamed, With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother, They are as common that way as the other: Yet sauntering Charles, between his beastly brace,[53]

Meets with dissembling still in either place, Affected humour, or a painted face.

In loyal libels we have often told him, How one has jilted him, the other sold him: How that affects to laugh, how this to weep; 70 But who can rail so long as he can sleep?

Was ever prince by two at once misled, False, foolish, old, ill-natured, and ill-bred?

Earnely[54] and Aylesbury[55] with all that race Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place; At council set as foils on Danby's[56] score, To make that great false jewel shine the more; Who all that while was thought exceeding wise, Only for taking pains and telling lies.

But there's no meddling with such nauseous men; 80 Their very names have tired my lazy pen: 'Tis time to quit their company, and choose Some fitter subject for sharper muse.

First, let's behold the merriest man alive[57]

Against his careless genius vainly strive; Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay, 'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day: Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be Just as good company as Nokes and Lee.[58]

But when he aims at reason or at rule, 90 He turns himself the best to ridicule; Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit, Show him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit; That shadow of a jest shall be enjoy'd, Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd.

So cat transform'd sat gravely and demure, Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure; But soon the lady had him in her eye, And from her friend did just as oddly fly.

Reaching above our nature does no good; 100 We must fall back to our old flesh and blood; As by our little Machiavel we find That nimblest creature of the busy kind, His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes; Yet his hard mind which all this bustle makes, No pity of its poor companion takes.

What gravity can hold from laughing out, To see him drag his feeble legs about, Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still Through hedges, ditches, and through all that's ill. 110 'Twere crime in any man but him alone, To use a body so, though 'tis one's own: Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er, That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar; Alas! that soaring to those few that know, Is but a busy grovelling here below.

So men in rapture think they mount the sky, Whilst on the ground the entranced wretches lie: So modern fops have fancied they could fly.

As the new earl,[59] with parts deserving praise, 120 And wit enough to laugh at his own ways, Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights, Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune slights; Striving against his quiet all he can, For the fine notion of a busy man.

And what is that at best, but one whose mind Is made to tire himself and all mankind?

For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign; For if some odd, fantastic lord would fain Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do, 130 I'll not only pay him, but admire him too.