improve the lustre of the gem.
What can we add to your triumphant day?
Let the great gift the beauteous giver pay.
For should our thanks awake the rising sun,
And lengthen, as his latest shadows run,
That, though the longest day, would soon, too soon be done. 320
Let angels' voices with their harps conspire,
But keep the auspicious infant from the quire;
Late let him sing above, and let us know
No sweeter music than his cries below.

Nor can I wish to you, great Monarch, more
Than such an annual income to your store;
The day which gave this Unit, did not shine
For a less omen, than to fill the Trine.
After a prince, an admiral beget;
The Royal Sovereign wants an anchor yet. 330
Our isle has younger titles still in store,
And when the exhausted land can yield no more,
Your line can force them from a foreign shore.

The name of Great your martial mind will suit;
But justice is your darling attribute:
Of all the Greeks, 'twas but one hero's[186] due,
And, in him, Plutarch prophesied of you.
A prince's favours but on few can fall,
But justice is a virtue shared by all.

Some kings the name of conquerors have assumed, 340
Some to be great, some to be gods presumed;
But boundless power and arbitrary lust
Made tyrants still abhor the name of just;
They shunn'd the praise this godlike virtue gives,
And fear'd a title that reproach'd their lives.

The Power, from which all kings derive their state,
Whom they pretend, at least, to imitate,
Is equal both to punish and reward;
For few would love their God, unless they fear'd.

Resistless force and immortality 350
Make but a lame, imperfect, deity:
Tempests have force unbounded to destroy,
And deathless being, even the damn'd enjoy;
And yet Heaven's attributes, both last and first,
One without life, and one with life accurst:
But justice is Heaven's self, so strictly he,
That could it fail, the Godhead could not be.
This virtue is your own; but life and state
Are one to Fortune subject, one to Fate:
Equal to all, you justly frown or smile; 360
Nor hopes nor fears your steady hand beguile;
Yourself our balance hold, the world's our isle.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 161: 'Solemn Sabbath:' Whit-Sunday.]

[Footnote 162