gns;
Or of the torch so late put out
The stench remains.
Holland for many years hath been
Of Christian tragedies the stage,
Yet seldom hath she played a scene
Of bloodier rage:
And France, that was not long compos'd,
With civil drums again resounds,
And ere the old are fully clos'd,
Receives new wounds.
The great Gustavus in the west
Plucks the imperial eagle's wing,
Than whom the earth did ne'er invest
A fiercer king.
Only the island which we sow,
A world without the world so far,
From present wounds, it cannot show
An ancient scar.
White peace, the beautifull'st of things,
Seems here her everlasting rest
To fix and spread the downy wings
Over the nest.
As when great Jove, usurping reign,
From the plagued world did her exile,
And tied her with a golden chain
To one blest isle,
Which in a sea of plenty swam,
And turtles sang on every bough,
A safe retreat to all that came,
As ours is now;
Yet we, as if some foe were here,
Leave the despised fields to clowns,
And come to save ourselves, as 'twere
In walled towns.
Hither we bring wives, babes, rich clothes,
And gems--till now my soveraign
The growing evil doth oppose:
Counting in vain
His care preserves us from annoy
Of enemies his realms to invade,
Unless he force us to enjoy
The peace he made,
To roll themselves in envied leisure;
He therefore sends the landed heirs,
Whilst he proclaims not his own pleasure
So much was theirs.
The sap and blood of the land, which fled
Into the root, and choked the heart,
Are bid their quick'ning power to spread
Through every part.
O 'twas an act, not for my muse
To celebrate, nor the dull age,
Until the country air infuse
A purer rage.
And if the fields as thankful prove
For benefits received, as seed,
They will to 'quite so great a love
A Virgil breed.
Nor let the gentry grudge to go
Into those places whence they grew,
But think them blest they may do so.
Who would pursue
The smoky glory of the town,
That may go till his native ear