Sylvæ, or, The second part of Poetical miscellanies
Dryden, John, 1631-1700.
Page 475
On the Kings-House Now Building at WINCHESTER.
AS soon as mild Augustus cou'd asswage
A bloody civil Wars licencious Rage,
He made the Blessing that He gave increase,
By teaching Rome the softer Arts of Peace.
The Sacred Temples wanting due repair,
Had first their Wounds heal'd with a Pious care,
Page 476Nor ceas'd his Labour, till proud Rome out-vy'd
In glory all the subject World beside.
Thus Charles in Peace returning to our Isle,
With Building did his regal cares beguile.
London almost consum'd, but to a Name,
He rescues from the Fierce devouring Flame;
Its Hostile Rage the burning Town enjoy'd,
For he restor'd as fast as that destroy'd:
'Twas quickly burnt, and quickly built again,
The double Wonder of his Halcyon Reign.
Of Windsor Castle (his belov'd Retreat
From this vast City troublesomely great,)
'Twas Denham* only with success cou'd write,
The Nations Glory and the Kings Delight.
On Winchester my Muse her Song bestows,
She that small Tribute to her Country owes.
The youngest Labour of his fertile mind.
Here ancient Kings the Brittish Scepter sway'd,
And all Kings since have always been obey'd.
Rebellion here cou'd ne're erect a Throne,
For Charles that Blessing was reserv'd alone.
Let not the stately Fabrick you decree,
An Immature, abortive Pallace be,
But may it grow the Mistress of your Heart,
And the full Heir of WRens stupendous Art.
The happy spot on which its Soveraign dwells,
With a just pride above the Citty swells,
That like a Loyal Subject chose to ly
Beneath his Feet with humble modesty.
Fast by a Reverend Church extends its Wings,
And pays due homage to the best of Kings.
Nature, like Law, a Monarch will create
He's scituated Head of Church, and State.
Page 478The graceful Temple that delights his Eye,
(Luxurious toil of former Piety)
Has vanquish'd envious times devouring rage,
And, like Religion, stronger grows by Age.
It stems the Torrent of the flowing years,
Yet gay as Youth the Sacred Pile appears.
Of its great Rise we no Records have known,
It has out-liv'd all mem'ry but its own.
The Monumental Marbles us assure,
It gave the Danish Monarks Sepulture.
Here Death himself inthrones the Crowned Head,
For every Tomb's a Palace to the Dead.
But now my Muse, nay rather all the Nine,
In a full Chorus of applauses joyn,
Of your great Wiccam,
Wiccam whose Name can mighty thoughts infuse,
But naught can ease the travail of my Muse,
Press'd with her Load, her feeble strength decays,
And she's deliver'd of abortive praise.
The great Coheiress of his Piety;
Where they through various Tongues coy knowledg trace,
This is the Barrier of their learned Race,
From which they start, and all along the way
They to their God, and for their Sovereign pray,
And from their Infancies are taught t'obey.
Oh! may they never vex the quiet Nation,
And turn Apostates to their Education.
When with these objects Charles has fill'd his sight,
Still fresh provoke his seeing Appetite.
A healthy Country opening to his view,
The cheerful Pleasures of his Eyes renew.
On neighbouring Plains the Coursers wing'd with speed,
Contend for Plate the glorious Victors Meed.
Over the Course they rather fly than run,
In a wide Circle like the radiant Sun.
Page 480Then fresh delights they for thei• Prince prepare,
And Hawks (the swift-wing'd Coursers of the Air,)
The trembling Bird with fatal hast pursue,
And seize the Quarry in their Masters view.
Till like my Muse, tir'd with the Game they'v• found,
They stoop for ease, and pitch upon the Ground.
FINIS.
