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To the Right Honourable Alice Countess of Carbury, at her coming into Wales.
AS when the first day dawn'd Man's greedy Eye
Was apt to dwell on the bright Prodigy,
Till he might careless of his Organ grow,
And let his wonder prove his danger too:
So when our Country (which was deem'd to be
Close-mourner in its own obscurity,
And in neglected Chaos so long lay)
Was rescu'd by your beams into a Day,
Like men into a sudden lustre brought,
We justly fear'd to gaze more than we ought.
2.
From hence it is you lose most of your right,
Since none can pay't, nor durst do't if they might.
Perfection's misery 'tis that Art and Wit,
While they would honour, do but injure it.
But as the Deity slights our Expence,
And loves Devotion more than Eloquence:
So 'tis our Confidence you are Divine,
Makes us at distance thus approch your Shrine.
And thus secur'd, to you who need no art,
I that speak least my wit may speak my heart.
3.
Then much above all zealous injury,
Receive this tribute of our shades from me,
While your great Splendours, like eternal Spring,
To these sad Groves such a refreshment bring,
That the despised Country may be grown,
And justly too, the Envy of the Town.
That so when all Mankind at length have lost