CARMEN NATALITIUM.
TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Duke of Glocester. AN HEROICK POEM.
Tu modo nascenti Puero, quo ferrea primum
Desinet, ac toto surget gens aurea mundo,
Casta, fave, Lucina—
Virg.
LONDON: Printed for A. Baldwin in Warwick-lane, 1700.
TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Duke of Glocester.
URANIA, Fairest of the Sacred Nine,
Let this Blest MORN wake thy whole Choir Divine;
A Subject so sublime, enough t'inspire,
And singly tune the whole Phaebaean Lyre:
Not the Wing'd Courser, when he struck your Fount,
To more Exalted Heights could ever mount.
A Theme, to Warm the very God of Day,
And Brighten ev'n th' Apollinary Ray.
Yes, GLORY, GLORY, Thou'rt the Mighty Theme,
GLORY, of Heav'n the Richest Borrow'd Beam.
But e'er the Sallies of the Muse essay
To circuit thy Ʋnbounded Empire's Sway;
Let me invoke a Pow'r, that best can stretch
His Heav'nly View to that Expanded Reach.
Thou Twin-fac'd God, who op'st thy Temple Doors,
When the Sky lours, and War's rough Tempest roars;
Where th' Arm'd Destroyers, in their bending Steel,
With their uplifted pondrous Gauntlets, kneel.
But when the Bloody Flag hangs out no more;
No Halcyon Choirs do in Thy Walls adore.
Thy Gates are all ba [...]r'd up▪ No fragrant Air
Of Rosy Sweets; thy Shrines no Garlands wear:
Flutes, Timbrels, Songs of Peace, are banish'd there.
Great JANƲS, thou whose Double Front looks o'er
Whole Ages; all Behind thee, and Before:
TIME's great Surveyor, thou whose Prospects spread
Thro' that vast Airy Wild, Th' Ʋnborn and Dead.
Airy indeed, when we can only call
The Present Ours, and Moments are our All.
Beyond the narrow Now, thou wander'st o'er
Either what Is not yet, or Is no more.
Hard-doom'd Mortality, if this be all
Thy boasted Footing on the Mighty Ball.
If, MAN, thy Fabrick on this Basis stands,
And this short Grasp is all thy Pow'r commands;
Oh thou poor Lord of Worlds, this Frame Divine
All built for Thee, and yet so Little Thine!
So Little? No: Thou'st All. Add the Great SOUL.
To th' Human Span, and then outreach the Pole.
Then the true Lord of Worlds, th' Heroick Mind
Builds Thrones so Lasting, reigns so Unconfin'd:
Though short our Glass and number'd Minutes told;
The Sands of FAME run Inexhausted GOLD.
True GLORY never sleeps in Beds of Clay:
Her Flow'ry Garlands ever fresh and gay,
While Ages make but one long Coronation-Day.
For Boundless GLORY the vast Round wants Room:
She fills the whole Great Three, Past, Present, and to Come.
If GLORY then, Ʋrania, plumes thy Wing;
And thy Exalted Airs must GLOC'STER sing;
Take the fair Prospect of his Beauteous MORN,
The Infant Glories which that BROW adorn.
And where the Phosphor does such Light display;
Leave the World Judge of the Meridian Day.
When Albion's SUN Ecclips'd, Great NASSAƲ rod,
With Drums and Trumpets Sounds, to aid the Labouring God;
Did Light from her Invading Shades restore;
And bid our Laws and Altars shine once more:
'Twas here the Great IMMORTAL, to survey
The glorious Toyl of that propitious Day,
As at his own Great Six Days Labour stood;
He view'd the Finish'd Work, and saw 'twas Good.
But can Great NASSAƲ finish all? Ah no.
Can single Hands thro' Endless Labours go?
To raise Immortal Structures to their Height,
The Founder does but half the Work of Fate.
T' uphold the Pile He rais'd, Designs so Great,
A Line of WORTHIES only can compleat.
That Work, THOU, then Ʋnborn, Thy Stars decree:
Th' Almighty Consult sate, and call'd forth THEE.
Born for these Ends, the Scheme of Fate thus laid;
When Thee the HERO His Adoption made,
At the Great FONT He promis'd in Thy Name,
Not half the Wonders of Thy Race of Fame;
Far short of what th' All-knowing Pow'rs foresee,
In the Great Cause of Heav'n's reserv'd for Thee.
Whilst for this Fruit, this STEM of Britain springs,
The Veins of HERO's, and the Seed of KINGS;
To raise this BIRTH, to Divine Pallas Charge
His Guardian Pow'rs assign a Trust so large.
Glitt'ring in Arms her Nursing Hand she brings,
Whilst ev'n the Gauntlet, holds the Leading-strings.
Bright Armour, here, her Nurseries Delight;
Her Gorgon and Medusa Charm, not Fright.
T'her Cradle-Care the Martial Goddess comes,
And only Lulls Him with her Steel and Plumes.
No fond Lucina's Song, no tinkling Toy;
The Musick of the WAR must Rock the BOY;
Not to His Sleep, but to His waking Joy.
MARS ev'n in Miniature His Soul inspires:
He feels a Heat, tho' but from Lambent Fires.
Ev'n when so Young, e'er th' Intellectual Light
Could furnish Reason for th' Heroick Flight;
Long e'er slow Nature to those Heights could rise;
Visions of GLORY play'd before His Eyes.
So Early warm'd with what so Brightly shin'd,
With that Career his active Genius ran;
That leaping o'er an Age He left behind,
He Slept, the INFANT; but He Dreamt, the MAN.
HERO's, like Poets, are not made, but Born;
Valour's true Heat warms ev'n their Dawning Morn.
Thus young Alcides, when his Hissing Foes,
With their fork'd Vengeance to his Cradle rose,
His first Immortal Infant Sally makes,
Undaunted he attacks the crested Snakes;
Grasps their crusht Throats in his Victorious Hands;
And crowns the Conqu'ror in his Swathing Bands.
All the same Animating Spirit here,
The same the Courage; not the Danger near:
No; Thou Great Heir of Smiles, All Born for Joy,
No Juno's Spight would these young Hopes destroy.
Nor wonder that this Godlike GENIUS reigns,
When 'tis no more than what Thou ow'st thy VEINS;
Born from that SIRE, whose Patriot Arm once held
His COUNTRY's sharpest Sword and toughest Shield.
No Hand more Daring for the Lawrel pusht:
In Fields of Blood his very Nonage flusht.
His Early Leading VALOUR fixt in Fame,
Whilst Lunden and Landscroon shall have a Name.
'Twas thus He set out in the Martial Race;
'Till his calm Bow'rs of BLISS ended the Chace.
A Plant of GLORY in so Rich a Bed,
By such Hereditary Nurture fed,
When Princely Stems such forward Blossoms bring;
From such kind Suns ne'er wonder at the Spring.
Nay for yet more kind cheering Beams, to shoot
The early spreading Bloom from such a ROOT:
Thou Royal Nursery in Arts and Arms,
Thy Darling Pallas in her Double Charms;
To cultivate so all Divine a Soil,
Here both the Mars and the Apollo smile:
Led by such Aiding Pow'rs, when on each Hand
Th' Instructing Hero and Learn'd Prelate stand;
Well may thy Youth take that Pellaean Flight,
Betwixt the Clytus and the Stagyrite.
But if the Martial Bolts so early Charm,
And ev'n thy Cretan Cradle glows so warm:
When full-blown GLORY thy Crown'd Head shall see;
Then, when some mighty Cause, all worthy Thee;
What if the Enslav'd Christendom once more,
Thee our succeeding JOVE's kind Aid implore;
Her Groans all ecchoing to Thy Albion Walls,
Whilst the Chain'd Virgin the Wing'd Perseus calls;
With thy Great FATHER then thy Veins inspir'd,
With the whole Transmigrated NASSAƲ fir'd;
With those united Native Genii fill'd,
And all that Immortality can build;
To send Thee Forth in HONOUR's Noblest Race,
Some Tyrant Hunter of the World to chace;
With Keener Thunder from a Forge more warm,
The sweating Cyclops must supply that ARM.
But is't Heroick Virtue only reigns
The Great Descendant in Young GLOC'STER's Veins?
No; 'tis not only One bright JEM Divine
Makes the whole Orient Treasure from that MINE.
If Nature's Stamps are Copies of the Kind;
If Founts make Streams; and SOULS their Channels find:
If SONS can their Paternal VIRTƲES Heir,
What must the BIRTH produce from such a PAIR?
No Wand'rer of the Skies; here the Fixt JOVE,
Unwishing and Untaught to Range or Rove,
One Boundless Joy his LOVE's whole Heav'n supplies;
Melts his Eternal Day in JƲNO's Eyes.
Such Love, Faith, Honour, in one Chaplet twin'd;
For ever Verdant, all true Lawrel-kind:
How had Crowns been Ador'd, and Kingdoms Blest,
Had Thy Fair SOƲL fill'd every Royal Breast!
Their Leading Lights but with Thy Lustre shone,
To set the World such COPIES from a Throne!
Look back, Great Janus, with a glowing Face;
Thy own all Scarlet, tell th' unblushing Race,
Had such Exampl'd Virtues rul'd the Day;
Nature her bright Original might boast:
Her Golden Age, without one course Allay,
The Ʋndegenerate World had never lost.
Yes, Radiant VIRTUE, where Thy Influence,
Thy pow'rful Aspect does its Smiles dispense,
It is not Worlds alone thy Blessings share:
What can't Thy Reign! The Great DISPENSER there
That vast Dominion to thy Hand has giv'n,
At once to bless the Earth, and people Heav'n.
Great DENMARK, thus, in Thy Bright Orb of LOVE,
Where all these Constellated Graces move;
Their spreading Beams around whole Ages cast,
T' adorn the Present, and to shame the Last.
Be it Thy Pride (oh whither can I raise
My soaring Muse to such Seraphick Praise!)
Had all Blest Nuptials such a Bridegroom Lord;
And ev'ry Hymen worn thy stainless Robe:
The unavenging GOD had never pour'd
His Deluge down to wash the Spotted Globe.
Now change, Ʋrania, to new Glitt'ring Scenes;
And tune thy Airs to GLOC' STER's British Veins.
Drive, drive around that bright Imperial Sphere:
And trace Him from his SOURCE of GLORY here.
Here, when the Dazling Heights thy Eye shall see,
Exert thy high-tun'd Voice, but low'r thy Knee.
At thy Approach, with Duteous Homage bow.
Here view Bright EXCELLENCE, that Awful BROW,
Belov'd Above; that Fav'rite ROYAL HEAD,
Rich with the Blessings of a Fruitful BED:
Her Sexes Noblest Pride; all smiling round,
With the whole Joys of a Glad MOTHER crown'd.
MOTHER, the Name, that ev'n from Death can save:
The Fertile Womb stops the Devouring Grave.
MOTHER; oh Thine is the Great ALL we see;
Nature's whole Hinge turns here, and the World lives by Thee.
The Great FIRST MOVER's only Second, THOU;
When his new World with his own IMAGE blest,
The Great CREATOR stampt but the First Two;
And left it all to Thee to mould the rest.
WOMAN, where's Thy Exalted Honour plac'd?
MOTHER, a Name OMNIPOTENCE once Grac'd!
Blest with this more than Title to a Crown,
Britannia's Happiness so all her own,
Behold her handing endless Blessings down.
'Tis less to Fill than to Support a Throne.
Behold her in her own Despotic Walls,
With Plans of Empire laid, in Wisdom's School
So Learn'd, so worthy Crowns, when Albion calls;
By Nature no less Form'd, than Born for Rule.
Here to her Helm that steering Hand she brings,
Scarce less the Envy than the Heir of Kings:
Guides with that Regular Harmonious Sway;
As Angels serve in Heav'n, 'tis Glory to obey.
She rules a Kingdom in a Court alone,
And reigns a Monarch ev'n Beneath a Throne.
Nor does her Greatness only bear this Port,
Her Closet's no less Shining, than her Court.
To her Lov'd Altars more unsbaken Zeal,
Or humbler Votary could never Kneel.
Yet not that rapt Enthusiast, to throw
The despis'd Globe beneath her Feet too low:
T'her GOD and to Her Self the Right she gives,
Whilst the Knee bends for what the Brow receives.
No Royal Hand e'er held the Scales more ev'n,
Betwixt the well-read World and study'd Heav'n.
Of all Her whole Court-Train, each Menial GRACE;
The Fairest of the Great Celestial Race,
Bright CHARITY, with her extended Hands,
(Not only Hers, but Heav'n's best Darling) stands.
Well she reflects, as the Great WILL design'd
The Princely Heads the Lights to cheer Mankind;
The Godlike GOOD the Godlike GREAT must join:
For Goodness warms, where Greatness does but shine.
What bending Knees can such Bright MERCY want!
The Cloath'd and Fed her Bounteous Pity chant.
In Grateful Praise their chearful Numbers move,
Measures, all tun'd to th' Endless Songs Above.
Off'rings of Gratitude in Heav'n are made:
For Hallelujahs are but Thanks well paid.
But whether stooping to Relieve Distress,
Or shine Rewarded Virtue's Patroness;
She show'rs her Goodness with no random Hand:
Justice and Judgment her Court-Stewards stand.
To lend a Succo'ring Arm or Listning Ear,
Thinks where she Favours, where she Smiles she weighs:
For the Descending Royal Graces here,
'Tis Merit must the Jacob's Ladder raise.
Blest with such PARENTAGE, such on each Side,
Illustrious GLOC'STER, thy Descending Pride;
What canst Thou promise from this STOCK alone,
Thou, to thy Self; from Thee, th' Expecting Throne?
Thus challenge all thy Godlike SOURCE can give.
From thy Rich Tagus the whole Sands derive:
At once to all the Rougher VIRTUES born
That Conquer Crowns; and Gentler, that Adorn.
But Thou Great HEIR to ev'ry smiling GRACE,
Thy Inborn GLORIES sprung from thy Great RACE,
Whilst the all charm'd Britannia, to behold
Her growing HOPE stampt in that Beauteous Mould,
Unwondring sees the Royal Roses spread;
All Genuine Sweets from such an Eden BED;
Rapt up ev'n to thy Rivall'd MOTHER's Joy,
Views the Ascanius to her happier Troy:
Yet here, ev'n here, in this Harmonious Day,
A Watry Cloud to this Bright Sun must rise;
(Can there be Shades that can such JOYS allay!)
One Tear must drop ev'n from Britannia's Eyes!
Well she remembers from that Sacred ROOT,
She saw the Lovely Numerous CYONS shoot.
She dares not Murmur at Decrees Divine;
But give her Leave to Mourn, tho' not Repine.
Were those Sweet Pledges all but Lent, not Giv'n?
What has that Genial BED Deserv'd from Heav'n!
Could Providence here too profusely pay?
Why then such Charms so early snatcht away!
So have I seen the Morning Star appear;
Just peeps its Glorious Head above our Sphear:
Scarce seen 'tis gone, Set almost e'er 't can Rise;
Not in the Western but the Eastern Skies:
The vanishing short Brightness from our Sight
All Lost, and Swallow'd up in DAY's Immenser Light.
If all the MERITS of that Bridal Bed,
A Force to wrestle Heav'n, in vain could plead:
If Albion's Pray'rs; ten thousand thousand Knees,
Of Fate implor'd in vain—If These, all These—
Nay not a Stream from the Fair ROYAL EYE,
That Bribe of Richer Pearl could Mercy buy.
If still Fate strikes; and the Remorseless Dooms,
Have Hearts so hard, to cut such Tender Looms:
Here Heav'n-born Sisters, on this Mournful Theme,
Call your Bright Patron God's Divinest Beam;
T'exhale a Show'r from your Castalian Stream.
Yes; all your melting Hippocrene's too poor,
To sprinkle ev'ry Rose, each Fragrant Flow'r,
That twines the Garlands o'er those Infant TOMBS;
And with its Pendant Sweets the little Ʋrn perfumes.
Then in soft Numbers (Numbers best Complain!)
Tell the Great Lords of the Eternal Reign,
Is Heav'n so poor, to snatch such Bloom away;
Such Young Translation to Immortal Day!
Did their Imperfect Songs want to inspire
More Treble Voices for their Angel Choir!
Or to adorn the Galaxy more bright,
Wanted their Milky Way new Spangled Light?
But whether leads this Melancholy Way;
This Gloomy Scene of Graves?—Stay, Wand'rers stay.
Walk not in Shades, when all around ye Shines:
What, tho' the Muses, at those Sacred SHRINES,
In pious Grief too much can never pay!
Yet Piety it self sometimes may stray.
Suit these sad Plaints with this Triumphant-Day?
No, cheer'd Britannia, let all Joys go round;
Thy Loftier Ayrs all Io Paeans sound.
Tho' thy too niggard Stars no kinder shine,
Here thy Great ALL from that Rich Fruitful MINE:
Boast, Albion, boast thy vast Unbounded Store,
This JEWEL, tho' the Carract's Thine no more.
What tho' thy Hopes move in one single SPHERE?
Are Glory, Pow'r, Dominion, curtail'd here?
Stands not thy whole Great Basis safe alone
In this Young Growing ATLAS of thy Throne?
What though an angry Sybil in one Urn
Did all those Great Orac'lous Volumes burn!
Still Time's long Glass (to Numbers unconfin'd)
Th' Ʋnfolded Destinies she left behind.
Whole FATE in her surviving Pages shin'd.
So GLOC'STER, may the blest Britannia see
Her Hopes, her Happiness, all sum'd in THEE.
Oh may kind Heav'n preserve that Darling HEAD:
And whither can't Diffusive GLORY spread?
One Great Copernick CENTER can disperse
His Circling Beams around the Ʋniverse.
But whilst of such Immortal SEEDS I sing,
The Promis'd Harvest from so Rich a Spring;
Oh may my Muse, on that Illustrious Theme,
Chant with the Ancient Bards Enlightning Beam.
Poets of Old with a Prophetick Tongue,
Not Past alone, but Ʋnborn GLORIES sung.
Their kinder God then Doubly did Inspire;
Not only tun'd their Numbers to his Lyre;
But warm'd 'em with a Spark from his own Delphick Fire.
Thus may my Muse, Young PRINCE, Thy GROWTH foretel;
(Oh Seal it Heav'n; here stamp the Oracle!)
May those Bright HEADS, far, far beyond thy own,
Thy long Successive Heirs to th' Albion Throne,
From Thee th' unbroken Line of HEROES run,
'Till the whole Great Platonick Circle's done.
Rapt up to this High ORB; vain Muse retire:
Farewel to Numbers, and thy Humbler Choir.
Let Great PREDESTINATION tune this SPHERE.
I'll quit the Poet for the Prophet here.
FINIS.