ight unloaded stem, from tempest freed,
Will raise the youthful honours of his head;
And soon, restored by native vigour, bear
The timely product of the bounteous year.

Nor yet conclude all fiery trials past:
For Heaven will exercise us to the last;
Sometimes will check us in our full career, 270
With doubtful blessings, and with mingled fear;
That, still depending on his daily grace,
His every mercy for an alms may pass,
With sparing hands will diet us to good;
Preventing surfeits of our pamper'd blood.
So feeds the mother bird her craving young
With little morsels, and delays them long.

True, this last blessing was a royal feast;
But where's the wedding-garment on the guest?
Our manners, as religion were a dream, 280
Are such as teach the nations to blaspheme.
In lusts we wallow, and with pride we swell,
And injuries with injuries repel;
Prompt to revenge, not daring to forgive,
Our lives unteach the doctrine we believe.
Thus Israel sinn'd, impenitently hard,
And vainly thought the present ark their guard;[184]
But when the haughty Philistines appear,
They fled, abandon'd to their foes and fear;
Their God was absent, though his ark was there. 290
Ah! lest our crimes should snatch this pledge away,
And make our joys the blessings of a day!
For we have sinn'd him hence, and that he lives,
God to his promise, not our practice gives.
Our crimes would soon weigh down the guilty scale,
But James and Mary, and the Church, prevail.
Nor Amalek can rout the chosen bands,[185]
While Hur and Aaron hold up Moses' hands.

By living well, let us secure his days;
Moderate in hopes, and humble in our ways, 300
No force the free-born spirit can constrain,
But charity and great examples gain.
Forgiveness is our thanks for such a day:
'Tis god-like God in his own coin to pay.

But you, propitious queen, translated here,
From your mild heaven, to rule our rugged sphere,
Beyond the sunny walks, and circling year:
You, who your native climate have bereft
Of all the virtues, and the vices left;
Whom piety and beauty make their boast, 310
Though beautiful is well in pious lost;
So lost, as star-light is dissolved away,
And melts into the brightness of the day;
Or gold about the regal diadem,
Lost to