Of the Queen

The lark, that shuns on lofty boughs to buildHer humble nest, lies silent in the field;But if (the promise of a cloudless day)Aurora smiling bids her rise and play,Then straight she shows 'twas not for want of voice,Or power to climb, she made so low a choice;Singing she mounts; her airy wings are stretch'dT'wards heaven, as if from heaven her note she fetch'd.

So we, retiring from the busy throng,Use to restrain the ambition of our song;But since the light which now informs our ageBreaks from the Court, indulgent to her rage,Thither my Muse, like bold Prometheus, flies,To light her torch at Gloriana's eyes;Those sov'reign beams which heal the wounded soul,And all our cares, but once beheld, control!There the poor lover that has long enduredSome proud nymph's scorn, of his fond passion cured,Fares like the man who first upon the groundA glow-worm spied, supposing he had foundA moving diamond, a breathing stone;For life it had, and like those jewels shone;He held it dear, till by the springing dayInform'd, he threw the worthless worm away.

She saves the lover as we gangrenes stay,By cutting hope, like a lopp'd limb, away;This makes her bleeding patients to accuseHigh Heaven, and these expostulations use:'Could Nature then no private woman grace,Whom we might dare to love, with such a face,Such a complexion, and so radiant eyes,Such lovely motion, and such sharp replies?Beyond our reach, and yet within our sight,What envious power has placed this glorious light?'

Thus, in a starry night, fond children cryFor the rich spangles that adorn the sky,Which, though they shine for ever fixed there,With light and influence relieve us here.All her affections are to one inclined;Her bounty and compassion to mankind;To whom, while she so far extends her grace,She makes but good the promise of her face;For Mercy has, could Mercy's self be seen,No sweeter look than this propitious queen.Such guard, and comfort, the distressed findFrom her large power, and from her larger mind,That whom ill Fate would ruin, it prefers,For all the miserable are made hers.So the fair tree whereon the eagle builds,Poor sheep from tempests, and their shepherds, shields;The royal bird possesses all the boughs,But shade and shelter to the flock allows.

Joy of our age, and safety of the next!For which so oft thy fertile womb is vex'd;Nobly contented, for the public good,To waste thy spirits and diffuse thy blood,What vast hopes may these islands entertain,Where monarchs, thus descended, are to reign?Led by commanders of so fair a line,Our seas no longer shall our power confine.

A brave romance who would exactly frame,First brings his knight from some immortal dame,And then a weapon, and a flaming shield,Bright as his mother's eyes, he makes him wield.None might the mother of Achilles be,But the fair pearl and glory of the sea;The man to whom great Maro gives such fame,From the high bed of heavenly Venus came;And our next Charles, whom all the stars designLike wonders to accomplish, springs from thine.

'Sea': Thetis'Maro': Aeneas