A prince, on whom such different lights did smile,
Born the divided world to reconcile !

Whatever Heaven, or high extracted blood
Could promise, or foretel, he will make good;
Reform these nations, and improve them more,
Than this fair park, from what it was before.

OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, MOTHER TO
THE PRINCE OF ORANGE;*

AND OF HER PORTRAIT, WRITTEN BY THE LATE DUCHESS OF YORK
WHILE SHE LIVED WITH HER.

EROIC nymph! in tempests the support,

HER

In peace the glory of the British court! Into whose arms the church, the state, and all That precious is, or sacred here, did fall. Ages to come, that shall your bounty hear, Will think you mistress of the Indies were; Though straiter bounds your fortunes did confine, In your large heart was found a wealthy mine; Like the blest oil, the widow's lasting feast, Your treasure, as you poured it out, increased.+ While some your beauty, some your bounty sing, Your native isle does with your praises ring;

heavens at the birth of Charles II. was the favourite phenomenon of the royal party, and did duty in almost all the poems of the time.

*Mary, Princess of Orange, and sister to Charles II. She visited this country on the occasion of the Restoration, at which time the poem was probably written; although the reference in the title to the late' Duchess of York seems to imply a subsequent date. Three months after her arrival in England, the Princess was seized by small-pox, which terminated in her death, in December, 1660. The Duchess of York did not die till 1671. The title was evidently added afterwards, when the poem was published.

For many years of her life the Princess devoted one-half of her revenues to the maintenance of the Duke of Gloucester, as a means of rendering him independent of the influence of the Roman Catholic sovereigns; and she contributed largely to the support of the royal family during their reverses.

But, above all, a nymph of your own train*
Gives us your character in such a strain,
As none but she, who in that court did dwell,
Could know such worth, or worth describe so well.
So while we mortals here at heaven do guess,
And more our weakness, than the place, express,
Some angel, a domestic there, comes down,
And tells the wonders he hath seen and known.

UPON HER MAJESTY'S NEW BUILDINGS AT
SOMERSET HOUSE.†

GREAT Queen! that does our island bless
With princes and with palaces;

Treated so ill, chased from your throne,
Returning, you adorn the town;

And, with a brave revenge, do show

Their glory went and came with you.

While Peace from hence, and you were gone,

Your houses in that storm o'erthrown,

Those wounds which civil rage did give,

At once you pardon, and relieve.

Constant to England in your love,

As birds are to their wonted grove,

Though by rude hands their nests are spoiled,
There the next spring again they build.

Accusing some malignant star,

Not Britain, for that fatal war,

* Lady Anne Hyde, daughter of the Earl of Clarendon, and afterwards Duchess of York, and mother of Queen Mary and Queen Anne.

In Nov. 1660, (not 1662 as stated by Fenton,) the Queen-Mother, Henrietta Maria, returned to England, and took up her residence in her old palace of Somerset House, which had formerly been assigned to her by Charles I. During the few years she remained here, she considerably enlarged the buildings, especially on the side facing the river. Cowley also addressed some verses to her on these improve

ments.

Your kindness banishes your fear,
Resolved to fix for ever here.*

But what new mine this work supplies?
Can such a pile from ruin rise?
This, like the first creation, shows
As if at your command it rose.
Frugality and bounty too,

(Those differing virtues) meet in you;
From a confined, well-managed store,
You both employ and feed the poor.
Let foreign princes vainly boast
The rude effects of pride and cost;
Of vaster fabrics, to which they
Contribute nothing but the pay;
This, by the Queen herself designed,
Gives us a pattern of her mind;
The state and order does proclaim
The genius of that royal dame.
Each part with just proportion graced,
And all to such advantage placed,
That the fair view her window yields,
The town, the river, and the fields,
Entering, beneath us we descry,
And wonder how we came so high.

She needs no weary steps ascend;
All seems before her feet to bend;
And here, as she was born, she lies;
High, without taking pains to rise.

FAIR

OF A TREE CUT IN PAPER.

AIR hand! that can on virgin paper write,
Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white;

This resolution was afterwards relinquished. Henrietta Maria left England in 1665, and was succeeded in Somerset House by Catherine of Braganza.

WALLER.

12

Whose travel o'er that silver field does show
Like track of leverets in morning snow.
Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought,
Without a spot or blemish to the thought.
Strange that your fingers should the pencil foil,
Without the help of colours or of oil!

For though a painter boughs and leaves can make,
'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake;
Whose breath salutes your new-created grove,
Like southern winds, and makes it gently move.
Orpheus could make the forest dance; but you
Can make the motion and the forest too.

TO A LADY,

FROM WHOM HE RECEIVED THE COPY OF THE POEM ENTITLED 'OF A TREE CUT IN PAPER,' WHICH FOR MANY YEARS HAD BEEN LOST.

NOTHING lies hid from radiant eyes;

All they subdue become their spies.

Secrets, as choicest jewels, are

Presented to oblige the fair;

No wonder, then, that a lost thought
Should there be found, where souls are caught.

The picture of fair Venus (that
For which men say the goddess sat)
Was lost, till Lely from your look
Again that glorious image took.

If Virtue's self were lost, we might
From your fair mind new copies write.
All things but one you can restore;
The heart you get returns no more.

TO THE QUEEN, UPON HER MAJESTY'S

BIRTHDAY,

AFTER HER HAPPY RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS SICKNESS.*

AREWELL the year! which threatened so

FARE

The fairest light the world can show.

Welcome the new! whose every day,
Restoring what was snatched away
By pining sickness from the fair,
That matchless beauty does repair
So fast, that the approaching spring,
(Which does to showery meadows bring
What the rude winter from them tore)
Shall give her all she had before.
But we recover not so fast
The sense of such a danger past;
We that esteemed you sent from heaven,
A pattern to this island given,

To show us what the blessed do there,
And what alive they practised here,
When that which we immortal thought,
We saw so near destruction brought,
Felt all which you did then endure,
And tremble yet, as not secure.
So though the sun victorious be,
And from a dark eclipse set free,
The influence, which we fondly fear,
Afflicts our thoughts the following year.
But that which may relieve our care
Is, that you have a help so near
For all the evil you can prove,
The kindness of your royal love;
He that was never known to mourn,
So many kingdoms from him torn,

* Catherine of Braganza, the Queen of Charles II. are assigned to the year 1663.

These verses