Classic Poem

Although Propriety be Crost,
By those that cry't up most,
No Vote hath yet pass'd to put down
The pious fires
Of good desires,
Our wishes are as yet our own.

Bless'd be the day then, 'tis New year's ure knows no such fears
As those which do our hearts divide,
In spight of Force
Times keep their Course,
The Seasons run not on their side.

I send (my Muse) to one that knows
What each Relation ows,
One who keeps waking in his Breast
No other sense
But Conscience,
That only is his Interest.

Though to be Moderate, in this time,
Be thought almost a Crime,
That vertue yet is his so much,
That they who make
All whom they take
Guilty, durst never Call him such.

He wishes Peace, that Publike Good,
Dry Peace, not bought with Bloud,
Yet such as Honour may maintain,
And such the Crown
Would gladly own.
Wish o'r that Wish to him again.

He wishes that this Storm Subside,
Hush'd by a turn of Tide,
That one fix'd Calm would smooth the Main,
As Winds relent
When Furie's spent.
O wish that Wish to him again.

The Joys that Solemn Victories Crown,
When we not slay our own,
Joys that deserve a generall Song
When the day's gain'd
And no Sword stain'd,
Press on and round him in a Throng.

Thoughts rescue, and his danger kiss'd,
Being found as soon as miss'd,
Wish him not taken as before,
Hazard can ne'r
Make him more dear.
We must not fear so long once more.

Twist then in one most Glorious Wreath
All Joys you can bequeath,
And see them on the Kingdom thrown,
When there they dwell
He's pleas'd as well,
As if they sate on him alone.

Go, and return, and for his sake
Less noise and Tumult make,
Than Stars when they do run their Rounds;
Though Swords and Spears
Late fill'd his Eares,
He silence Loves, or Gentle Sounds.