Of those rare men, who lived in those rare days, When he, the hero of his tale, was young; Dull repetitions faltering on his tongue; 230 Praising gray hairs, sure mark of Wisdom's sway, E'en whilst he curses Time, which made him gray; Scoffing at youth, e'en whilst he would afford All but his gold to have his youth restored, Shall for a moment, from himself set free, Lean on his crutch, and pipe forth praise to me. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 240 The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Things without life shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. The snowdrop, who, in habit white and plain, Comes on, the herald of fair Flora's train; The coxcomb crocus, flower of simple note, Who by her side struts in a herald's coat; The tulip, idly glaring to the view, Who, though no clown, his birth from Holland drew; 250 Who, once full dress'd, fears from his place to stir, The fop of flowers, the More of a parterre; The woodbine, who her elm in marriage meets, And brings her dowry in surrounding sweets; The lily, silver mistress of the vale; The rose of Sharon, which perfumes the gale; The jessamine, with which the queen of flowers, To charm her god, adorns his favourite bowers, Which brides, by the plain hand of Neatness dress'd, Unenvied rival, wear upon their breast, 260 Sweet as the incense of the morn, and chaste As the pure zone which circles Dian's waist; All flowers, of various names, and various forms, Which the sun into strength and beauty warms, From the dwarf daisy, which, like infants, clings, And fears to leave the earth from whence it springs, To the proud giant of the garden race, Who, madly rushing to the sun's embrace, O'ertops her fellows with aspiring aim, Demands his wedded love, and bears his name; 270 All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Forming a gloom, through which, to spleen-struck minds, Religion, horror-stamp'd, a passage finds, 280 The ivy crawling o'er the hallow'd cell Where some old hermit's wont his beads to tell By day, by night; the myrtle ever green, Beneath whose shade Love holds his rites unseen; The willow, weeping o'er the fatal wave Where many a lover finds a watery grave; The cypress, sacred held, when lovers mourn Their true love snatch'd away; the laurel worn By poets in old time, but destined now,