When Nature's hand this ground did thus advance, 'Twas guided by a wiser power than Chance; Mark'd out for such an use, as if 'twere meant T' invite the builder, and his choice prevent. Nor can we call it choice, when what we choose, Folly or blindness only could refuse. A crown of such majestic towers doth grace The gods' great mother, when her heavenly race 60 Do homage to her, yet she cannot boast, Among that num'rous and celestial host. More heroes than can Windsor; nor doth Fame's Immortal book record more noble names. Not to look back so far, to whom this isle Owes the first glory of so brave a pile, Whether to Cæsar, Albanact, or Brute, The British Arthur, or the Danish Knute, (Though this of old no less contest did move Than when for Homer's birth seven cities strove) 70 (Like him in birth, thou shouldst be like in fame, As thine his fate, if mine had been his flame), But whosoe'er it was, Nature design'd First a brave place, and then as brave a mind; Not to recount those sev'ral kings, to whom It gave a cradle, or to whom a tomb; But thee, great Edward, and thy greater son[2] (The lilies which his father wore, he won), And thy Bellona,[3] who the consort came Not only to thy bed, but to thy fame, so She to thy triumph led one captive king,[4] And brought that son, which did the second bring. Then didst thou found that Order (whether love 83 Or victory thy royal thoughts did move), Each was a noble cause, and nothing less Than the design, has been the great success: Which foreign kings, and emperors esteem The second honour to their diadem. Had thy great destiny but given thee skill To know, as well as power to act her will, 90 That from those kings, who then thy captives were, In after times should spring a royal pair Who should possess all that thy mighty power, Or thy desires more mighty, did devour: To whom their better fate reserves whate'er The victor hopes for, or the vanquish'd fear; That blood, which thou and thy great grandsire shed, And all that since these sister nations bled, Had been unspilt, had happy Edward known. That all the blood he spilt had been his own. 100 When he that patron chose, in whom are join'd Soldier and martyr, and his arms confin'd Within the azure circle, he did seem But to foretell, and prophesy of him, Who to his realms that azure round hath join'd, Which Nature for their bound at first design'd; That bound, which to the world's extremest ends, Endless itself, its liquid arms extends. Nor doth he need those emblems which we paint, But is himself the soldier and the saint. 110 Here should my wonder dwell, and here my praise; But my fix'd thoughts my wand'ring eye betrays, Viewing a neighb'ring hill, whose top of late A chapel crown'd, 'till in the common fate Th' adjoining abbey fell. (May no such storm Fall on our times, when ruin must reform!)