On foes surprised, and by no night conceal'd, He might have rush'd; but noble pity held His hand a while, and to their choice gave space, Which they would prove, his valour or his grace. 10 This not well heard, his cannon louder spoke, And then, like lightning, through that cloud he broke. His fame, his conduct, and that martial look, The guilty Scots with such a terror strook, That to his courage they resign the field, Who to his bounty had refused to yield. Glad that so little loyal blood it cost, He grieves so many Britons should be lost; Taking more pains, when he beheld them yield, To save the flyers, than to win the field; 20 And at the Court his int'rest does employ, That none, who 'scaped his fatal sword, should die. And now, these rash bold men their error find, Not trusting one beyond his promise kind; One! whose great mind, so bountiful and brave, Had learn'd the art to conquer and to save. In vulgar breasts no royal virtues dwell; Such deeds as these his high extraction tell, And give a secret joy to him that reigns, To see his blood triumph in Monmouth's veins; 30 To see a leader whom he got and chose, Firm to his friends, and fatal to his foes. But seeing envy, like the sun, does beat, With scorching rays, on all that's high and great, This, ill-requited Monmouth! is the bough The Muses send to shade thy conqu'ring brow. Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze; But time and thunder pay respect to bays. Achilles' arms dazzle our present view, Kept by the Muse as radiant and as new 40 As from the forge of Vulcan first they came; Thousands of years are past, and they the same; Such care she takes to pay desert with fame! Than which no monarch, for his crown's defence, Knows how to give a nobler recompence. OF AN ELEGY MADE BY MRS WHARTON[1] ON THE EARL OF ROCHESTER. Thus mourn the Muses! on the hearse Not strewing tears, but lasting verse, Which so preserve the hero's name, They make him live again in fame. Chloris, in lines so like his own, Gives him so just and high renown, That she th'afflicted world relieves, And shows that still in her he lives; Her wit as graceful, great, and good; Allied in genius, as in blood.[2] His loss supplied, now all our fears Are, that the nymph should melt in tears. Then, fairest Chloris! comfort take, For his, your own, and for our sake, Lest his fair soul, that lives in you, Should from the world for ever go. [1] 'Mrs. Wharton': the daughter, and co-heiress with the Countess of Abingdon, of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire. [2] 'In blood': the Earl of Rochester's mother was Mrs. Wharton's grand aunt. OF HER MAJESTY, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY, 1683.