Who of thine after age can count the deeds, With all that Fame in Time's huge annals reads? How, by example more than any law, This people fierce thou didst to goodness draw; How, while the neighbour world, toss'd by the Fates, So many Phaetons had in their states, Which turn'd to heedless flames their burnish'd thrones, Thou, as ensphered, kept'st temperate thy zones; In Afric shores the sands that ebb and flow, The shady leaves on Arden's trees that grow, He sure may count, with all the waves that meet To wash the Mauritanian Atlas' feet. Though crown'd thou wert not, nor a king by birth, Thy worth deserves the richest crown on earth. Search this half sphere, and the Antarctic ground, Where is such wit and bounty to be found? As into silent night, when near the Bear, The virgin huntress shines at full most clear, And strives to match her brother's golden light, The host of stars doth vanish in her sight, Arcturus dies; cool'd is the Lion's ire, Po burns no more with Phaetontal fire: Orion faints to see his arms grow black, And that his flaming sword he now doth lack: So Europe's lights, all bright in their degree, Lose all their lustre parallel'd with thee; By just descent thou from more kings dost shine, Than many can name men in all their line: What most they toil to find, and finding hold, Thou scornest--orient gems, and flattering gold; Esteeming treasure surer in men's breasts, Than when immured with marble, closed in chests; No stormy passions do disturb thy mind, No mists of greatness ever could thee blind: Who yet hath been so meek? thou life didst give To them who did repine to see thee live; What prince by goodness hath such kingdoms gain'd? Who hath so long his people's peace maintain'd? Their swords are turn'd to scythes, to coulters spears, Some giant post their antique armour bears: Now, where the wounded knight his life did bleed, The wanton swain sits piping on a reed; And where the cannon did Jove's thunder scorn, The gaudy huntsman winds his shrill-tuned horn: Her green locks Ceres doth to yellow dye, The pilgrim safely in the shade doth lie, Both Pan and Pales careless keep their flocks, Seas have no dangers save the wind and rocks: Thou art this isle's Palladium, neither can (Whiles thou dost live) it be o'erthrown by man.