Fain would the fiends[171] have made a dubious birth, Loath to confess the Godhead clothed in earth: But sicken'd, after all their baffled lies, To find an heir-apparent of the skies: Abandon'd to despair, still may they grudge, And, owning not the Saviour, prove the judge. Not great Æneas[172] stood in plainer day, When, the dark mantling mist dissolved away, 130 He to the Tyrians show'd his sudden face, Shining with all his goddess mother's grace: For she herself had made his countenance bright, Breathed honour on his eyes, and her own purple light. If our victorious Edward,[173] as they say, Gave Wales a prince on that propitious day, Why may not years, revolving with his fate, Produce his like, but with a longer date; One, who may carry to a distant shore The terror that his famed forefather bore? 140 But why should James or his young hero stay For slight presages of a name or day? We need no Edward's fortune to adorn That happy moment when our prince was born: Our prince adorns his day, and ages hence Shall wish his birth-day for some future prince. Great Michael, prince of all the ethereal hosts, And whate'er inborn saints our Britain boasts; And thou, the adopted patron of our isle,[174] With cheerful aspects on this infant smile: 150 The pledge of Heaven, which, dropping from above, Secures our bliss, and reconciles his love. Enough of ills our dire rebellion wrought, When to the dregs we drank the bitter draught; Then airy atoms did in plagues conspire, Nor did the avenging angel yet retire, But purged our still increasing crimes with fire, Then perjured plots, the still impending Test, And worse--but charity conceals the rest: Here stop the current of the sanguine flood; 160 Require not, gracious God, thy martyrs' blood; But let their dying pangs, their living toil, Spread a rich harvest through their native soil: A harvest ripening for another reign, Of which this royal babe may reap the grain. Enough of early saints one womb has given; Enough increased the family of Heaven: Let them for his and our atonement go; And, reigning blest above, leave him to rule below. Enough already has the year foreshow'd 170 His wonted course, the sea has overflow'd, The meads were floated with a weeping spring, And frighten'd birds in woods forgot to sing: The strong-limb'd steed beneath his harness faints, And the same shivering sweat his lord attaints. When will the minister of wrath give o'er? Behold him at Araunah's threshing-floor:[175] He stops, and seems to sheathe his flaming brand, Pleased with burnt incense from our David's hand. David has bought the Jebusite's abode, 180 And raised an altar to the living God.