The wavering streamers, flags, and standart[58] out, The merry seamen's rude but chearful shout; And last the cannons' voice that shook the skies, } And, as it fares in sudden ecstasies, } At once bereft us both of ears and eyes. } The Naseby, now no longer England's shame, But better to be lost in Charles his name,[59] (Like some unequal bride in nobler sheets) Receives her lord; the joyful London meets The princely York, himself alone a freight; The Swiftsure groans beneath great Gloster's weight:[60] Secure as when the halcyon breeds, with these, He, that was born to drown, might cross the seas. Heaven could not own a Providence, and take The wealth three nations ventured at a stake. The same indulgence Charles his voyage blessed, Which in his right had miracles confessed. The winds, that never moderation knew, Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew; Or, out of breath with joy, could not enlarge Their straightened lungs, or conscious of their charge. The British Amphytrite, smooth and clear, In richer azure never did appear; Proud her returning prince to entertain With the submitted fasces of the main. And welcome now, great monarch, to your own! Behold the approaching clifts of Albion. It is no longer motion cheats your view; As you meet it, the land approacheth you. The land returns, and, in the white it wears, The marks of penitence and sorrow bears.[61] But you, whose goodness your descent doth shew, Your heavenly parentage and earthly too, By that same mildness, which your father's crown Before did ravish, shall secure your own. Not tied to rules of policy, you find Revenge less sweet than a forgiving mind. Thus, when the Almighty would to Moses give A sight of all he could behold and live; A voice before his entry did proclaim, Long-suffering, goodness, mercy, in his name.[62] Your power to justice doth submit your cause, Your goodness only is above the laws;[63] Whose rigid letter, while pronounced by you, Is softer made. So winds, that tempests brew, When through Arabian groves they take their flight, Made wanton with rich odours, lose their spite. And as those lees, that trouble it, refine The agitated soul of generous wine; So tears of joy, for your returning spilt, Work out, and expiate our former guilt. Methinks I see those crowds on Dover's strand, Who, in their haste to welcome you to land, Choked up the beach with their still growing store, And made a wilder torrent on the shore: While, spurred with eager thoughts of past delight, Those, who had seen you, court a second sight; Preventing still your steps, and making haste To meet you often wheresoe'er you past. How shall I speak of that triumphant day, When you renewed the expiring pomp of May!