In that wild deluge where the world was drowned, When life and sin one common tomb had found, The first small prospect of a rising hill With various notes of joy the ark did fill: Yet when that flood in its own depths was drowned, It left behind it false and slippery ground; And the more solemn pomp was still deferred, 'Till new-born nature in fresh looks appeared. Thus, Royal Sir, to see you landed here, Was cause enough of triumph for a year: Nor would your care those glorious joys repeat, 'Till they at once might be secure and great; 'Till your kind beams, by their continued stay, Had warmed the ground, and called the damps away. Such vapours, while your powerful influence dries, Then soonest vanish when they highest rise. Had greater haste these sacred rites prepared, Some guilty months had in your triumphs shared;[68] But this untainted year is all your own, Your glories may without our crimes be shown. We had not yet exhausted all our store, When you refreshed our joys by adding more: As heaven, of old, dispensed celestial dew, You gave us manna, and still gave us new. Now our sad ruins are removed from sight, The season too comes fraught with new delight: Time seems not now beneath his years to stoop, Nor do his wings with sickly feathers droop: Soft western winds waft o'er the gaudy spring, And opened scenes of flowers and blossoms bring, To grace this happy day, while you appear, Not king of us alone, but of the year. All eyes you draw, and with the eyes the heart; Of your own pomp yourself the greatest part: Loud shouts the nation's happiness proclaim, And heaven this day is feasted with your name. Your cavalcade the fair spectators view, From their high standings, yet look up to you. From your brave train each singles out a prey, And longs to date a conquest from your day. Now charged with blessings while you seek repose, Officious slumbers haste your eyes to close; And glorious dreams stand ready to restore The pleasing shapes of all you saw before. Next to the sacred temple you are led, Where waits a crown for your more sacred head. How justly from the church that crown is due, Preserved from ruin, and restored by you! The grateful choir their harmony employ, Not to make greater, but more solemn joy. Wrapt soft and warm your name is sent on high, As flames do on the wings of incense fly. Music herself is lost; in vain she brings Her choicest notes to praise the best of kings: Her melting strains in you a tomb have found, And lie like bees in their own sweetness drowned. He, that brought peace, all[69] discord could atone, His name is music of itself alone. Now while the sacred oil anoints your head, And fragrant scents, begun from you, are spread