PALLAS

L Ooke, look! rejoice, and wonder! That you offending mortals are, (For all your crimes) so much the care Of him, that bears the thunder! JOVE can endure no longer, Your great ones should your less invade, Or, that your weak, though bade, be made A prey unto the stronger. And therefore, means to settle ASTRAEA in her seat again; And let down in his golden chain The age of better mettle. Which deed he does the rather, That even envy may behold Time not enjoyed his head of gold Alone beneath his father. But that his care conserveth As time, so all times honours too, Regarding still what heaven should do, And not what earth deserves. But hark, what tumult from yonder cave is herd! What noise, what strife, what earthquake and alarms! As troubled Nature, for her maker, feared; And all the iron-age were up in arms! Hide me, soft cloud, from their prophaner eyes, Till insolent rebellion take the field, And as their spirits, with their counsels, rise, I frustrate all, with showing but my shield. SO change, and perish, scarcely knowing, how, That'gainst the gods do take so vain a vow: And think to equal with your mortal dates, Their lives that are obnoxious to no fates, 'Twas time appear, and let their follies see against whom they fought, and with what destiny Die all, the can-remaine of you, but stone, And that be seen a while, and then be none. Now, now, descend you both beloved of JOVE, And of the good on earth no less the love, Descend you long long wished, and wanted pair, And as your softer times divide the air, So shake all clouds off, with your golden hair, For spite is spent: the iron age is fled, And, with her power on earth, her name is dead. If not, they harm themselves, not you. Welcome to earth and reign. Leave that to JOVE: therein you are No little partly of his MINERVA'S care. Expect a while. You farre-fam'd spirits of this happy I'll, That, for your sacred songs have gained the style Of PHŒBUS sons: whose notes they air aspire Of th'old Egyptian , or the Thracian lyre, That Chaucer, Gower, Lidgate, Spencer hight Put on your better flames, and larger light, To wait upon the age that shall your names new nourish, Since virtue pressed shall grow, and buried arts shall flourish. Then see you yonder souls, set far within the shade, And in Elysian bowers the blessed seats do keep, That for their living good, now semigods are made, And went away from earth, as if but tamed with sleep: These we must join to wake; for these are of the strain That justice dare defend, and will the age sustain. Thus PALLAS throws a lightning from her shield. No tumour of and iron vain. The causes shall not come again. Then earth unploughed shall yield her crop, Pure honey from the oak shall drop, The fountain shall run milk: The thistle shall the lily bear, And every bramble roses wear, And every worm make silk. But here's not all: you must do more, Or else you do but half restore The ages liberty.