XV.

His palms, though under weights they did not stand, Still thrived;[14] no winter could his laurels fade: Heaven, in his portrait, shewed a workman's hand, And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.

Peace was the prize of all his toil and care, Which war had banished, and did now restore: Bolognia's walls thus mounted in the air, To seat themselves more surely than before.[15]

Her safety rescued Ireland to him owes;[16] And treacherous Scotland, to no interest true, Yet blest that fate which did his arms dispose Her land to civilize, as to subdue.[17]

Nor was he like those stars which only shine, When to pale mariners they storms portend; He had his calmer influence, and his mien Did love and majesty together blend.

'Tis true, his countenance did imprint an awe, And naturally all souls to his did bow; As wands of divination downward draw, And point to beds where sovereign gold doth grow.[18]

When past all offerings to Feretrian Jove,[19] He Mars deposed, and arms to gowns made yield; Successful councils did him soon approve, As fit for close intrigues, as open field.

To suppliant Holland he vouchsafed a peace, Our once bold rival of the British main; Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease, And buy our friendship with her idol, gain.[20]