CARMEN NATALITIUM.  
TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Duke of Gloucester. AN HEROIC POEM.  
Tu modo nascenti Puero, quo ferrea primum  
Desinet, ac toto surget gens aurea mundo,  
Casta, fave, Lucina—  Virg. 
LONDON: Printed for A. Baldwin in Warwick-lane, 1700.   

TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Duke of Gloucester.  

URANIA, Fairest of the Sacred Nine,  
Let this Blessed MORN wake thy whole Choir Divine;  
A Subject so sublime, enough t'inspire,  
And singly tune the whole Phaebaean Lyre:  
Not the Wing'd Courser, when he struck your Fount,  
To more Exalted Heights could ever mount.  
A Theme, to Warm the very God of Day,  
And Brighten even th' Apollinary Ray.   

Yes, GLORY, GLORY, thou'rt the Mighty Theme,  
GLORY, of Heaven the Richest Borrowed Beam.  
But e'er the Sallies of the Muse essay  
To circuit thy Unbounded Empire's Sway;  
Let me invoke a Power, that best can stretch  
His Heavenly View to that Expanded Reach.   

Thou Twin-faced God, who op'st thy Temple Doors,  
When the Sky lours, and War's rough Tempest roars;  
Where th' Armed Destroyer's, in their bending Steel,  
With their uplifted ponderous Gauntlets, kneel.  
But when the Bloody Flag hangs out no more;  
No Halcyon Choirs do in Thy Walls adore.  
Thy Gates are all barred up▪ No fragrant Air  
Of Rosy Sweets; thy Shrines no Garlands wear:  
Flutes, Timbrels, Songs of Peace, are banished there.  
Great JANUS, thou whose Double Front looks over  
Whole Ages; all Behind thee, and Before:  
TIME's great Surveyor, thou whose Prospects spread  
Through that vast Airy Wild, Th' Unborn and Dead.  
Airy indeed, when we can only call  
The Present Ours, and Moment's are our All.  
Beyond the narrow Now, thou wanderest o'er  
Either what Is not yet, or Is no more.  
Hard-doomed Mortality, if this be all  
Thy boasted Footing on the Mighty Ball.  
If, MAN, thy Fabric on this Basis stands,  
And this short Grasp is all thy Power commands;  
Oh thou poor Lord of Worlds, this Frame Divine  
All built for Thee, and yet so Little Thine!   

So Little? No: Thou'st All. Add the Great SOUL.  
To th' Human Span, and then outreach the Pole.  
Then the true Lord of Worlds, th' Heroic Mind  
Builds Thrones so Lasting, reigns so Unconfined:  
Though short our Glass and numbered Minutes told;  
The Sands of FAME run Inexhausted GOLD.   

True GLORY never sleeps in Beds of Clay:  
Her Flowery Garlands ever fresh and gay,  
While Ages make but one long Coronation-Day.  
For Boundless GLORY the vast Round wants Room:  
She fills the whole Great Three, Past, Present, and to Come.   

If GLORY then, Urania, plumes thy Wing;  
And thy Exalted Airs must GLOUCESTER sing;  
Take the fair Prospect of his Beauteous MORN,  
The Infant Glories which that BROW adorn.  
And where the Phosphor does such Light display;  
Leave the World Judge of the Meridian Day.   

When Albion's SUN Eclipsed, Great NASSAV rod,  
With Drums and Trumpets Sounds, to aid the Labouring God;  
Did Light from her Invading Shades restore;  
And bid our Laws and Altars shine once more:  
'Twas here the Great IMMORTAL, to survey  
The glorious Toil of that propitious Day,  
As at his own Great Six Days Labour stood;  
He viewed the Finished Work, and saw 'twas Good.   

But can Great NASSAV finish all? Ah no.  
Can single Hands through Endless Labours go?  
To raise Immortal Structures to their Height,  
The Founder does but half the Work of Fate.  
T' uphold the Pile He raised, Designs so Great,  
A Line of WORTHIES only can complete.  
That Work, THOU, then Unborn, Thy Stars decree:  
Th' Almighty Consult sat, and called forth THEE.   

Born for these Ends, the Scheme of Fate thus laid;  
When Thee the HERO His Adoption made,  
At the Great FONT He promised in Thy Name,  
Not half the Wonders of Thy Race of Fame;  
Far short of what th' All-knowing Powers foresee,  
In the Great Cause of heavens reserved for Thee.   

Whilst for this Fruit, this STEM of Britain springs,  
The Veins of HERO's, and the Seed of KINGS;  
To raise this BIRTH, to Divine Pallas Charge  
His Guardian Powers assign a Trust so large.  
glittering in Arms her Nursing Hand she brings,  
Whilst even the Gauntlet, holds the Leading-strings.  
Bright Armour, here, her Nurseries Delight;  
Her Gorgon and Medusa Charm, not Fright.  
T'her Cradle-Care the Martial Goddess comes,  
And only Lulls Him with her Steel and Plumes.  
No fond Lucina's Song, no tinkling Toy;  
The Music of the WAR must Rock the BOY;  
Not to His Sleep, but to His waking Joy.  
MARS even in Miniature His Soul inspires:  
He feels a Heat, tho' but from Lambent Fires.  
Even when so Young, e'er th' Intellectual Light  
Can furnish Reason for th' Heroic Flight;  
Long e'er slow Nature to those Heights could rise;  
Visions of GLORY played before His Eyes.  
So Early warmed with what so Brightly shined,  
With that Career his active Genius ran;  
That leaping o'er an Age He left behind,  
He Slept, the INFANT; but He Dreamt, the MAN.   

HERO's, like Poets, are not made, but Born;  
Valour's true Heat warms even their Dawning Morn.  
Thus young Alcides, when his Hissing Foes,  
With their forked Vengeance to his Cradle risen,  
His first Immortal Infant Sally makes,  
Undaunted he attacks the crested Snakes;  
Grasps their crushed Throats in his Victorious Hands;  
And crowns the conqueror in his Swathing Bands.   

All the same Animating Spirit here,  
The same the Courage; not the Danger near:  
No; Thou Great Heir of Smiles, All Born for Joy,  
No Juno's Spite would these young Hopes destroy.   

Nor wonder that this Godlike GENIUS reigns,  
When 'tis no more than what Thou ow'st thy VEINS;  
Born from that SIRE, whose Patriot Arm once held  
His COUNTRY's sharpest Sword and toughest Shield.  
No Hand more Daring for the Laurel pushed:  
In Fields of Blood his very Nonage flushed.  
His Early Leading VALOUR fixed in Fame,  
Whilst Lunden and Landscroon shall have a Name.  
'Twas thus He set out in the Martial Race;  
Till his calm Bowers of BLISS ended the Chase.   

A Plant of GLORY in so Rich a Bed,  
By such Hereditary Nurture fed,  
When Princely Stems such forward Blossoms bring;  
From such kind Suns ne'er wonder at the Spring.  
Nay for yet more kind cheering Beams, to shoot  
The early spreading Bloom from such a ROOT:  
Thou Royal Nursery in Arts and Arms,  
Thy Darling Pallas in her Double Charms;  
To cultivate so all Divine a Soil,  
Here both the Mars and the Apollo smile:  
Led by such Aiding Powers, when on each Hand  
Th' Instructing Hero and Learned Prelate stand;  
Well may thy Youth take that Pellaean Flight,  
Betwixt the Clitus and the Stagyrite.   

But if the Martial Bolts so early Charm,  
And even thy Cretan Cradle glows so warm:  
When full-blown GLORY thy Crowned Head shall see;  
Then, when some mighty Cause, all worthy Thee;  
What if the Enslaved Christendom once more,  
Thee our succeeding JOVE's kind Aid implore;  
Her Groans all echoing to Thy Albion Walls,  
Whilst the Chained Virgin the Wing'd Perseus calls;  
With thy Great FATHER than thy Veins inspired,  
With the whole Transmigrated NASSAV fired;  
With those united Native Genii filled,  
And all that Immortality can build;  
To send Thee Forth in HONOUR's Noblest Race,  
Some Tyrant Hunter of the World to chase;  
With Keener Thunder from a Forge more warm,  
The sweeting Cyclops must supply that ARM.   

But is't Heroic Virtue only reigns  
The Great Descendant in Young gloucester's Veins?  
No; 'tis not only One bright GEM Divine  
Makes the whole Orient Treasure from that MINE.  
If Nature's Stamps are Copies of the Kind;  
If Founts make Streams; and SOULS their Channels find:  
If SONS can their Paternal VIRTVES' Heir,  
What must the BIRTH produce from such a PAIR?   

No wanderer of the Skies; here the Fixed JOVE,  
Unwishing and Untaught to Range or Rove,  
One Boundless Joy his LOVE's whole Heaven supplies;  
Melts his Eternal Day in JVNO's Eyes.  
Such Love, Faith, Honour, in one Chaplet twined;  
For ever Verdant, all true Lawrel-kind:  
How had Crowns been Adored, and Kingdoms Blest,  
Had Thy Fair SOUL filled every Royal Breast!  
Their Leading Lights but with Thy Lustre shone,  
To set the World such COPIES from a Throne!   

Look back, Great Janus, with a glowing Face;  
Thy own all Scarlet, tell th' unblushing Race,  
Had such Exampled Virtues ruled the Day;  
Nature her bright Original might boast:  
Her Golden Age, without one course Alloy,  
The Vndegenerate World had never lost.  
Yes, Radiant VIRTUE, where Thy Influence,  
Thy powerful Aspect does its Smiles dispense,  
It is not Worlds alone thy Blessings share:  
What can't Thy Reign! The Great DISPENSER there  
That vast Dominion to thy Hand has given,  
At once to bless the Earth, and people Heaven.   

Great DENMARK, thus, in Thy Bright Orb of LOVE,  
Where all these Constellated Graces move;  
Their spreading Beams around whole Ages cast,  
T' adorn the Present, and to shame the Last.  
Be it Thy Pride (oh whither can I raise  
My soaring Muse to such Seraphic Praise!)  
Had all Blessed Nuptials such a Bridegroom Lord;  
And every Hymen worn thy stainless Robe:  
The unavenging GOD had never poured  
His Deluge down to wash the Spotted Globe.   

Now change, Urania, to new glittering Scenes;  
And tune thy Airs to GLOC ' STER's British Veins.  
Drive, drive around that bright Imperial Sphere:  
And trace Him from his SOURCE of GLORY here.  
Here, when the Dazzling Heights thy Eye shall see,  
Exert thy high-tuned Voice, but lower thy Knee.  
At thy Approach, with Duteous Homage bow.  
Here view Bright EXCELLENCE, that Awful BROW,  
Beloved Above; that Favourite ROYAL HEAD,  
Rich with the Blessings of a Fruitful BED:  
Her Sex's Noblest Pride; all smiling round,  
With the whole Joys of a Glad MOTHER crowned.  
MOTHER, the Name, that even from Death can save:  
The Fertile Womb stops the Devouring Grave.  
MOTHER; oh Thine is the Great ALL we see;  
Nature's whole Hinge turns here, and the World lives by Thee.  
The Great FIRST MOVER's only Second, THOU;  
When his new World with his own IMAGE blest,  
The Great CREATOR stamped but the First Two;  
And left it all to Thee to mould the rest.  
WOMAN, where's Thy Exalted Honour placed?  
MOTHER, a Name OMNIPOTENCE once Graced!  
Blessed with this more than Title to a Crown,  
Britannia's Happiness so all her own,  
Behold her handing endless Blessings down.  
'Tis less to Fill than to Support a Throne.   

Behold her in her own Despotic Walls,  
With Plans of Empire laid, in Wisdom's School  
So Learned, so worthy Crowns, when Albion calls;  
By Nature no less Formed, than Born for Rule.  
Here to her Helm that steering Hand she brings,  
Scarce less the Envy than the Heir of Kings:  
Guides with that Regular Harmonious Sway;  
As Angels serve in Heaven, 'tis Glory to obey.  
She rules a Kingdom in a Court alone,  
And reigns a Monarch even Beneath a Throne.   

Nor does her Greatness only bear this Port,  
Her Closet's not less Shining, than her Court.  
To her Loved Altars more unsbaken Zeal,  
Or humbler Votary could never Kneel.  
Yet not that rapt Enthusiast, to throw  
The despised Globe beneath her Feet too low:  
T'her GOD and to Her Self the Right she gives,  
Whilst the Knee bends for what the Brow receives.  
No Royal Hand e'er held the Scales more even,  
Betwixt the well-read World and studied Heaven.  
Of all Her whole Court-Train, each Menial GRACE;  
The Fairest of the Great Celestial Race,  
Bright CHARITY, with her extended Hands,  
(Not only Hers, but heavens best Darling) stands.  
Well she reflects, as the Great WILL designed  
The Princely Heads the Lights to cheer Mankind;  
The Godlike GOOD the Godlike GREAT must join:  
For Goodness warms, where Greatness does but shine.  
What bending Knees can such Bright MERCY want!  
The Clothed and Fed her Bounteous Pity chant.  
In Grateful Praise their cheerful Numbers move,  
Measures, all tuned to th' Endless Songs Above.  
Offerings of Gratitude in Heaven are made:  
For Hallelujahs are but Thanks well paid.   

But whether stooping to Relieve Distress,  
Or shine Rewarded Virtue's Patroness;  
She showers her Goodness with no random Hand:  
Justice and Judgement her Court-Stewards stand.  
To lend a Succo'ring Arm or Listening Ear,  
Thinks where she Favours, where she Smiles she weighs:  
For the Descending Royal Graces here,  
'Tis Merit must the Jacob's Ladder raise.   

Blessed with such PARENTAGE, such on each Side,  
Illustrious GLOUCESTER, thy Descending Pride;  
What canst Thou promise from this STOCK alone,  
Thou, to thy Self; from Thee, th' Expecting Throne?  
Thus challenge all thy Godlike SOURCE can give.  
From thy Rich Tagus the whole Sands derive:  
At once to all the Rougher VIRTUES born  
That Conquer Crowns; and Gentler, that Adorn.   

But Thou Great HEIR to every smiling GRACE,  
Thy Inborn GLORIES sprung from thy Great RACE,  
Whilst the all charmed Britannia, to behold  
Her growing HOPE stamped in that Beauteous Mould,  
Unwondring sees the Royal Roses spread;  
All Genuine Sweets from such an Eden BED;  
Rapt up even to thy Rivalled MOTHER's Joy,  
Views the Ascanius to her happier Troy:  
Yet here, even here, in this Harmonious Day,  
A Watery Cloud to this Bright Sun must rise;  
(Can there be Shades that can such JOYS alloy!)  
One Tear must drop even from Britannia's Eyes!  
Well she remembers from that Sacred ROOT,  
She saw the Lovely Numerous CYONS shoot.  
She dares not Murmur at Decrees Divine;  
But give her Leave to Mourn, tho' not Repine.  
Were those Sweet Pledges all but Lent, not Given?  
What has that Genial BED Deserved from Heaven!  
Can Providence here too profusely pay?  
Why then such Charms so early snatched away!   

So have I seen the Morning Star appear;  
Just peeps its Glorious Head above our Sphere:  
Scarce seen 'tis gone, Set almost e'er it can Rise;  
Not in the Western but the Eastern Skies:  
The vanishing short Brightness from our Sight  
All Lost, and Swallowed up in DAY's Immenser Light.   

If all the MERITS of that Bridal Bed,  
A Force to wrestle Heaven, in vain could plead:  
If Albion's Prayers; ten thousand thousand Knees,  
Of Fate implored in vain— If These, all These—  
Nay not a Stream from the Fair ROYAL EYE,  
That Bribe of Richer Pearl could Mercy buy.  
If still Fate strikes; and the Remorseless Dooms,  
Have Hearts so hard, to cut such Tender Looms:  
Here heaven-born Sisters, on this Mournful Theme,  
Call your Bright Patron God's Divinest Beam;  
T'exhale a Shower from your Castalian Stream.  
Yes; all your melting Hippocrene's too poor,  
To sprinkle every Rose, each Fragrant Flower,  
That twines the Garlands o'er those Infant TOMBS;  
And with its Pendant Sweets the little Urn perfumes.   

Then in soft Numbers (Numbers best Complain!)  
Tell the Great Lords of the Eternal Reign,  
Is Heaven so poor, to snatch such Bloom away;  
Such Young Translation to Immortal Day!  
Did their Imperfect Songs want to inspire  
More Triple Voices for their Angel Choir!  
Or to adorn the Galaxy more bright,  
Wanted their Milky Way new Spangled Light?   

But whether leads this Melancholy Way;  
This Gloomy Scene of Graves?— Stay, wanderers stay.  
Walk not in Shades, when all around ye Shines:  
What, tho' the Muses, at those Sacred SHRINES,  
In pious Grief too much can never pay!  
Yet Piety itself sometimes may stray.  
Suit these sad Plaints with this Triumphant-Day?  
No, cheered Britannia, let all Joys go round;  
Thy Loftier Airs all Io Paeans sound.  
Tho' thy too niggard Stars no kinder shine,  
Here thy Great ALL from that Rich Fruitful MINE:  
Boast, Albion, boast thy vast Unbounded Store,  
This JEWEL, tho' the Carract's Thine no more.  
What tho' thy Hopes move in one single SPHERE?  
Are Glory, Power, Dominion, curtailed here?  
Stands not thy whole Great Basis safe alone  
In this Young Growing ATLAS of thy Throne?   

What though an angry Sibyl in one Urn  
Did all those Great oraculous Volumes burn!  
Still Time's long Glass (to Numbers unconfined)  
The Unfolded Destinies she left behind.  
Whole FATE in her surviving Pages shined.   

So GLOUCESTER, may the blessed Britannia see  
Her Hopes, her Happiness, all summed in THEE.  
Oh may kind Heaven preserve that Darling HEAD:  
And whither can't Diffusive GLORY spread?  
One Great Copernick CENTRE can disperse  
His Circling Beams around the Universe.   

But whilst of such Immortal SEEDS I sing,  
The Promised Harvest from so Rich a Spring;  
Oh may my Muse, on that Illustrious Theme,  
Chant with the Ancient Bards Enlightening Beam.  
Poets of Old with a Prophetic Tongue,  
Not Past alone, but Unborn GLORIES sung.  
Their kinder God then Doubly did Inspire;  
Not only tuned their Numbers to his Lyre;  
But warmed 'em with a Spark from his own Delphic Fire.   

Thus may my Muse, Young PRINCE, Thy GROWTH foretell;  
(Oh Seal it Heaven; here stamp the Oracle!)  
May those Bright HEADS, far, far beyond thy own,  
Thy long Successive Heirs to th' Albion Throne,  
From Thee th' unbroken Line of HEROES run,  
Till the whole Great Platonic Circle's done.  
Rapt up to this High ORB; vain Muse retire:  
Farewell to Numbers, and thy Humbler Choir.  
Let Great PREDESTINATION tune this SPHERE.  
I'll quit the Poet for the Prophet here.   
FINIS.