To The Duchess Of York, On Her Return From Scotland In The Year 1682.

    When factious rage to cruel exile drove
    The queen of beauty,[1] and the court of love,
    The Muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts,
    And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts:
    Our fruitful plains to wilds and deserts turn'd
    Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'd,
    Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
    The great supporter of his awful throne.
    Love could no longer after beauty stay,
    But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
    As if the sun and he had lost their way.
    But now the illustrious nymph, return'd again,
    Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
    The wondering Nereids, though they raised no storm,
    Foreflow'd her passage, to behold her form:
    Some cried, A Venus; some, A Thetis, pass'd;
    But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.
    Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;
    And Envy did but look on her, and died.
    Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate,
    Her sight is purchased at an easy rate.
    Three gloomy years against this day were set,
    But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt:
    Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom,
    The famine past, the plenty still to come.
    For her the weeping heavens become serene;
    For her the ground is clad in cheerful green:
    For her the nightingales are taught to sing,
    And Nature has for her delay'd the spring.
    The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays;
    And Love, restored his ancient realm surveys,
    Recalls our beauties, and revives our plays;
    His waste dominions peoples once again,
    And from her presence dates his second reign.
    But awful charms on her fair forehead sit,
    Dispensing what she never will admit:
    Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver beam,
    The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
    Distemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate,
    No more shall vex the Church, and tear the State:
    No more shall Faction civil discords move,
    Or only discords of too tender love:
    Discord, like that of music's various parts;
    Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
    Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,
    Who best should love the Duke, and serve the King.