Behold another Sylvester,[168] to bless
  The sacred standard, and secure success;
  Large of his treasures, of a soul so great,
  As fills and crowds his universal seat. 
  Now view at home a second Constantine;
  (The former too was of the British line;)[169] 90
  Has not his healing balm your breaches closed,
  Whose exile many sought, and few opposed? 
  Or, did not Heaven by its eternal doom
  Permit those evils, that this good might come? 
  So manifest, that even the moon-eyed sects
  See whom and what this Providence protects. 
  Methinks, had we within our minds no more
  Than that one shipwreck on the fatal Ore,[170]
  That only thought may make us think again,
  What wonders God reserves for such a reign. 100
  To dream that Chance his preservation wrought,
  Were to think Noah was preserved for nought;
  Or the surviving eight were not design’d
  To people Earth, and to restore their kind.

    When humbly on the royal babe we gaze,
  The manly lines of a majestic face
  Give awful joy:  ’tis Paradise to look
  On the fair frontispiece of Nature’s book: 
  If the first opening page so charms the sight,
  Think how the unfolded volume will delight! 110

    See how the venerable infant lies
  In early pomp; how through the mother’s eyes
  The father’s soul, with an undaunted view,
  Looks out, and takes our homage as his due. 
  See on his future subjects how he smiles,
  Nor meanly flatters, nor with craft beguiles;
  But with an open face, as on his throne,
  Assures our birthrights, and assumes his own. 
  Born in broad day-light, that the ungrateful rout
  May find no room for a remaining doubt; 120
  Truth, which itself is light, does darkness shun,
  And the true eaglet safely dares the sun.

   Fain would the fiends[171] have made a dubious birth,
  Loath to confess the Godhead clothed in earth: 
  But sicken’d, after all their baffled lies,
  To find an heir-apparent of the skies: 
  Abandon’d to despair, still may they grudge,
  And, owning not the Saviour, prove the judge.

   Not great AEneas[172] stood in plainer day,
  When, the dark mantling mist dissolved away, 130
  He to the Tyrians show’d his sudden face,
  Shining with all his goddess mother’s grace: 
  For she herself had made his countenance bright,
  Breathed honour on his eyes, and her own purple light.

   If our victorious Edward,[173] as they say,
  Gave Wales a prince on that propitious day,
  Why may not years, revolving with his fate,
  Produce his like, but with a longer date;
  One, who may carry to a distant shore
  The terror that his famed forefather bore? 140