But why should James or his young hero stay
  For slight presages of a name or day? 
  We need no Edward’s fortune to adorn
  That happy moment when our prince was born: 
  Our prince adorns his day, and ages hence
  Shall wish his birth-day for some future prince.

    Great Michael, prince of all the ethereal hosts,
  And whate’er inborn saints our Britain boasts;
  And thou, the adopted patron of our isle,[174]
  With cheerful aspects on this infant smile:  150
  The pledge of Heaven, which, dropping from above,
  Secures our bliss, and reconciles his love.

    Enough of ills our dire rebellion wrought,
  When to the dregs we drank the bitter draught;
  Then airy atoms did in plagues conspire,
  Nor did the avenging angel yet retire,
  But purged our still increasing crimes with fire,
  Then perjured plots, the still impending Test,
  And worse—­but charity conceals the rest: 
  Here stop the current of the sanguine flood; 160
  Require not, gracious God, thy martyrs’ blood;
  But let their dying pangs, their living toil,
  Spread a rich harvest through their native soil: 
  A harvest ripening for another reign,
  Of which this royal babe may reap the grain.

   Enough of early saints one womb has given;
  Enough increased the family of Heaven: 
  Let them for his and our atonement go;
  And, reigning blest above, leave him to rule below.

    Enough already has the year foreshow’d 170
  His wonted course, the sea has overflow’d,
  The meads were floated with a weeping spring,
  And frighten’d birds in woods forgot to sing: 
  The strong-limb’d steed beneath his harness faints,
  And the same shivering sweat his lord attaints. 
  When will the minister of wrath give o’er? 
  Behold him at Araunah’s threshing-floor:[175]
  He stops, and seems to sheathe his flaming brand,
  Pleased with burnt incense from our David’s hand. 
  David has bought the Jebusite’s abode, 180
  And raised an altar to the living God.

    Heaven, to reward him, makes his joys sincere;
  No future ills nor accidents appear,
  To sully and pollute the sacred infant’s year. 
  Five months to discord and debate were given: 
  He sanctifies the yet remaining seven. 
  Sabbath of months! henceforth in him be blest,
  And prelude to the realm’s perpetual rest!

    Let his baptismal drops for us atone;
  Lustrations for offences not his own. 190
  Let Conscience, which is Interest ill disguised,
  In the same font be cleansed, and all the land baptized.