France does in vain her feeble arts apply,
  To interrupt the fortune of your course: 
Your influence does the vain attacks defy
  Of secret malice, or of open force.

Boldly we hence the brave commencement date
  Of glorious deeds, that must all tongues employ;
William’s the pledge and earnest given by fate,
  Of England’s glory, and her lasting joy.

ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY[1]

Moor Park, Feb. 14, 1691.

I

As when the deluge first began to fall,
  That mighty ebb never to flow again,
When this huge body’s moisture was so great,
  It quite o’ercame the vital heat;
That mountain which was highest, first of all
Appear’d above the universal main,
To bless the primitive sailor’s weary sight;
And ’twas perhaps Parnassus, if in height
  It be as great as ’tis in fame,
  And nigh to Heaven as is its name;
So, after the inundation of a war,
When learning’s little household did embark,
With her world’s fruitful system, in her sacred ark,
  At the first ebb of noise and fears,
Philosophy’s exalted head appears;
And the Dove-Muse will now no longer stay,
But plumes her silver wings, and flies away;
  And now a laurel wreath she brings from far,
  To crown the happy conqueror,
  To show the flood begins to cease,
And brings the dear reward of victory and peace.

II

The eager Muse took wing upon the waves’ decline,
  When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew,
  When the bright sun of peace began to shine,
And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat,
  On the high top of peaceful Ararat;
And pluck’d a laurel branch, (for laurel was the first that grew,
The first of plants after the thunder, storm and rain,)
  And thence, with joyful, nimble wing,
  Flew dutifully back again,
And made an humble chaplet for the king.[2]
  And the Dove-Muse is fled once more,
(Glad of the victory, yet frighten’d at the war,)
  And now discovers from afar
  A peaceful and a flourishing shore: 
    No sooner did she land
  On the delightful strand,
  Than straight she sees the country all around,
  Where fatal Neptune ruled erewhile,
Scatter’d with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens crown’d,
    And many a pleasant wood;
  As if the universal Nile
  Had rather water’d it than drown’d: 
It seems some floating piece of Paradise,
  Preserved by wonder from the flood,
Long wandering through the deep, as we are told
      Famed Delos[3] did of old;
  And the transported Muse imagined it
To be a fitter birth-place for the God of wit,
      Or the much-talk’d-of oracular grove;
  When, with amazing joy, she hears
An unknown music all around,