Mel Heliconium or, Poeticall Honey, Gathered out of The Weeds of Parnassus ... By Alexander Rosse |
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DEUCALION.
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 | CHAP. IV. D Mel Heliconium |  |
DEUCALION.
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The happinesse of Britain.
Clap hands, O happy British clime,Thrice happy, if thou knew the time
Of this thy happinesse:
Wherein thou dost injoy sweet peace,
With health, and freedom, and increase
Of wealth and godlinesse.
Thy roses and thy thistles blow,
Thy fields with milk and honey flow,
Thy ships like mountains trace
In Neptunes watry Kingdom; and
With traffick they inrich thy land
And goods from every place:
From where the morning wings are spread,
From where the evenings face looks red,
And from the torrid Zone:
And from the pole and freezing Bares,
Thou furnishest thy self with wares,
And with provision.
Thou hast no foe to crosse thy gain,
Thy Altars are not made profane
With vain Idolatry:
Thy Priests are cloath'd with holinesse,
Thy Saints sing all with joyfulnesse,
And calm security.
Here each man may at leasure dine
Under the shadow of his vine;
Thou hear'st no Canons rore:
Thou hear'st not Drums and Trumpets sound,
Dead carkasses spread not thy ground;
Thy land's not red with goare:
Thy Temples Hymns and Anthemns ring,
And Panegyricks to the King
Of this great Universe;
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Gods Word like Nectar, who can all
Thy happinesse rehearse?
Sure thou art that Pernassus hill,
On which Deucalion did dwell
When all the earth was drown'd:
So whil'st the earth now swims in blood,
And men walk through in a Crimson flood,
Thy head with peace is crown'd.
Here all the Muses with their King,
Bay-brow'd Apollo sit and sing
Their envied quietnesse:
So nothing's wanting as we see,
To make thee blest, except it be
Submissive thankfulnesse.
Here we have just Deucalions
Who make wise men of stupid stones,
And who behinde them cast
The love of earth; whose innocence
Keeps off the flood of wars from hence,
So that our hill stands fast.
Much of this happinesse we gain
By him, whose sacred brows sustain
The three-fold Diadem
Of these Sea-grasping Isles, whose ground
Joves brother doth not onely round,
But as his own doth claim.
Great God, prime author of our peace,
Let not this happinesse decrease,
But let it flourish still:
Take not thy mercie from this land,
Nor from the man of thy right hand,
So shall we fear no ill.
| CHAP. IV. D Mel Heliconium | |