Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LONDONS RESURRECTION, by SIMON FORD


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LONDONS RESURRECTION, by                    
First Line: My salamander-muse, which newly sprung
Last Line: Ev'n so to die, that so she might arise.
Subject(s): London Fire (1666); Great Fire Of 1666


My Salamander-Muse, which newly sprung
From London's Fires, her Mother-Furies sung;
Wreath'd with a lambent Flame; then view'd the waste,
And in her Arms the dear Remains embrac'd,
A new Birth's pledg; and (lastly) scourg'd the Crimes
Which mark'd with London's Brands our dismal Times:
Turn'd Phoenix now, claps her new-imped Wings,
And the New City's Resurrection sings.
Would Orpheus lend me his renowned Lyre,
Or brisk Amphion's Lute my Song inspire!
Their Airs (perhaps) might turn my Verse to Charm,
And raise faln London without Tool or Arm.
My mighty Rhimes should quickly (then) remove
Th' Hercynian Forest, and Dodona's Grove.
From Climes remote, the cap'ring Trees should meet
Within its Gates; and in each ruin'd Street
(Squar'd by a Wish) to ev'ry place assign'd
Dispose themselves after the Builder's mind.
This Quill should dig down Mountains, and my Muse
The list'ning Marbles from their Beds seduce.
Th' whole Parian Quarrey should obey her calls,
And march a Voluntier to London's Walls.
Yea, the glad Mason should sit by, and play,
Whiles massy Rocks both square themselves, and lay.
But she (poor Girl) such high attempts disclaims,
Content her Power give measure to her Aims.
Accept her kindness (though) in what she's skill'd:
To bless, and press, is virtually to build.
Words link'd in Numbers, (though they be but wind)
Have help'd to do, what Force in vain design'd.
Who blows the Trumpet, though he ne're engage,
Governs the Fight, and whets the Fighter's Rage.
Permit (Great Prince) my Swan-like Muse to sing
Her Farwel-Notes under your sacred Wing.
Poets, as Cities, hardly e're rise high,
But under th' Influence of Majesty.
London, and I, equal Ambitions have
By Your sole Aspect to survive the Grave.
Nor let displeasure seize Your Sacred Breast,
'Cause my First Muse to meaner Names addrest.
Safe flights, as then, doubting her Wing, she flew;
But meant those lower Perches Stairs to You.
So the young Bird, before she trusts the Skye,
From Twig to Twig, doth rather hop than flye.
Then, takes a Neighbour-Tree, till past her frights,
She feels her strength, and dares the greatest heights.
And, (though Your Name bespangle all my Verse,
Yet) whiles Attendant on so sad an Herse;
Too much like an ill omen 'twould have shown,
In mourning Blacks to have approach'd the Throne.
But now, sith London springing from her Tomb,
(Your Royal Work) my Royal Theme's become:
Both by an equal Title are Your due,
As both Her Founder, and her Poems too.
You, when the City by desponding flight
Yeelded the Flames an undisputed Right;
Sounded th' Alarm, and by a fresh Array
Renew'd the ONSET, and restor'd the Day.
Your prudent Acts, confounded Rights decide,
And fix the Bounds to potent Neighbour's Pride.
Your Three-fold League all Foreign Warrs accords,
And We to Spades and Tru'ls reform our Swords.
Janus's Temple now is triple-barr'd;
Our Drums are silent whiles our Laws are heard.
Devotion Heav'ns, Trade Earth's Riches brings:
The Plow-man whistles, and my Clio sings.
On, (Royal Sir) tile Your own Bounties o're,
And check our bashful Hopes by doing More.
Our Ruins yet afford Your Glories ground
To spread themselves, and make Your Reign renown'd.
Let next Age add, when they Your Titles sing,
London's Restorer, to Great Britain's King.
Till the old Founder more obscure is grown,
Not as out-dated now, but as out-done.
And Thou, Almighty Architect, whose Call
From Nothing's Womb produc'd this glorious All;
Which friendly Atoms in firm Nuptials ty'd,
Divorcing those which native Jars divide;
Which, from rude Justles in th' unbounded space,
Marshall'd each Being in its proper place:
Thou, whose Command we Christians firmly trust,
Shall re-compose us out of crumbled Dust;
When Limbs, which vastest Distances detain,
Shall travel till they meet and hugg again;
And mindful Souls shall once more know, and wed
Anew, those very Bodies whence they fled:
Thy Suppliants hear. The Work we call thee to,
Not mis-becomes Omnipotence to do.
Lo, here, a City to a Chaos turn'd,
Her Ashes scatter'd, and her Bones in urn'd!
Bring a like Power to a like Design;
And Resurrection with Creation twine.
Thus, while's on London's Stage thou shalt present
Our Faith an Instance, Hope a President:
Ev'n Atheism shall be disprov'd by Sense,
And blush to crave a farther Evidence.
Our Creed's hard knots, Example shall dissolve,
And what may be, by what hath been, resolve.
Joy to my Muse! Heav'n our Requests doth hear,
Our Prayers knock not at a bolted Ear.
Oft hungry Hopes with slow Reliefs are pin'd;
But we're twice answer'd both in speed and kind.
Hark! Th' Oracle its sacred Veil displays,
And [London Rise] the potent Whisper says.
Hail, Glorious Day; Maist thou be writ in Gold,
Which saw'st the Scepter'd Hand the Truel hold,
To lay that Stone, whence the Exchange became
Anew entitled to its Royal Name!
Henceforth, proud Pillar, to thy Readers view
Tell thine own story, and thy Founders too.
Fruitful Example! From the Royal hand
Each Artist now takes Pattern and Command.
Hark, how the clatt'ring Tools confused sound
Divides the Ear! The Pick-axe rends the ground
To load the Spade. Its Loads bestow'd between
The sifting Ridder, and the searching Skreen.
The Saw the File, the Ax the Grindstone whets;
The knotty Tree this hews, the other eats.
The Arm the Plane, and Maul the Chissel drives,
Through heart of Oak the groaning Auger dives.
The glowing Steel the weighty Sledges stroke
Beats into Form; which quench't doth hiss and smoak.
Room (next) for Miracles, profan'd by use;
The Issues of the fam'd Vitruvian Muse.
And that grave Architect's whose ominous Hand
Drew learned Lines on Syracusan Sand.
Whose dying Gore did the choice Figures drown,
And's dying weight in their Room stamp'd his own!
Here twisted Skrews, whiles planted on the ground,
They worm themselves through a like wreathed Round,
Prop tott'ring Roofs. Versatile Rundles there,
By equal Helps their fellows Burdens bear,
Transferr'd by clasping Ropes; whence greatest weights
By a small force are wound to greatest heights.
The Balance-Engine next, whose loaded End
The tenth part of its Burden makes t' ascend.
Nor is't less wondrous, that the vastest Beams,
On Cylinders supporting both Extreams,
Tough Levers roll; whiles every lifting Hand
One Interjection jointly doth command.
Thus goes the Building on. Confused grounds
Just Verdicts part; and (whiles they fix the bounds
To publique Streets by the Imperious Line)
Surveyors like unbounded Sov'raigns reign,
Each House clasps with its neighbour; and the Square
Each Front unto its fellow-wall doth pair.
And Sister-Piles, whiles thus they intermarry,
Like Sister-Faces, uniformly vary.
Lady Enchantress of the ravisht Ear,
Ne're did thy Art effect what Chance doth here!
Whiles building Noises by the pleased Mind
Are into all harmonious Notes combin'd,
Orpheus to us would grate, Apollo jarr:
Hammers and Truels sweeter Musick are.
By this one Spell each melancholy breast
Is of its Legion-Devil dispossest.
And where yet falling London's doleful Knell
Doth in retentive apprehensions dwell;
By Sympathetick Cure these joyful sounds
With glad Idea's heal the Phansies wounds.
The Fields are busie too. Bold Miners found
In paunched Hills a London under ground.
The Realm of Silence, and eternal Night,
Is startled at th' approach of Noise and Light.
Twin-stones long clasped in their Mother-bed,
Now sever'd, yeeld with Foreign Rocks to wed.
Each polisht Marble to a Mirour grows,
Mocks its own Work-man, and retorts his blows.
Here, the green Robe pull'd off, the unbowel'd ground
Affords a Clay, which with chopp'd stubble bound
First, the Sun fastens; then the brittle Cakes
The rapid Furnace to just hardness bakes:
An hardness that out-stands the fiercest show'rs
Which Heaven from its open'd sluces pow'rs;
Which Winter-Frosts can't mellow; and the Flame
It self that did beget it, cannot tame.
Scarce Flint or Marble lasts so long in prime:
This brittle Stone grind's out the teeth of Time.
With this th' Immortal queen built Babels Spires,
And with burnt Walls beguiled future Fires.
There, the Woods Glories fall, and where the Eye
Of Heav'n scarce pierc'd, now mortal sight doth pry.
The Shades by Horror hallow'd, th' early dawn
Admitted, doth illustrate and profane.
The rev'rend Oaks presumptuous Axes wound,
Meas'ring their lengths upon the furrow'd ground.
Whiles ratling Echo, (as great Talkers do)
Reports at distance every blow for two.
The Ring-Dove sees her lofty Nest o'rethrown,
And Turtles that their Love's bewrayed, moan:
The Magpy scolds whiles her arch'd Roof doth fall;
And sharking Rooks, their Camp dislodged, brawl;
The Hare forsakes her Form; the rowzed Deer
Their branch'd heads now above their Thickets rear;
And all the Game tall Forests us'd to shield,
Becomes a facile prey in th' open field.
The Trav'ler too, who setting forth, design'd
The crowned Hills, as certain Guides, to mind;
At his Return, admires the shaved Coast,
And finds his way, with his Directors, lost.
Yea, Foreign Realms contribute, Spain brings Steel,
Libanus Cedar sends, and Denmark Deal:
A chequer'd Gift the Sun-burnt India gives,
Whence th' whitest Tooth, and blackest Wood arrives:
Our Ireland Oak, on which no spider builds,
(Arachne sure hang'd on that Timber) yields.
Marbles come vary'd by their native grains.
This, untrod Snow with purer brightness stains:
That's pitchy black, a lump of solid Night:
There, bloody Veins creep through a lovely White:
Some in its speckled Face, heav'ns pourtrait bears,
An azure skie bespangled o're with Stars:
And some, (on which Medusa's Head did fall),
Wherein her Snakes seem still to hiss and crawl.
Nay, (would you think't? or Fame, my Author lies)
London by th' Great in forreign Lands doth rise.
Whiles the Dutch Artist takes his Module hence,
And sends us Houses ready-fram'd from thence,
The laden Sea foams, and the tugged Oar
Plies hard to towe a floating Town to shore.
And th' Eastern Wind (now a Repairer grown),
Blows up our buildings as it fir'd them down.
Whence, (sound's the Moral oft, when Tales are lame)
Some doubt New London may prove Amsterdam.
Nor think it strange, Cities should cross the Seas.
Wee Poets can do feats as great as these.
Wee, when the whole combined Earth beside
Unto a lab'ring Goddess Room deny'd;
Did float a Delos to her, and assign
A brace of Gods, a Birth-place and a Shrine.
From Naz'reth to Loretto, (quick as thought)
Our Tribe the Virgin Mothers Chamber brought:
Whence Pilgrim-Votaries, (and well they may)
To th' wandring Temple like Devotions pay.
Rowz'd with th' unwonted Noises, from his Bed,
The Royal Thames advanc'd his sindged Head.
At first amaz'd, (for still his troubled breast
With the late dismal Horrors was possest)
He wildly star'd around the scorched shore:
But when he saw it neatly clothed o're
With rising Structures; ravish'd with delight,
He gorg'd his Eyes with the surprising sight:
And thus he spake: 'O what Coelestial Powers
'(For nothing less could) did erect these Towers?
'Old Troy, two hired Gods did raise, 'tis said,
'And, though they wrought by th' Great, by halves were paid.
'The Virgin-Goddess built th' Athenian Town,
'And planted there the Olive, and the Gown.
'But such Romantick Tales will better be
'(London) in time, told and believ'd of Thee.
'Not jolly Thebes it self, to whose advance
'The merry Stones into the Walls did dance;
'Nor Dido's Town, in after-times too wide
'To be thought once encircled with an Hide;
'Nor Rome, (of old and still, the Scene of wonders)
'Whose Vatican Tarpejan Jove out-thunders;
'Nor She, that long hath both Romes Rival been,
'For Beauty, Empire, and the Man of Sin,
'Which (from her seven Hills too) once Sov'raigns gave
'To half the World, but now the whole doth crave;
'Nor dirty Paris, where the muddy Seine
'Swells big with Envy at the Christal Rhene;
'Nor Venice, round which th' Adriatick roars,
'And limns her Beauties to th' encircling shores;
'Nor stately Florence, (though their Proverb says,
'She's a sight only fit for Holy-days)
'Through which the rapid Arnus posting, stays,
'And from both Banks doth on her Glories gaze;
'Nor mighty Millain, with immortals bread
'In former Times by sweet-tongu'd Ambrose fed;
'Nor royal Naples, which two mischiefs tire,
'The Spanish Vapours, and Vesuvian Fire;
'Shall dare appear in a contest with Thee:
'But like mean Shrubs to lofty Oaks shall be.
'Let each fair Nymph exhaust her native Spring,
'And Royal Ayds to our Exchequer bring:
'VVith fresh supplies fill up my empty shores,
'Cloath every flat, and lift the grounded Oars.
'See, all the River's overspread with Sails,
'And the rude Barge-man jointly tugs and rails.
'Here, milk-white Chalk, from the unbowel'd hills
'Transform'd to Lime, the sluggish Lighters fills.
'There, th' easie-wrought Free-stone in western Boats
'Down my obsequious Current smoothly floats.
'This Oxford sends, (the Mother of its Pride)
'To all its noble Palaces ally'd,
'To Wolsey's vast and Bodley's lofty Stories,
'And (the great Prelate-Founders mounting Glories,
'To which ev'n Roman Grandeur must defer
'The Sov'raignty of Art) its Theater.
'And thee, (small Island, to the Dorset-strand
'Stuck, like a Glass-drop, with a Tongue of sand)
'We'l waft to Pauls, until again it be
'A taller Mark at Land, than thou at Sea.
'See! All my shores, one Timber-wharf are grown.
'And whole Woods ev'ry where on Heaps are thrown.
'My very Banks are peel'd. The Fish bewray'd
'In vain seek Covert from their plundred shade.
'Few whisp'ring Trees discourse my purling streams;
'Or daple them with percolated Beams.
'Yet on, kind Axe; no Vegetable spare;
'Rifle the Woods, and poll the Mountains bare.
'This Waste is Merit; May but London rise,
'We'l chide in Thanks, and count our Losses Prize.
Thus was he saying, when the Sailers shout
(The Timber-Fleet arriving) put him out.
The Cannons Thundred, and from under ground
The grateful Ruins did the Joy rebound:
Th' applauding Flood repli'd: and the grave Sire
Did, highly pleas'd, to's mossy Couch retire.
Mean while, the Streets are fill'd with busie throngs.
Tis doubtful, which sound loudest, Tools or tongues.
Some pray, some pay; some work, and some advise:
Some use their Hands, some rule those Hands with Eyes.
Thus, hast'ned Buildings th' Owners vote outgrow,
And to their Speed our very Hopes are slow.
So, the new Hive the active Swarm divides.
Some, with their Teeth file the uneven sides;
Some clear the Rubbish; others, by the Line
Here, a Whitehall, a Cheapside there, assign.
The humming Troop surveys the fragrant fields,
And from each Flow'r a gummy Birdlime peels:
Others, with joy receive their welcome load;
Which with warm breath bedew'd, they spread abroad;
Then, with smooth Tongues they lick th' obsequious mass
Into a Form which Reasons Art doth pass.
Thus, when th' industrious Ants design to dwell
In an old Oak, or Moles forsaken Cell,
The Field with little Myrmidons is sown;
And each clod crawls around the rising Town.
Here, strict Surveyors walk the destin'd round;
There, Pioneers level th' uneven Ground;
Whiles (like a routed Troop with shatter'd Spears)
Advanced Straws a scatter'd Squadron bears;
Which, cropp'd to fitting lengths, their fellows match,
And some for Rafters, some they lay for Thatch.
Their Shoulders some, some contribute their Skill,
Till to a Cone they mount the hollow Hill;
Whose chequer'd Fabrick, mixt of close and wide,
Admits the Wind, but turns the Shower beside.
On, gallant Londoners. Husband your Fate,
And clothe your Ruins with a Robe of State.
Prove Death the nobler Life: and stamp't a Truth,
Nature may circulate through Age to Youth.
Till they, who by the Old, New London Size,
Confess their Thoughts confuted by their Eyes:
As old Acquaintance, when mens Fortunes mend,
Find him a Courtier whom they left a Friend.
Till Citizens themselves, returned, stray
In the new-modul'd Streets, and lose their way:
Yea, London, whiles 'mong Stars she sows her Spires,
No less her self, then others Her, admires.
Thus, when the Gauls old Rome in Ashes laid,
And Jove himself in a false Balance weigh'd:
The valiant Exile built the City new,
And with her walls advanc'd her Glories too.
Whence she, that till then, (for so long a while)
Retain'd the Reliques of her base Asyle;
Whose Shepherds sheds with sorry Temples blended,
Reproach'd the meanness whence she was descended;
Whose each prime street some Hovell did avow,
VVhence a Dictator drove his Teem to plow;
VVhose wooden Gods by their own Altars flame
Themselves (well-nigh) a Sacrifice became;
VVhere Numa's Chappel had a Roof of Thatch,
And Vesta's Nuns her Harth with fear did watch:
Made then an youthful salley from her Grave,
And nought but wrinkles unto Death she gave.
Yea, (thanks to th' Gallick Conflagration) grew
More rich in after-times, and splendid too.
Mud-walls gave place to Marbles, and (compar'd)
Her golden Tops the Neighbour-Stars out-glar'd,
That by meer Beauties Right, she might have been
VVithout a Rival, th' Universes Queen.
May London copy all her Glories out:
Rise as Magnificent, nor less devout:
Religion, best, Cities foundations layes:
Be Rome therein her Pattern, as my Praise.
There, (not content, the cheap and sordid way,
In private Corners sacred Rites to pay)
As fast their Temples as their Homes they built,
And as themselves, their gods in Cedar dwelt,
Yea, statelier too. The Thund'rer cas'd in gold,
(Lately his Ransome) held his rescu'd hold.
Bright Phoebus's gilt beams out-glar'd his own,
And in white Metal Silver-Phoebe shone.
Now Marble Walls did Vesta's fires surround:
And Ears of richest yellow Ceres crown'd.
Old Saturn Sent'nell sate on golden Bars,
Queen Juno's Roof, like Heav'n, was ciel'd with Stars.
Snakes scal'd with Pearl the Virgin-Champion bare,
And Venus was as fine as she was fair.
Luster and Horror Mars's Arms combin'd,
And old Quirinus like his City shin'd.
Convinc'd, a second Fire they well might fear,
If their Shops statelier than their Altars were.
Yea, Memphis-self claims in my Song a place.
Glorious her Temples, though her Gods were base.
Here, Ibis vested in a Room of State:
And there, inthron'd, an ugly Monkey sate:
In richest Shrines the hallow'd Bull did bellow;
From like Roofs answer'd by his Female Fellow.
And shall not We a nobler Zeal express?
Sith more our Light, why should our Love be less?
Shame on our baseness if those Dunghil-gods
With great Jehovah vye and have the odds!
If Curr-Anubis Heaven's Lord excell;
And the true Thund'rer more obscurely dwell!
Say not, th' Eternal Mind delights to come
Into the pure Heart, not the Gaudy Room.
That th' Who, in Worship, sanctifie the Where:
And make a Barn, or Booth, an House of Prayer.
Thus Satan in a Samuel's Mantle sneaks,
Whiles Avarice Religious Language speaks!
But Wranglers, learn, He will in both reside,
Who (equally remov'd from Need and Pride)
Expects the best, scorns not the meanest Treat;
Val'uing in both the Welcome, not the Meat;
Gifts by the Mind, the Mind by them he weighs;
And as men give, by a like scale repays.
Ill Parsimony Purity pretends:
Nor is the worship Pure, where foul the Ends.
At least with thee, brave City, in whose frame
Both Art and Cost equally court a name,
Let Int'rest sway; lay not a train of Guilt,
Once more to blow up what thy Wealth hath built.
'Tis an affront too daring to be born,
When th' object of our Worship grows our Scorn.
Who shames, disclaims his God; whiles (meanly plac'd)
His House is by its Neighbouring Pomp disgrac'd.
Our Fathers (sure) were of a nobler strain,
VVhose Times we treat 'twixt Pity and Disdain.
Their Twilight-Zeal rais'd us the Churches, where
Those Lights have shin'd that made our Day so clear.
O let's not tempt Posterity to call
Those the worse Christians that let 'em fall!
And (sith Church-founding's now my Muses Aim)
Thou Rev'rend Pauls her first Essay maist claim.
VVhether the Royal Charles in Thee design
To crown the Glories of his Princely Line;
Or some Successor, Maurice, in thy seat,
Rival thy Honours with a mind as great;
Or grateful Piety thy Sons engage
VVith thy Revenues to restore thine Age;
Or private Breasts a glorious zeal inspire;
Or publique work a publick Purse require;
Or all these helps be needful: Pity 'twere
Thy sacred walls alone should want Repair.
And whiles they overlook all round 'em new,
Threaten the City and reproach it too.
True, 'tis a work of Ages, and our Days
May well despair to grasp so vast a Praise:
But yet we may begin, and part the glory
Betwixt our own, and our Descendants story,
The ancient'st Christian Monument we have
To have redeemed from its fatal Grave.
You, whose full Chests with smother'd Gold are cram'd,
At once to Rust and second darkness damn'd:
Rescue your Treasure from your Heirs Excess.
A Part thus spent will the Remainder bless.
Or would you propagate your VVealth by Use?
Cajole the Law, and Cent per Cent produce?
Trust Him that's most Responsible, and add
(Besides the Gain) a Credit to your Trade?
No Usury like this you can devise,
VVhere God's the Debtor, Heav'n at Mortgage lies.
And you, whose Riches most in Wishes are,
(The Poets Tribe) assist with Verse and Pray'r.
Old Bards did thus build Cities, Churches We;
Though better Founders, Pauls, we wish to Thee:
Until (great Doctor of the Gentiles) thine
Become the Envy of the Fishers shrine.
Mean while, calm Winter thanks, young Londons friend,
Ne're was the Sky to better purpose kind.
How Divine Favour rocks the Storms to Rest,
To give her space to build her Halcion-Nest!
Whiles February laughs that us'd to mourn,
And galloping Spring out-post's the Suns Return.
Whiles no hard Frosts lock up the costive ground,
Nor snowy Fleeces sever'd Rights confound,
Nor Icy-drops the Truel double-glaze,
Nor the cold ferment lodged Bricks doth raise,
Nor hasty rains with an impetuous Dash
Into a bog the mellow buildings quash.
Hail, Heav'ns great Fav'rite-City! For thy ends,
The Course of Things and Law of Nature bends:
El'ments commute, and the inverted year
Her Summer-Months on Winter doth confer.
What glorious Fabricks may we (then) expect
The Vernal Sun advanced shall erect!
When the unequal Ram with equal Rage
The chafed Bull in Combat shall engage:
When from the Martial Twins the fiery Carr
Retreats into the retrogressive Starr:
When Nemea's Lion roars, and a cold sweat
Bathes the scar'd maid amidst her flagrant Heat:
If the decrepit year such Issues shew,
And London thus under dull Planets grow.
Then, sure, (as when the Earth hath quaffed up
Joves Tankard-bearers overflowing Cup,
And tepid Zephyr thawing Winters cold
Makes sprouting Trees their closed Buds unfold;
Whiles the returning Sap with wanton heat
Swelling each Bud, new Blossoms each beget:)
Thy Ruins shall prove Vegetable too:
And thy scorch't Stump to a new City grow.
Whose adverse Fronts at equidistant space,
As Lines drawn Parallel, their Fellows face.
Each noble Street detaining with delight,
VVhiles it gives Passage to th' admiring sight:
Till intercepted by no Envious bound,
It find it self in Heav'ns vast Ocean drown'd.
Thus, whiles the Quincunx curious Orchards throws
Into a thousand subdivided rows;
Its several Walks are loop'd to th' Hemisphere,
And each end-twig not Fruit but Stars doth bear.
And where Commerce in crowded Throngs was pent,
Or Fires coop'd up had rag'd for want of vent:
VVhere obscure Lanes obscurer Facts did hide:
And Pests by being straitned, spread more wide:
Traffique in spacious Streets shall now be free,
And Flames soon spent, or soon supprest shall be.
Day's Eye each where shall skulking Sinners trace,
And transient Air infectious steams shall chase.
Yea, (though Front-buildings shall be backward thrust,
T' enlarge each Passage to dimensions just)
London, thou shalt not less by lessening grow;
Whiles each House gains above what's lost below,
Its breadth squeez'd into Height; and from the skies
Stealing the room the cramped Ground denies,
Thus thy own Thames both robs and makes amends:
VVhiles it pays this shore what from that it rends.
Happy thy Poet, if his friendly Fates
Spare him to see what he prognosticates!
No mean content would such a prospect bring
Unto his Autumn to behold thy Spring.
Nor will his Muse (born for thy service) pine,
If, thy Turn's serv'd, her stock of wit decline.
On other Themes to flag less must her grieve,
Secure enough by thy sole Name to live.
And you (Great Sir) who toil'd in vain to save
A dying London from her dismal Grave:
Shall less repent your unsuccessful pain,
VVhen, worthy you, by you, she lives again.
Yea, after-times, that mourning read her Fall;
VVith equal Joy shall read her Rise withall.
And all her past misfortunes from your story
Shall be expung'd by her succeeding Glory.
VVhence she (Augusta hight in days of Eald
Though much beyond her State her Title swell'd)
By this improvement, with a fairer claim
Into her own shall graft your greater Name.
Yea, could she now state on a just account,
How much her Gain her Loss shall then surmount:
'Tis thought, she'd thank her Flames, and count it Prize,
Ev'n so to die, that so she might arise.





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