Alexis. Poem by Daniel Baker

My loyal Muse would feign aspire to sing
The Praises of our gracious King:
But, ah! 'twould ill become his God--like Deeds,
His Wisdom, Patience, and the rest
Of Virtues that possess his Princely Breast
(For which wel--furnish'd Fame more Trumpets needs)
To be debas'd and lessen'd by unskilful Reeds.

Wonders of Mercy, bounteous Heav'n hath shown
On him, and he himself is One.
The marks of Pow'r divine t'all Kings belong:
But God's beloved Attribute,
Mercy with few but Charles does suit.
To things so high 'twould be too great a wrong,
To think them Burdens fit for ev'ry Rural Song.

Shepherds are humble People, and for them
Things humble are the fittest Theam.
Their Flocks and Herds, cool Streams and flowry Plains
And secret Woods, the chast abodes
Of homely Nymphs, and Country Gods:
These are the meet and inoffensive strains
That fill the ready Mouths of all Poetick Swains.

Or if they higher rise, 'tis to relate
Some Lover's good or evil Fate;
To praise bright Phyllis, or if she prove coy,
T' accuse of Avarice and Pride
Both her and all the Sex beside:
To mould sad Numbers some their Gift employ
Others whom kinder Love enlargeth, Hymns of Joy.

Among the rest, Damon, who long did prove
The Force of Poetry and Love,
(For whoso chooseth one, will soon have both)
His Friend Alexis happy Fate
Did kindly thus congratulate:
Than him the Plains ne'er bred a gentler Youth;
Verse, sweet as Honey, flow'd from his inspired Mouth.

Upon the Marsh the friendly Shepherds stood,
Viewing the calm and gentle Flood
The whilst beside them fed their wel--known Flock,
When softly towards an Haven nigh
A richly laden Ship sail'd by.
This hint the fruitful Poet swiftly took,
And thus alluding to the wealthy Bark he spoke,

What happy Star shone on thy winged Fleet?
What prosp'rous Gale swell'd out thy Sheet?
I scarce believ'd thee gone to Sea;
When thou, with lucky haste thy Voyage done,
A fair and wealthy Prize hast won:
O happy Lover! happy thee,
Who stubborn Beauty's Victor now may'st justly stiled be

Not mighty Caesar with his num'rous Host
A speedier Conquest e'er could boast,
Than thou hast got by thine own Power:
With Joy and Triumph valiant Swain, go on,
Possess the Island thou hast won:
Stand not thus idly on the Shore,
But enter, and devour within her goodly Store.

Where Gold upon the Mountain Tops doth grow,
What may we there expect below?
Yet tho' with Gold it so abound,
'Tis from the us'al Fruits of Riches free:
No Av'rice, nor Hypocrisie,
No Pride, nor Luxury there is found;
The golden Land with a true golden Age is crown'd.

There Truth and Piety take up all the Room,
And Innocence makes that her home;
No Place for Falshood there.
You may discern the Motions of her Heart,
So pure her Breast, so free from Art:
Her Heart shines through her Breasts, as clear
As through her open Scarf her Breasts themselves appear.

On the calm Shoar (methinks) I see thee stand,
The Borders of thy promis'd Land,
Casting a scornful Look behind
Upon the Sea, and smiling when thou se'st
It's Rage by barb'rous Storms encreast:
The Billows and the boist'rous Wind,
Which others dread so much, are Pleasures to thy Mind.

Ah wretched and too miserable me
Whose Vessel still is tost at Sea!
Amidst the Rocks of Fem'nine Pride
To Thunder and loud Storms expos'd I lie,
And Lightnings of her angry Eye.
No gentle Gale blows on my side,
And not one Star in Heav'n appears to be my Guide.

In vain, in vain the fruitless Seas I plow,
In vain my shatter'd Bark I row,
The adverse Winds blow 't back again:
The Shoars I seek still backward move apace;
In vain I run a desp'rate Race;
Then let me sink and perish in the Main:
The rest I cannot find on Land, Lo! let me here obtain!