SONG.
Set by Mr. Henry Purcell.
From those serene, and rapturous joys
A Country life alone can give,
Exempt from tumult, and from noise,
Where Kings forget the troubles of their reigns,
And are almost as happy as their humble Swains,
By feeling that they live:

Behold th indulgent Prince is come
To view the Conquests of His mercy shown
To the new Proselytes of His mighty Town,
And men, and Angels bid Him welcome Home;
Not with an Helmet, or a glittring Spear
Do’s He appear.
He boast no Trophies of a cruel Conqueror,
Brought back in triumph from a bloudy War;
But with an Olive branch adorn’d,
As once the long expected Dove return’d.
Welcom as soft refreshing show’rs:
That raise the sickly heads of drooping flow’rs:
Welcom as early beams of light
To the benighted Traveller,
When he descries bright Phosphorus from afar,
And all his fears are put to flight.

Welcome, more welcome does He come
Than life to Lazarus from his drousie Tomb,
When in his winding sheet, at his new birth,
The strange surprizing word was said—Come forth!

Nor does the Sun more comfort bring,
When he turns Winter into Spring,
Than the blest Advent of a peaceful King.

Chorus.
With Trumpets and Shouts we receive the Worlds Wonder,
And let the Clouds eccho His welcome with thunder,
Such a Thunder as applauded what mortals had done,
When they fixt on His Brows His Imperial Crown.