Omen Maternae Indolis.[125]

Cresce, o dulcibus imputanda divis; O cresce, et propera, puella princeps, In matris propera venire partes. Et cum par breve fulminum minorum, Illinc Carolus, et Jacobus inde, In patris faciles subire famam, Ducent fata furoribus decoris; Cum terror sacer Anglicique magnum Murmur nominis increpabit omnem Late Bosporon Ottomanicasque Non picto quatiet tremore Lunas; Te tunc altera nec timenda paci Poscent praelia; tu potens pudici Vibratrix oculi, pios in hostes Late dulcia fata dissipabis. O eum flos tener ille, qui recenti Pressus sidere jam sub ora ludit, Olim fortior omne cuspidatos Evolvet latus aureum per ignes; Quique imbellis adhuc, adultus olim, Puris expatiabitur genarum Campis imperiosior Cupido; O quam certa superbiore penna Ibunt spicula melleaeque mortes, Exultantibus hinc et inde turmis, Quoquo jusseris, impigre volabunt! O quot corda calentium deorum De te vulnera delicata discent! O quot pectora principum magistris Fient molle negotium sagittis! Nam quae non poteris per arma ferri, Cui matris sinus atque utrumque sidus Magnorum patet officina amorum? Hinc sumas licet, o puella princeps, Quantacunque opus est tibi pharetra. Centum sume Cupidines ab uno Matris lumine Gratiasque centum Et centum Veneres: adhuc manebunt Centum mille Cupidines; manebunt Tercentum Veneresque Gratiaeque Puro fonte superstites per aevum.

TRANSLATION.

OF THE PRINCESS MARY.

Grow, maiden Princess, and increase, Thou who with the sweet goddesses Thy place shalt have; O haste to be Thy mother's own epitome; And when that pair of minor flames, Thy princely brothers Charles and James, Apt in the footsteps of their sire, Lead on the Fates in glorious ire; When o'er the Bosphorus shall creep A thrill of dread, as rolls full deep The murmur of the British name, And with no feign'd alarm shall shame The Turkish Crescent--other wars, And such as bring sweet Peace no tears Shall call thee forth; and from on high The flashing of thy modest eye Shall scatter o'er adoring foes Thick volleys of delicious woes. O, when that tender bloom which now Plays, lately born, beneath thy brow, In time to come with mightier blaze Shall dart around its pointed rays; When he, the Cupid now so mild, No longer but a harmless child, Shall range in youth's imperious pride Thy cheeks' fair pastures far and wide,-- O then with what unerring skill, Borne on proud wings, thy shafts shall kill, While, where thou bid'st, the honey'd blow Falls ceaseless midst the exulting foe! How many god-like breasts shall learn From thee with Love's rich wounds to burn! How often shall thy mastering darts Work their sweet will on princely hearts! For what may she not do in war, Whose mother's breast--with each bright star That rul'd her birth--to her but proves A storehouse of all-conquering loves? Hence for thy quiver, Princess Maid, Take what thou wilt, nor be afraid. A hundred Cupids be thy prize, From one of thy bright mother's eyes; A hundred graces add to these, And then a hundred Venuses: A hundred-thousand Cupids still Are hers; three hundred Graces will, With Venuses in equal store, Haunt that pure fount for evermore. CL.