To you the hero of my verfe reveals
His great defigns, to you in council tells
His inmost thoughts, determining the doom
Of towns unstorm'd and battles yet to come.
And well could you, in your immortal strains,
Defcribe his conduct and reward his pains;
But fince the state has all your cares engrost,
And poetry in higher thoughts is loft,
Attend to what a leffer Muse indites,
Pardon her faults, and countenance her flights. 20
On you, my Lord, with anxious fear I wait,
And from your judgment must expect my fate,
Who, free from vulgar passions, are above
Degrading envy or misguided love.
If you, well pleas'd, shall smile upon my lays, 25
Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise,
For next to what you write is what you praise. 27
WHEN now the bus'ness of the field is o'er,
The trumpets fleep and cannons cease to roar,
When ev'ry dismal echo is decay'd,
And all the thunder of the battle laid,
Attend, aufpicious Prince! and let the Mufe
In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.
Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd,
Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;
My Mufe, expecting, on the British strand
Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land:
She oft' has seen thee preffing on the foe,
When Europe was concern'd in ev'ry blow,
But durft not in heroic strains rejoice;
The trumpets, drums, and cannons, drown'd her She faw the Boyn run thick with human gore, [voice: And floting corpfe' lie beating on the shore;
She faw thee climb the banks, but try'd in vain
To trace her hero thro' the dusty plain,
When thro' the thick embattled lines he broke,
Now plung'd amidst the foes, now loft in clouds of
O that fome Mufe, renown'd for lofty verfe, [fmoke.
In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse!
Draw thee belov'd in peace and fear'd in wars,
Inur'd to noonday sweats and midnight cares!
But ftill the godlike man, by some hard fate,
Receives the glory of his toils too late;
Too late the verfe the mighty act fucceeds;
the hero, one the poet, breeds.
A thousand years in full fucceffion ran
Ere Virgil rais'd his voice, and fung the man
Who, driv'n by stress of Fate, such dangers bore
On ftormy feas and a difaftrous fhore,
Before he fettled in the promis'd earth,
And gave the empire of the world its birth.
Troy long had found the Grecians bold and fierce Eye Homer muster'd up their troops in verfe;
Long had Achilles quell'd the Trojans' lust,
And laid the labour of the gods in duft,
Before the tow'ring Muse began her flight,
And drew the hero raging in the fight,
Engag'd in tented fields and rolling floods,
Or flaught'ring mortals, or a match for gods.
And here, perhaps, by Fate's unerring doom,
Some mighty bard lies hid in years to come,
That hall in William's godlike acts engage,
And with his battles warm a future age.
Hibernian fields fhall here thy conquests show,
And Boyn be fung when it has ceas'd to flow;
Here Gallic labours fhall advance thy fame,
And here Seneffe fhall wear another name.
Our late pofterity, with fecret dread,
Shall view thy battles, and with pleasure read
How, in the bloody field, too near advanc'd,
The guiltless bullet on thy shoulder glanc'd.
The race of Naffaus was by Heav'n design'd
To curb the proud oppressors of mankind,
To bind the tyrants of the earth with laws,
And fight in every injur❜d nation's caufe,
The world's great patriots; they for justice call,
And as they favour kingdoms rife or fall.
Our British youth, unus'd to rough alarms,
Careless of fame, and negligent of arms,
Had long forgot to meditate the foe,
And heard unwarm'd the martial trumpet blow;
But new, infpir'd by thee, with fresh delight
Their fwords they brandish, and require the fight,
Renew their ancient conquefts on the main,
And act their fathers' triumphs o'er again;
Fir'd when they hear how Agincourt was strow'd
With Gallic corpfe', and Creffi fwam in blood,
With eager warmth they fight, ambitious all
Who first fhall ftorm the breach or mount the wall.
In vain the thronging enemy by force
Would clear the ramparts and repel their courfe;
'They break thro' all, for William leads the way 75
Where fires rage most and loudest engines play.
Namure's late terrors and destruction show
What William, warm'd with just revenge, can do:
Where once a thousand turrets rais'd on high
Their gilded fpires, and glitter'd in the sky,
An undistinguish'd heap of duft is found,
And all the pile lies fmoking on the ground.
His toils, for no ignoble ends defign'd,
Promote the common welfare of mankind;
No wild ambition moves, but Europe's fears,
The cries of orphans, and the widows' tears:
Opprefs'd Religion gives the first alarms,
And injur'd Juftice fets him in his arms;
His conquefts freedom to the world afford,
And nations bless the labours of his fword.
Thus when the forming Mufe would copy forth
A perfect pattern of heroic worth,
She fets a man triumphant in the field,
O'er giants cloven down and monsters kill'd,
Reeking in blood, and smear'd with dust and sweat, Whilft angry gods conspire to make him great.
Thy navy rides on feas before unprest, And strikes a terror thro' the haughty East; Algiers and Tunis, from their fultry shore, With horror hear the British engines roar ; Fain from the neighb'ring dangers would they run, And wish themfelves ftill nearer to the fun. The Gallic ships are in their ports confin'd, Deny'd the common use of sea and wind, Nor dare again the British strength engage; Still they remember that destructive rage Which lately made their trembling host retire, Stunn'd with the noise, and wrapt in fmoke and fire; The waves with wide unnumber'd wrecks werestrow'd, And planks, and arms, and men, promifcuous flow'd.
Spain's num'rous fleet, that perish'd on our coast, Could fcarce a longer line of battle boast, The winds could hardly drive 'em to their fate, And all the ocean labour'd with the weight.
Where'er the waves in reftlefs errors roll,
The fea lies open now to either pole;
Now may we fafely use the northern gales,
And in the Polar Circle spread our fails;
Or deep in fouthern climes, fecure from wars,
New lands explore, and fail by other stars;
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