But, fince the ftate has all your cares ingrofs'd,
And poetry in higher thoughts is loft,
Attend to what a lefler Mufe indites,
Pardon her faults, and countenance her flights.
On you, my Lord, with anxious fear I wait,
And from your judgement muft expect my fate,
Who, free from vulgar passions, are above
Degrading envy, or misguided love;
you, well pleas'd, fhall fmile upon my lays, Secure of fame, my voice I 'll boldly raïfe, For next to what you write, is what you praife.
HEN now the business of the field is o'er,
The trumpets fleep, and cannons cease to roar,
When every difinal echo is decay'd,
And all the thunder of the battle laid;
Attend, aufpicious prince; and let the Muse
In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.
Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd,
Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;
My Muse expecting on the British strand
Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land:
She oft has feen thee preffing on the foe,
When Europe was concern'd in every blow;
But durft not in heroic strains rejoice;
The trumpets, drums, and cannons drown'd, her voice:
She faw the Boyne run thick with human gore,
And floating corps lie beating on the shore;
She saw thee climb the banks, but try'd in vain
To trace her Hero through the dufty plain,
When through the thick embattled lines he broke,
Now plung'd amidst the foes, now loft in clouds of smoke.
O that fome Mufe, renown'd for lofty verfe,
In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse !
Draw thee belov'd in peace, and fear'd in wars,
Inur'd to noon-day fweats, and mid-night cares!
But ftill the God-like man, by fome hard fate,
Receives the glory of his toils too late;
Too late the verse the mighty act fucceeds,
One age the hero, one the poet breeds.
A thousand years in full fucceffion ran,
Ere Virgil rais'd his voice, and fung the man
Who, driven by stress of fate, such dangers bore
On ftormy feas, and a disastrous 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,
Ere Homer mufter'd up their troops in verfe;
Long had Achilles quell'd the Trojans' luft,
And laid the labour of the gods in duft,
Before the towering Muse began her flight,
And drew the hero raging in the fight,
Engag'd in tented fields and rolling floods,
Or flaughtering mortals, or a match for gods.
And here, perhaps, by fate's unerring doom,
Some mighty bard lies hid in years to come,
That shall in William's god-like acts engage,
And with his battles warm a future age,
Hibernian fields fhall here thy conquests fhow,
And Boyne 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 posterity, 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 Nassau was by Heaven design'd
To curb the proud oppreffors 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 now infpir'd by thee, with fresh delight,
Their fwords they brandish, and require the fight,
Renew their ancient conquests on the main,
And act their fathers' triumphs o'er again;
Fir'd, when they hear how Agincourt was ftrow'd
With Gallic corps, and Creffi fwam in blood,
With eager warmth they fight, ambitious all
Who first shall storm the breach, or mount the wall.
In vain the thronging enemy by force
Would clear the ramparts, and repel their course;
They break through all, for William leads the way,
Where fires rage moft, and loudest engines play.
Namur's late terrors and deftruction show,
What William, warm'd with just revenge, can do:
Where once a thousand turrets rais'd on high
Their gilded spires, and glitter'd in the sky,
An undiftinguifh'd heap of duft is found,
And all the pile lies smoking 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 widow's tears :
Oppreft Religion gives the firft alarms,
And injur'd Justice sets him in his arms;
His conquests 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 fmear'd with duft and sweat,
While angry gods confpire to make him great.
Thy navy rides on feas before unprest,
And strikes a terror through the haughty East :
Algiers and Tunis from their fultry shore
With horror hear the British engines roar,
Fain from the neighbouring dangers would they run,
And with themselves ftill nearer to the fun.
The Gallic fhips are in their ports confin'd,
Deny'd the common use of sea and wind,
Nor dare again the British ftrength engage;
Still they remember that deftructive rage
Which lately made their trembling host retire,
Stunn'd with the noise, and wrapt in smoke and fire;
The waves with wide unnumber'd wrecks were ftrow'd, '
And planks, and arms, and men, promifcuous flow'd.
Spain's numerous fleet, that perifh'd on our coaft, Could scarce a longer line of battle boast;
The winds could hardly drive them to their fate,
And all the ocean labour'd with the weight.
Where e'er the waves in reftlefs errors roll,
The fea lies open now to either pole :
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