Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy fong,
And tells his ftory in the British tongue;
Thy charming verfe, and fair tranflations, fhow
How thy own laurel firft began to grow:
How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods. may'st thou ftill the noble task prolong,
Nor age, nor sickness, interrupt thy song :
Then may we wondering read, how human limbs
Have water'd kingdoms, and diffolv'd in streams;
Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mold
Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold:
How fome in feathers, or a ragged hide,
Have liv'd a fecond life, and different natures try'd.
Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal
A nobler change than he himself can tell.
Magd. College, Oxon.
June 2, 1693.
The Author's age 22.
HIS M A JEST
PRESENTED TO THE LORD REEPFR.
THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN SOMERS.
LORD KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL,
IF yet your thoughts are loose from state affairs,
Nor feel the burden of a kingdom's cares;
If yet your time and actions are your own;
Receive the present of a Muse unknown:
A Mufe that, in adventurous numbers, fings
The rout of armies, and the fall of Kings,
Britain advanc'd, and Europe's peace restor'd,
By Somers' counfels, and by Naffau's fword.
To you, my Lord, thefe daring thoughts belong
Who help'd to raise the fubject of my fong;
Το 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 ftate has all your cares ingrofs'd,
And poetry in higher thoughts is lost,
Attend to what a leffer 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 paflions, are above
Degrading envy, or mifguided love;
If you, well pleas'd, fhall fmile upon my lays,
Secure of fame, my voice I 'll boldly raise,
For next to what you write, is what you praise.
TO THE KING.
WHEN now the business of the field is o'er,
The trumpets fleep, and cannons cease to roar,
When every dismal 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 seen thee preffing on the foe,
When Europe was concern'd in every blow;
But durft not in heroic trains 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 faw 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 succeeds,
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 Mufe 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 show,
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 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 Naffau was by Heaven defign'd
To curb the proud oppreffors of mankind.
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