A

POE M

TO HIS

MAJESTY.

Prefented to the LORD KEEPER.

King William, printed in the year 1695. The Author's age 24.

To the Right Honourable

SIR JOHN SOMERS,

Lord Keeper of the Great Seal.

F yet your thoughts are loose from state affairs,

IF

Nor feel the burthen of a kingdom's cares,

yet your time and actions are your own,
Receive the prefent of a Muse unknown,
A Muse that in advent'rous numbers fings
The rout of armies, and the fall of Kings,
Britain advanc'd, and Europe's peace restor'd
By SOMERS' Counsels, and by NASSAU'S fword.
To you, my Lord, these daring thoughts belong
Who help'd to raise the subject of my fong;

Το

you the Hero of my verse reveals
His great defigns, to you in council tells
His inmoft thoughts, determining the doom.
Of towns unstorm'd, and battles yet to come.
And well could you, in your immortal strains,
Describe his conduct, and reward his pains:
But fince the ftate has all your cares ingroft,
And poetry in higher thoughts is lost,

VOL. I.

C

Attend

Attend to what a leffer Muse indites,

Pardon her faults, and countenance her flights.

On you, my Lord, with anxious fear I wait,
And from your judgment muft 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,
Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raife,

For next to what you write, is what you praise.

}

то

K

TO THE

IN G.

WHEN now the bufinefs of the field is o'er,

The trumpets fleep, and cannons cease to roar,

When ev'ry difmal 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 ftrand
Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land:
She oft has feen thee preffing on the foe,
When Europe was concern'd in ev'ry blow;
But durft not in heroic ftrains rejoice;

The trumpets, drums, and cannons drown'd her voice:

She faw the Boyn run thick with human gore,

And floating corps lie beating on the fhore;

She faw thee climb the banks, but try in vain
To trace her Hero through the dufty plain,

When through the thick embattel'd lines he broke,
Now plung'd amidft the foes, now loft in clouds of smoke.