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An ODE, presented to the KING,

On his MAJESTY'S Arrival in HOLLAND, after the QUEEN's Death, 1695.

"Quis defiderio fit pudor aut modus
"Tam cari capitis? præcipe lugubres
"Cantus, Melpomene."



T Mary's tomb (fad facred place!)
The Virtues shall their vigils keep :
And every Mufe, and every Grace,
In folemn ftate fhall ever weep.

The future pious, mournful fair,
Oft as the rolling years return,
With fragrant wreaths and flowing hair,
Shall vifit her diftinguish'd urn.

For her the wife and great shall mourn,
When late records her deeds repeat:

Ages to come, and men unborn,

Shall blefs her name, and figh her fate. ·

Fair Albion fhall, with faithful truft,
Her holy queen's fad reliques guard,
Till Heaven awakes the precious duft,
And gives the Saint her full reward.


But let the king dismiss his woes,
Reflecting on his fair renown;
And take the cypress from his brows,
To put his wonted laurels on.


If preft by grief our monarch stoops,
In vain the British lions roar :

If he, whofe hand fuftain'd them, droops,
The Belgic darts will wound no more.


Embattled princes wait the chief,

Whofe voice fhould rule, whofe arm fhould lead;

And, in kind murmurs, chide that grief,

Which hinders Europe being freed.


The great example they demand

Who ftill to conquest led the way;
Wishing him present to command,
As they stand ready to obey.

They seek that joy, which us'd to glow,
Expanded on the Hero's face;

When the thick fquadrons preft the foe,
And William led the glorious chace.

To give the mourning nations joy,
Restore them thy aufpicious light,

Great fun with radiant beams destroy

Thofe clouds, which keep thee from our fight.

XI. Let


Let thy fublime meridian course
For Mary's fetting rays atone:
Our luftre, with redoubled force,
Muft now proceed from thee alone.

See, pious king, with different strife
Thy ftruggling Albion's bofom torn:
So much the fears for William's life,
That Mary's fate fhe dares not mourn.

Her beauty, in thy fofter half

Bury'd and loft, fhe ought to grieve;
But let her ftrength in thee be fafe;
And let her weep; but let her live.

Thou, guardian angel, fave the land
From thy own grief, her fierceft foc;
Left Britain, rescued by thy hand,
Should bend and fink beneath thy woe,

Her former triumphs all are vain,

Unless new trophies ftill be fought,

And hoary majefty fuftain

The battles which thy youth has fought.

Where now is all that fearful love,

Which made her hate the war's alarms? That foft excefs, with which the ftrove

To keep her hero in her arms?

XVII. While

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While ftill fhe chid the coming fpring,
Which call'd him o'er his fubject feas:
While, for the fafety of the king,
She wish'd the victor's glory lefs.

'Tis chang'd; 'tis gone: fad Britain now
Haftens her lord to foreign wars:
Happy, if toils may break his woe,
Or danger may divert his cares.

In martial din she drowns her fighs,
Left he the rifing grief fhould hear:
She pulls her helmet o'er her eyes,
Left he should see the falling tear.

Go, mighty prince; let France be taught,
How constant minds by grief are try'd;
How great the land, that wept and fought,
When William led, and Mary dy’d.

Fierce in the battle make it known,

Where death with all his darts is feen,

That he can touch thy heart with none,

But that which truck the beauteous queen.

Belgia indulg'd her open grief,

While yet her mafter was not near;

With fullen pride refus'd relief,

And fat obdurate in defpais.



As waters from her fluices, flow'd
Unbounded forrow from her eyes :
To earth her bended front fhe bow'd,
And fent her wailings to the fkies.

But when her anxious lord return'd,
Rais'd is her head, her eyes are dry'd;

She fmiles, as William ne'er had mourn'd,
She looks, as Mary ne'er had dy❜d.

That freedom which all forrows claim,
She does for thy content refign:

Her piety itself would blame,

If her regrets should weaken thine.

To cure thy woe, fhe fhews thy fame :
Left the great mourner should forget,
That all the race, whence Orange came,
Made Virtue triumph over Fate.


William his country's caufe could fight,
And with his blood her freedom feal:

Maurice and Henry guard that right,
For which their pious parents fell.


How heroes rife, how patriots fet,
Thy father's bloom and death may
Excelling others, these were great:
Thou, greater ftill, must these excell.


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