Or Virgil's majefty, and Homer's rage,
Had ne'er like lasting nature vanquish'd age.
Whilft Lewis then his rifing terror drowns
With drums' alarms, and trumpets' founds,
Whilft, hid in arm'd retreats and guarded towns,
From danger as from honour far,
He bribes clofe murder against open war:
In vain you Gallic Mufes ftrive
With labour'd verse to keep his fame alive :
Your mouldering monuments in vain ye raise
On the weak bafis of the tyrant's praise:
Your fongs are fold, your numbers are profane,
"Tis incenfe to an idol given,
Meat offer'd to. Prometheus' man
That had no foul from Heaven.
Againft his will, you chain your frighted king
On rapid Rhine's divided bed;
And mock your hero, whilft ye fing
The wounds for which he never bled;
Falfhood does poifon on your praise diffuse,
And Lewis' fear gives death to Boileau's Mufe.
On its own worth true majefty is rear'd,
And Virtue is her own reward;
With folid beams and native glory bright,
She neither darknefs dreads, nor covets light;
True to herself, and fix'd to inborn laws,
Nor funk by fpite, nor lifted by applause,
She from her fettled orb looks calmly down,
*On life or death, a prifon or a crown.
When bound in double chains poor Belgia lay,
To foreign arms and inward ftrife a prey,
Whilft one good man buoy'd up her finking state,
And Virtue labour'd against Fate ;
When Fortune bafely with Ambition join'd,
And all was conquer'd but the Patriot's mind;
When ftorms let loose, and raging feas,
Juft ready the torn vessel to o'erwhelm,
Forc'd not the faithful pilot from his helm,
Nor all the Syren fongs of future peace,
And dazzling profpect of a promis'd crown,
Could lure his ftubborn virtue down ;
But against charms, and threats, and hell, he stood,
To that which was feverely good;
Then, had no trophies justified his fame,
No Poet bleft his fong with Naffau's name,
Virtue alone did all that honour bring,
And Heaven as plainly pointed out THE KING,
As when he at the altar ftood
In all his types and robes of power,
Whilft at his feet religious Britain bow'd,
And own'd him next to what we there adore.
Say, joyful Maefe, and Boyne's victorious flood,
(For each has mixt his waves with royal blood)
When William'‹ armies past, did he retire,
Or view from far the battle's diftant fire?
Could he believe his perfon was too dear?
Or use his greatness to conceal his fear?
E 4
Could prayers or fighs the dauntless hero move? Arm'd with Heaven's justice, and his people's love, Through the firft waves he wing'd his venturous way, And on the adverfe fhore arose,
(Ten thoufand flying deaths in vain oppose).
Like the great Ruler of the day,
With strength and swiftness mounting from the fea
Like him all day he toil'd; but long in night
The god had eas'd his wearied light,.
Ere vengeance left the ftubborn foes,
Or William's labours found repofe !
When his troops faulter'd, stept not he between ?
Reftor'd the dubious fight again,
Mark'd out the coward that durft fly,
And led the fainting brave to Victory?
Still as fhe fled him, did he not o'ertake
Her doubtful course, still brought her bleeding back
By his keen fword did not the boldest fall?
Was he not king, commander, foldier, all?-
His dangers fuch as, with becoming dread,
His fubjects yet unborn shall weep to read?
And were not those the only days that e'er
The pious prince refus'd to hear
His friends' advices, or his fubjects' prayer?
Where'er old Rhine his fruitful water turns,
Or fills his vaffals' tributary urns;
To Belgia's fav'd dominions, and the sea,
Whofe righted waves rejoice in William's fway;
Is there a town where children are not taught,
Here Holland profper'd, for here Orange fought;
Through rapid waters, and through flying fire,
Here rush'd the prince, here made whole France retire?
By different nations be his valour bleft,
In different languages confeft;
And then let Shannon speak the rest:
Let Shannon fpeak, how on her wondering shore,
When Conqueft hovering on his arms did wait,
And only afk'd fome lives to bribe her o'er ;
The god-like man, the more than conqueror,
With high contempt fent back the fpecious bait;
And, fcorning glory at a price too great,
With fo much power, fuch piety did join,
As made a perfect virtue foar
A pitch unknown to man before;
And lifted Shannon's waves o'er those of Boyne.
XI.
Nor do his fubjects only share
The profperous fruits of his indulgent reign;-
His enemies approve the pious war,
Which, with their weapon, takes away their chain.
More than his fword his goodness ftrikes his foes
They bless his arms, and figh they muft oppose..
Juftice and freedom on his conquests wait;
And 'tis for man's delight that he is great :
Succeeding times fhall with long joy contend,
If he were more a victor, or a friend :
So much his courage and his mercy ftrive,
He wounds, to cure; and conquers, to forgive.
Ye heroes, that have fought your country's caufe,
Redrefs'd her injuries, or form'd her laws,
To my adventurous song just witness bear,
Affift the pious Mufe, and hear her swear;
That 'tis no Poet's thought, no flight of youth,
But folid ftory, and severest truth,
That William treasures up a greater name,
Than any country, any age, can boast:
And all that ancient ftock of fame
He did from his fore-fathers take,
He has improv'd, and gives with interest back;
And in his conftellation does unite
Their fcatter'd rays of fainter light:
Above or Envy's lafh, or Fortune's wheel
That fettled glory fhall for ever dwell:
Above the rolling orbs, and common fky,
Where nothing comes that e'er fhall die.
XIII.
Where roves the Mufe: Where, thoughtlefs to return,
Is her fhort-liv'd veffel borne,
By potent winds too fubject to be toft,
And in the fea of William's praises loft?
Nor let her tempt that deep, nor make the shore,
Where our abandon'd youth she fees,
Shipwreck'd in luxury, and loft in ease;
Whom nor Britannia's danger can alarm,
Nor William's exemplary virtue warm :
Tell them, howe'er, the king can yet forgive
Their guilty floth, their homage yet receive,
And let their wounded honour live:
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