AN ODE, In Imitation of the SECOND ODE OF The Third BOOK OF HORACE.


AN ODE, &c.

HOW long, deluded Albion, wilt Thou lie (a)
In the Lethargic Sleep, the sad Repose,
By which thy close, thy constant Enemy,
Has softly lull'd Thee to Thy Woes?
Or Wake, degenerate Isle, or Cease to own
What Thy Old Kings in Gallic Camps have done;
The Spoils They brought Thee back, the Crowns They won.
WILLIAM, (so Fate requires) again is Arm'd;
Thy Father to the Field is gone:
Again MARIA Weeps Her absent Lord;
For Thy Repose content to Rule alone.
Are Thy Enervate Sons not yet Alarm'd?
When WILLIAM Fights, dare they look tamely on,
So slow to get their Ancient Fame Restor'd,
As nor to melt at Beauties Tears, nor follow Valours Sword?
See the Repenting Isle Awakes,
Her Vicious Chains the generous Goddess breaks:
The Foggs around Her Temples are Dispell'd;
Abroad She Looks, and Sees Arm'd Belgia stand
Prepar'd to meet their common Lords Command;
Her Lions Roaring by Her Side, Her Arrows in Her Hand;
And Blushing to have been so long withheld,
Weeps off Her Crime, and hastens to the Field:
(b) Henceforth Her Youth shall be inur'd to bear
Hazardous Toil and Active War:
To march beneath the Dog-Stars raging Heat,
Patient of Summers Drought, and Martial Sweat▪
And only Grieve in Winters Camps to find,
Its Days too short for Labours They design'd:
All Night beneath hard heavy Arms to Watch;
All Day to Mount the Trench, to Storm the Breach;
And all the rugged Paths to tread,
Where WILLIAM and His Virtue lead.
(c) Silence is the Soul of War;
Deliberate Counsel must prepare
The Mighty Work, which Valour must compleat:
Thus WILLIAM Rescued, thus Preserves the State;
Thus Teaches Us to Think and Dare;
As whilst his Cannon just prepar'd to Breath
Avenging Anger and swift Death,
In the try'd Mettle the close Dangers glow,
And now too late the Dying Foe
Perceives the Flame, yet cannot ward the Blow;
So whilst in WILLIAM's Breast ripe Counsels lie,
Secret and sure as Brooding Fate,
No more of His Design appears
Than what Awakens Gallia's Fears;
And (though Guilts Eye can sharply penetrate)
Distracted Lewis can discry
Only a long unmeasur'd Ruine nigh.
On Norman Coasts and Banks of frighted Seine,
Lo! the Impending Storms beg [...]n:
Britannia safely through her Masters Sea
Plows up her Victorious Way.
The French Salmoneus throws his Bolts in vain,
Whilst the true Thunderer asserts the Main:
'Tis done! to Shelves and Rocks his Fleets retire,
Swift Victory in Vengeful Flames
Burns down the Pride of their Presumptuous Names:
They run to Shipwrack to avoid our Fire,
And the torn Vessels that regain their Coast
Are but sad Marks to shew the rest are lost:
All this the Mild, the Beauteous, Queen has done,
And WILLIAM's softer half shakes Lewis' Throne:
MARIA does the Sea command
Whilst Gallia flies her Husband's Arms by Land,
So, the Sun absent, with full sway, the Moon
Governs the Isles, and rules the Waves alone;
So Iuno thunders when her Iove is gone.
Iö Britannia! loose thy Oceans Chains
Whilst Russell strikes the Blow Thy Queen ordains:
Thus Rescued, thus Rever'd, for ever stand,
And bless the Counsel, and Reward the Hand,
Iö Britannia! thy MARIA Reigns.
From MARY's Conquests, and the Rescued Main,
Let France look forth to Sambre's armed Shore,
And boast her Joy for WILLIAM's Death no more.
He lives, let France confess, the Victor lives:
Her Triumphs for his Death were vain,
And spoke her Terrour of his Life too plain.(e)
[Page 6]The mighty years begin, the day draws nigh,
In which That One of Lewis' many Wives,
Who by the baleful force of guilty Charms,
Has long enthraul'd Him in Her wither'd Arms,
Shall o're the Plains from distant Towers on high
Cast a-round her mournful Eye,
And with Prophetick Sorrow cry:
Why does my ruin'd Lord retard his flight?
Why does despair provoke his Age to fight?
As well the Wolf may venture to engage
The angry Lyons generous rage;
The ravenous Vultur, and the Bird of Night,
As safely tempt the stooping Eagles flight,
As Lewis to unequal Arms defy
Yon' Heroe, crown'd with blooming Victory
Just triumphing o're Rebel rage restrain'd,
And yet unbreath'd from Battels gain'd.
See! all yon' dusty Fields quite cover'd o're
With Hostil Troops, and ORANGE at their Head,
ORANGE destin'd to compleat
The great Designs of labouring Fate,
ORANGE the Name that Tyrants Dread:
He comes, our ruin'd Empire is no more,
Down, like the Persian, goes the Gallic Throne,
Darius flies, young Ammon urges on.
Now from the dubious Battel's mingled heat
Let Fear look back, and stretch her hasty Wing, (f)
Impatient to secure a base retreat:
Let the pale Coward leave his Wounded King,
For the vile privilege to breath,
To live with shame in dread of glorious Death.
In vain: for Fate has swifter Wings than fear,
She follows hard, and strikes Him in the rear,
Dying and Mad the Traytor bites the ground,
His Back transfix'd with a Dishonest Wound;
[Page 7]Whilst through the fiercest Troops, and thickest Press,
Virtue carries on Success;
Whilst equal Heaven guards the distinguisht brave,
And Armies cannot hurt whom Angels save.
Virtue to Verse immortal Lustre gives, (g)
Each by the other's mutual Friendship lives;
Aeneas suffer'd, and Achilles fought,
The Heroes acts enlarg'd the Poets thought,
Or Virgil's Majesty, and Homer's Rage
Had ne're like lasting Nature vanquish'd Age;
Whilst Lewis then his rising Terrour drowns
With Drums Alarms and Trumpets Sounds,
Whilst hid in arm'd Retreats and guarded Towns,
From Danger as from Honour far,
He bribes close Murder against open War:
In vain you Gallic Muses strive
With labour'd Verse to keep his Fame alive,
Your mouldring Monuments in vain ye raise
On the weak Basis of the Tyrants Praise:
Your Songs are sold, your Numbers are Prophane,
'Tis Incense to an Idol given,
Meat offer'd to Prometheus' Man,
That had no Soul from Heaven.
Against his Will you chain your frighted King
On rapid Rhine's divided Bed;
And Mock your Heroe, whilst ye Sing
The Wounds for which he never bled;
Falshood does poyson on your Praise defuse,
And Lewis' fear gives Death to Boileau's Muse.
On it's own Worth True Majesty is rear'd, (g)
And Virtue is her own Reward,
With solid Beams and Native Glory bright,
She neither Darkness dreads, nor covets Light;
[Page 8]True to Her self, and fix't to inborn Laws,
Nor sunk by spight, nor lifted by Applause,
She from Her settled Orb looks calmly down,
On Life or Death, a Prison or a Crown.
When bound in double Chains poor Belgia lay
To foreign Arms, and inward strife a Prey,
Whilst One Good Man buoy'd up Her sinking State,
And Virtue labour'd against Fate;
When fortune basely with ambition joyn'd,
And all was conquer'd but the Patriots mind,
When Storms let loose, and raging Seas
Just ready the torn Vessel to o'rewhelm,
Forc'd not the faithful Pilot from his Helm,
Nor all the Syren Songs of future Peace,
And dazling Prospect of a promis'd Crown,
Could lure his stubborn Virtue down;
But against Charms, and Threats, and Hell, He stood,
To that which was severely good;
Then, had no Trophies justified his Fame,
No Poet blest his Song with NASSAW's Name,
Virtue alone did all that Honour bring,
And Heaven as plainly pointed out The KING,
As when He at the Altar stood
In all his Types and Robes of Power,
Whilst at His Feet Religious Britain bow'd,
And own'd him next to what We there Adore.
Say joyful Maese, and Boin's Victorious Flood,
(For each has mixt his Waves with Royal Blood)
When WILLIAM's Armies past, did He retire,
Or view from far the Battel's distant Fire?
Could He believe His Person was too dear?
Or use His Greatness to conceal His Fear?
Could Prayers or Sighs the dauntless Heroe move?
Arm'd with Heaven's Justice, and His People's Love,
Through the first Waves He wing'd His Vent'rous Way,
And on the Adverse Shore arose,
(Ten thousand flying Death's in vain oppose)
Like the great Ruler of the Day,
With Strength and Swiftness mounting from the Seas:
[Page 9]Like Him all Day He Toil'd, but long in Night
The God had eas'd His wearied light,
'Ere Vengeance left the stubborn Foes,
Or WILLIAM's Labours found repose.
When His Troops falter'd, stept not He between,
Restor'd the dubious Fight again,
Mark'd out the Coward that durst fly,
And led the fainting Brave to Victory?
Still as she fled Him, did He not o'ertake,
Her doubtful course, still brought Her Bleeding back?
By His keen Sword did not the Boldest fall?
Was He not King, Commander, Souldier, All—?
His Dangers such, as with becoming Dread,
His Subjects yet Un-Born shall Weep to Read;
And were not those the only Days that ere
The Pious Prince refus'd to hear
His Friends Advices, or His Subjects Prayer.
Where e're old Rhine his fruitful Water turns,
Or fills his Vassals Tributary Urns;
To Belgia's sav'd Dominions, and the Sea,
Whose righted Waves rejoice in WILLIAM's sway.
Is there a Town where Children are not Taught,
Here Holland Prosper'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 this Valour blest,
In different Languages confest,
And then let Shannon Speak the rest:
Let Shannon Speak, how on her wond'ring Shore,
When Conquest hov'ring on his Arms did wait,
And only ask'd some Lives to Bribe her o're.
The God-like Man, the more than Conqueror,
With high Contempt sent back the specious Bait,
And Scorning Glory at a Price too great,
With so much Power such Piety did joyn,
As made a Perfect Virtue Soar
A Pitch unknown to Man before,
And lifted Shannon's Waves o'er those of Boyne.
Nor do his Subjects only share
The Prosp'rous Fruits of His Indulgent Reign;
His Enemies approve the Pious War,
Which, with their Weapon, takes away their Chain:
More than His Sword, His Goodness strikes His Foes;
They Bless His Arms, and Sigh they must oppose.
Justice and Freedom on his Conquests wait,
And 'tis for Man's Delight that He is Great:
Succeeding Times shall with long Joy contend,
If He were more a Victor, or a Friend:
So much His Courage and His Mercy strive,
He Wounds, to Cure; and Conquers, to Forgive.
Ye Heroes, that have Fought Your Countries Cause,
Redress'd Her Injuries, or Form'd Her Laws,
To my Advent'rous Song just Witness bear,
Assist the Pious Muse, and hear Her Swear,
That 'tis no Poet's Thought, no Flight of Youth,
But solid Story, and severest Truth,
That WILLIAM Treasures up a greater Name,
Than any Country, any Age, can Boast:
(g) And all that Ancient Stock of Fame
He did from His Fore-Fathers take,
He has improv'd, and gives with Interest back;
And in His Constellation does unite
Their scatter'd Rays of Fainter Light:
Above or Envy's lash, or Fortunes Wheel,
That settled Glory shall for ever dwell
Above the Rowling Orbs, and common Sky,
Where nothing comes that e're shall Die.
Where Roves the Muse? Where thoughtless to return
Is her short liv'd Vessel Born,
By Potent Winds too subject to be tost?
And in the Sea of WILLIAM's Praises lost?
Nor let her tempt that Deep, nor make the Shore
VVhere our abandon'd Youth She sees
Shipwrackt in Luxury, and lost in Ease;
VVhom nor Britannia's Danger can alarm,
Nor WILLIAM's Exemplary Virtue warm:
Tell 'em howe'er the King can yet Forgive
Their Guilty Sloath, their Homage yet Receive,
And let their wounded Honour live:
But sure and sudden be their just Remorse;
Swift be their Virtues rise, and strong its Course; (h)
For though for certain Years and destin'd Times,
Merit has lain confus'd with Crimes;
Though Iove seem'd Negligent of human Cares,
Nor Scourg'd our Follies, nor return'd our Prayers.
His Justice now Demands the equal Scales,
Sedition is Supprest, and Truth Prevails:
Fate it's great Ends by slow Degrees Attains,
And Europe is Redeem'd, and WILLIAM Reigns.

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