GO on, Great Prince, the mighty Work pursue,
And reap the Laurels to your Vertue due.
Go on, and let the sad Ierne share
Your Glorious Triumphs, as it do's your Care.
There Victory will on your Arms attend,
(For Heaven must sure the Justest Cause befriend:)
There urge the Fortune of your growing Fate,
And kindly prop Ierne's sinking State.
Well, now he's Shipt !— See how th' obsequious Main
And trembling Billows fear to entertain
So Great a Pledge of Fortune, One to whom
Fate owes so many Victories to come.
Cease, cease, ye Winds, you need not send your Gales,
His Subjects Loyal Vows will fill the Sails.
The wondring Sea-gods on their Master gaze,
And Reverend Triton on his Trumpet plays:
No foamy Waves alarm the peaceful Deep,
The Winds are husht, the very Tempests sleep;
Till safely landing on the distant Shore,
He views a Place he never saw before.
Behold the Monarch walking on the Strand,
Whilst mighty Crowds do blacken all the Sand:
Guns, Trumpets, Drums, his Welcom all proclaim;
There's Soul, there's Life, nay, Magic in his Name.
New Vigour from his Sight the Soldier draws,
And through all Dangers boldly courts Applause;
A nobler Warmth do's all the Men inspire,
Their Breasts are heated, and they feel the Fire;
While Peals of artful Thunder rend the Air,
And their lowd Joy through the large Region bear.
What Place will first our Caesar's Arms employ,
To give Prefage of future Victory ?
Th' unequal Force no meaner Town withstands,
But beg their Peace with low submissive Hands.
Cavan in vain relies upon its Strength,
And views those Turrets which must fall at length.
Where Valour's wanting, what do Walls avail ?
Those may be storm'd, but this can never fail.
The English Youth, like a bold Torrent, run,
And scorn the weak Attacks of Sword and Gun.
Forthwith the dastard Irish quit the Place,
And scarce dare look our Party in the Face.
So when Great Josuah, by God's Command,
With his unconquer'd Host o're-ran the Land,
The trembling Canaanite, possest with Fear,
Fled to the Hills, yet scarce found Safety there:
In vain they fought to shun approaching Death,
Begg'd to protract a poor and shameful Breath;
The fiery Jews destroy the timerous Race,
And shew the hardned Canaanite no Grace.
Tredagh do's next the English Arms oppose,
Following the Counsel of her Gallick Foes:
At last, when no Relief, no Hope is near,
And Death do's in a thousand Shapes appear,
Taught by Experience of former Time,
When haughty Cromwel punish'd her great Crime,
To Article she wisely do's begin,
And opes her Gates, and lets the Monarch in.
Now Naked Dublin do our Troops survey,
A cheap, unguarded, and defenceless Prey,
Unless the French have labour'd to destroy
The Place they cou'd not any more enjoy.
And who can tell ? For Fear, with Malice join'd,
No Bounds, no Limits to their Fury find:
But if those Blood-hounds thus do serve the Isle,
All France next Year shall be its Funeral Pile.
'Tis far above the Meanness of my Verse,
Such great Heroick Actions to rehearse:
For, ah ! what Tribe of all the Muse below
Can our Great Prince in equal Numbers shew ?
But if the Great Apollo do's inspire
My vig'rous Mind with no fantastick Fire,
Ireland will in a Years revolving Space
Our Mighty Caesar's Glorious Triumphs grace.
Jove did the Isle from Toads and Spiders free,
A puny Task, below a Deity:
But you far greater Miracles renew,
A larger Laurel to your Worth is due;
For by the Influence of your careful Toil
You free the Men, Jove only freed the Soil.