A POEM ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR, By His MAJESTY.

—Tu maximus Ille es,
Ʋnus qui nobis cunctando restituis Rem.
Virgil▪

By Mr. DENNE.

LONDON, Printed for R. Cumberland, at the Angel in St. Paul's Church-yard, 1695.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE Lord CUTTS.

My Lord,

SO many Reasons concur to frame an Excuse for my Dedica­ting a thing of this nature to your Lordship, that nothing but the Quality of the Present can refute 'em. And I can scarce discharge my Conscience without freely owning it the Result of that Flame, which the repeated Instances of your Valour, unavoidably kindled in me. There's so much of the Hero in all your Ʋndertakings, that they can't but inflame the dawning, and revive the dying Courage: For Light must have its Reflexi­on; the Sun and Heat are inseparable, and whate're it Touches it Warms. My Lord, Your Pen has testify'd your Contempt of Flattery: But all the World confesses there appears in Your Lordship something so eminently great, that it ex­cludes the Possibility of it. And we may well return upon you, my Lord, what you once said of our Late ever blessed Queen; Your Soul is toucht with a Spark of that Fire, which warms the Hearts of Angels, and kindles Mortality into Desires that are immortal: It invests you with something so glo­rious and divine, that we can never have Eyes enough to admire you, nor Tongues enough to praise you. And here, my Lord, you have drawn your own Picture, and none but your own Pen is worthy to describe You. But Providence has made You so eminently serviceable to his Majesty and your Country, that 'tis but our Duty to bring You those Lawrels which You have so much to your Cost, and for our Security, deserv'd. When Dan­ger appear'd emphatically itself, and needed no Imagination to enlarge it; when Death stood with his Dart almost visible, and Heroes too much discover'd the Man, and recoyl'd at the Ap­prehension; [Page] then there appear'd in Your Lordship that Peculi­arity of Soul, that Spark of Fire, which urg'd you on to out­face Destruction, and even terrify the King of Terrors: Then You did in the highest sence Virtutem extendere factis. We see in You that [...], that [...], which is so observable in some Souls, that we question our Alliance to them, and not improbably fancy them of a sublimer Species. And since the Antients rank'd those who were above the ordinary Level among their Divinities, why may not we think there is some Discri­mination, tho not corporeal, yet perhaps spiritual, between them and quotidian Souls, that they have some peculiar Tincture of Divinity, and are a Kind of [...], a Mixture of Natures? But now, My Lord, perhaps I'me guilty of too much Flame and Digression: But if ever any Consideration can give Rise to such a Thought, 'tis when I think upon your Lordship; and I can't but incline to the Opinion, and almost maintain it, when Your Lordship's Actions are such strong Asserters of it.

But, My Lord, I have many Reasons that plead for my Dedi­cation of this ensuing Concern to Your Lordship: Not only the Quorum pars magna fuisti, and your being so signally eminent in this Action, an Action which silences the loud Encomiums of Boileau, and transfers the unwilling Praises design'd for Lewis upon his Majesty King William, as Mr. Motteux has happily done, and makes the French Academies subservient to the En­glish Glory; Not only that You have formerly honour'd the Muses with Your Inclinations: But, my Lord, You have before You a Muse educated in your own County, recreated in the same; ev'n in your own Groves, drawing the same Air, and which saw how happily the Ʋniversity of Cambridge discover'd her Judg­ment, when she chose Your Lordship her Representative, and so willingly seconded the Inclinations of the rest of the Kingdom. I question not, but that Illustrious Academy will be eager to send her Muses to congratulate Your Lordship's Safety and Ho­nour; amidst whom I hope you will pardon the perhaps too for Zeal of

Your Lordship's, Most Humble, Obedient, and Devoted Servant, Henry Denne.

ON THE SIEGE OF NAMUR.

ONce more, my Muse, thy William is thy Theme;
The Briton's Glory, and the VVorld's Esteem.
Thy utmost Thoughts the wondrous Man requires,
Heroic VVarmth; for He himself inspires.
Exhaust thy Soul upon that mighty Name,
And, to right William, sound as loud as Fame.
But oh his worth is boundless as his Mind;
He soars and leaves the flagging Muse behind.
So sees the tow'ring Eagle from a far
The Linnet flutt'ring in inferior Air.
Each Year new Themes of Glory must afford,
When William's arm'd, and weilds the British Sword.
His Ensign rear'd attending Annals wait,
All Europe's husht, and Fame appears in State,
As at some wondrous Birth of long contriving Fate.
For he's not call'd but when the VVorld's at stake,
And when its Freedom's strong Supporters shake.
Some Lewis (Fate commanding) must dccline,
And to a worthier Brow his Crown resign.
On other Thoughts I strain; th' unwilling Fire
Lies long conceal'd, nor answers my Desire:
But when Heroic William is the Theme
My Muse obeys; and, like some gentle Stream,
That softly sinks beneath the rising Swan,
Flows in an easy, and a willing strain:
Then on I'll go before the vulgar Throng;
A Zeal like mine demands an early Song.
Yet stay my Muse; and since your Aim's so high,
Prune your young Wings, the feeble Pinions try,
E're you presume to mount the dang'rous Sky.
Yet hark! what Shouts arise! what Armies those!
What Hero's That, who presses on his Foes!
It must be William. Haste my Muse, and run,
Present your Laurels e're the Shouts are done;
Like morning Larks that mount to meet the Sun.
Again, what Noise! Ah! humbled Lewis falls;
While British Ensigns, from the conquer'd Walls,
Wave at the backs of the retreating Gauls.
See Britain's Worthies! see Batavia's there!
How god-like, how adorably severe
Their William looks, while routed Foes despair!
View him, bold Kneller, and when e're you draw
The God of War and Conquest, paint Nassau.
Oh! what a Rapture to a Martial Eye
In dire Array, and dreadful Pomp to spy
Armies resolv'd to conquer, or to dye!
Methinks I see the matchless Feats of Arms
At Namur wrought. Oh how my Soul it warms!
The Tents are fixt, surrounding Bands inclose
Within their rocky Forts the num'rous Foes.
New sparks of Honour dignify the Brave:
Against the Walls their eager Swords they wave.
William, their Soul, the diff'rent Parties joyn'd,
Their daring Ensigns streaming in the Wind.
While Arms on Arms, reflecting dreadful Rays,
Affright the Foes, who from their Ramparts gaze.
And now each Gen'ral to his Post repairs,
And urges Glory to the list'ning Ears
Of martial Souls; while deaf'ning shouts arise,
And each aloud the Neighb'ring Gauls defies.
Namur, the destin'd Object of the War
Severely pleasing, rises in the Air:
So beauteous! that it tempts the Warrior's Eye:
So strong! he wishes, but he dares not try.
Ev'n William pauses, when its strength he views;
All but the Hero would the Task refuse.
Fenc'd with vast Rocks it stands, and seems to dare
The Siege of Europe joyning in a War.
Well might an Army there a Siege endure,
Where Fear, nay Lewis thought himself secure,
Lewis so nicely skill'd himself t' inclose
With Lines, and Bars, and Ramparts from his Foes.
Firm as the craggy Rock on which it stands
A dreadful Castle all the Plains commands.
Tow'rs, Rav'lins, Bulwarks, all around appear,
So fortified by France, as if her Fate lay there.
Art finisht there what Nature's Pow'r began,
To make the Rock impregnable to Man:
But more than man approaches; see from far,
The British Genius, and the God of War!
See William riding in imperial state,
While subject Heroes on the Monarch wait!
His gen'rous Steed, while warlike Music plays,
As sensible of Glory, proudly neighs.
And as the Hero to his Bands draws nigh,
Applauding shouts arise, and rend the Sky.
So lookt bright Michael in the Plains above,
Heading the Seraph [...], when for Heav'n he strove.
Scarce with more Zealth' Aetherial Armies flew,
Winging their March to the Satanic Crew,
Than English Warriors when the Gauls in view.
Yet to place Glory in a nobler Light,
And mount their Courage to the utmost height,
He tells what Fame to former Britons gave,
And thus addresses each attentive Brave.
The Hour, Ye gen'rous Britons, now is come,
That treach'rous France must feel her dreaded Doom.
Fate strikes by you; and Kingdoms, that depend
On this Event, must see their Dangers end.
Gauls wait for Promises and gilded Words;
There needs no whetting to the British Swords.
I'll not detain you, nor prolong their Pride:
Go on, and Conquest right the injur'd side!
Now make the Slaves, as once at Crecy, bow,
And veil their Laurels to the British Brow:
As once, where e're your Ensigns were displaid,
Submissive Nations willing homage paid;
Your Kings stood Umpires of dissenting Crowns,
And settled tott'ring Monarchs on their Thrones.
Now let deceas'd Maria— (at that word
The Hero sigh'd) edge every loyal Sword.
He stopp'd. The Britains full of William rose:
Again they shout, and fright the wondring Foes.
The Signal giv'n, up flies a fiery Bomb,
Hizzing amidst the Clouds, and brings the Doom
Of Squadrons: Now another seen from far
Glares like a Meteor, while it burns the Air.
Again another, and another now;
Hundreds at once fly in a dreadful Row,
And scatter Ruine on the Town and Foe.
But lo! some monstrous Globe is rear'd in state,
Glowing with Flame, and big with hidden Fate.
Blown with sulphureous breath the Engine flies,
Mounting with dreadful Syrma thro the Skies.
The Planets, and those num'rous Worlds above,
Affrighted, from their stated Order move.
Triumphant Fate away mean Wretches bears,
And falling Nobles mourn unfinisht years.
Urg'd by Success the Engineers apply
Dismissive Flame, and Legions upwards fly;
Like bearded Comets in a fiery Tract;
But Comets can but threaten what these act.
Aloft the dreadful Phaetons aspire;
The trembling Crouds cry out the World's on fire
The Shades retreat, as tho the day's begun,
While these supply the place of the departed Sun.
Now they descend, and, threat'ning all below,
Rush down with Vengeance on the scatt'ring Foe.
The French, provok'd by the prevailing Flame,
From their strong Battlemenrs return the same.
A hundred brazen Mouths from far assail
Th' unshelter'd Brave, with fatal Iron Hail.
Then out they sally, but Cutts ready stands
With wakeful Courage and well order'd Bands,
And meets the Foes: They, shameful to retire,
Now stand, now fall, now faulter, now expire,
Urg'd by the British Sword and British Fire.
A few escape and to their Friends declare,
How resolute, how brave the Britons are;
How fond to meet, how careless of their fate,
Resolv'd for Fame, impatient to be great.
Here British Chiefs watch the commanding word,
Fledg'd with new Honors from their Royal Lord,
Then each designs to signalize his Sword:
Scorning the vulgar Throng the Warrior flies,
Death marks his Aim, and Fate attends his Eyes.
Forc'd by the fierce Assailers, now the Gauls
Quit Post by Post; yet from their inmost Walls
They shun our Fury and withstand our Balls.
I love the Thirst of Fame tho in a Foe,
Who faces Danger with a settled Brow.
Such Souls are worthier of our William's aim,
And raise their own by adding to his Fame.
Danger appears now eminently great,
And Death is serv'd in honourable state.
A Mar'schal with an Army fights within,
All France without, is with a Mar'schal seen.
All France, that's drein'd to keep th' important Town,
Swears to prevent th' Eclipse of her Renown;
Her utmost Force comes on, but stops at William's Frown.
He then ordains th' Assault, that France may know,
He can take Towns, like her, and face a Foe.
Towns stronger yet than e're their Armies took,
While twice our Number on our Valour look.
But who's the fittest found in William's Eye,
Who dares the World's Applause so dearly buy,
As to lead on, and climb the dreadful Walls,
Whence instant Ruine on th' Assailers falls,
And thro bad Ways, and narrowest Breaches fly
Where Crouds of Braves in strong Intrenchments lye?
'Tis Cutts. Now, Fame, thy hundred Mouths prepare,
The Hero's Praise to distant Shores to bear.
Sing him, ye Bards, who love the banks of Cham,
Ev'n infant Muses must repeat his Name.
He too once felt the Muses gentle Fire,
When he vouchsaft to strike the charming Lyre.
Brave Soul, you needs must scorn the vulgar Road,
Inspir'd and guided by a double God.
See, up the steep ascent the Hero flies!
By his sure Hand some rash Commander dies.
Confed'rate Braves, whom his Example fires,
Assault the Foe, who by degrees retires,
And in his last Recess would keep his hold;
By Danger fierce, by Desperation bold,
The Lust of Fame provokes their noble Rage▪
William inspires, and all like Gods ingage
But see, at last the Mar'schal's Valor fails;
O're Boufflers now superior Cutts prevails.
The Gauls give way; their short liv'd Courage sinks,
And each on gen'rous William's Mercy thinks.
Ev'n the proud Mar'schal, tho asham'd, afraid
Consents, and now the yielding Flag's displaid.
Unsated Death unwillingly gives o're;
Unsated Death, like Lewis, would have more.
While stretcht in State the pensive Monarch lies,
Detain'd by Fear, tho Honor bids him rise.
On yielding Down majestically spread,
He dreams, and seems to threat'ning Danger dead.
He strives by sleep his anxious Thoughts to ease;
For, while awake, he instant Ruine sees;
Fear antidates his Fate; before his Eyes
Namur surrenders, and his Army flies.
But lo! the Guardian Genius of his Crown,
The Gallic Demon, with a boding Frown,
Once more forewarns him to forsake his Down.
To urge him more, he o're his Pillow stood,
And stream'd upon him visionary Blood.
And thus bespeaks him—
Sleep'st thou, Grand Monarch? What, in Slumbers found;
When round your Ears the British Trumpets sound!
Shall the dull Pilot, when the Surges roar,
And mount, and beat, and rage; supinely snore?
And, careless of his Charge, the Rudder leave
An easy sport to each insulting Wave?
[Page 8]
William, prevailing William loudly calls,
Near the Mehaign, and Namur's tott'ring Walls.
He calls Thee, but unanswer'd in the Air
The sound is lost; no Lewis dares appear.
Arise; for now unfriendly Fame has spread,
The Town's your Rival's, and your Army's fled.
Triumphant William rides along the Plain,
While Nations freed adore the wondrous Man.
At this he starts, and soon the dreaded News
The Truth of the forewarning Vision shews.
But now, my Muse, confess your dying fire,
Nor to the height, you cannot reach, aspire;
Own, own the Theme too great, and silently admire.
But in what Breast glows a Poetic Flame
Warm as the Monarch's, equal to his Fame?
Who shall in equal Verse the Hero's worth proclaim?
Sure all must the superior Task decline,
But* He who sung the Monarch at the Boyne.
FINIS.

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