LONDON, Printed for Richard Baldwin in the Old-Bailey. 1690.
On the Ever to be Lamented Death of the Most MAGNANIMOUS and ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE, CHARLES LEOPOLD DUKE of LORRAINE, General of the Imperial Army; Who Died suddenly, April the Eighth 1690
HEark! heark! What dismal Noise is this I hear?
What mournful Clangor is't doth pierce mine Ear?
Fame, who had all her Trumpets taught to sound
Her General's Praise, with which the Air around
The spacious Globe so often did rebound;
Who'd learnt the Joyful Echo's to repeat
The Mighty Vict'ries of Lorrain the Great,
And had instructed every Charming Grove
To sing his Conquests, 'stead of softer Love;
Had gather'd all her Breath, loud to proclaim
Th' approaching Triumphs of the next Campaine:
'S if Thunder-struck! at once her Pipes are mute,
The merry Haut-boys, and shrill-throated Flute,
The Stately Kettle, and Reviving Drum,
Th' Harmonious Trumpet, All, at once, are Dumb!
Dumb! to those Notes which Martial Heat did stir,
And all their Levets chang'd to mournful Murr:
Astonish't Hero's drop their sinking Arms,
And Europe staggers at the dread Alarms.
The Glorious LORRAINE, Theme of all their Praise!
The Glorious LORRAINE, who to Life could raise
A Sinking Empire; To Fresh Youth restore
The Roman Eagle, almost spent before;
The Glorious LORRAINE did her Strength renew,
Warm'd with His Heat, She to fresh Vict'ries flew;
Eclipst the Turkish Moon by Her high Flight,
And with her Sable Plumes obscur'd her Borrow'd Light.
Arm'd with His Courage, She whole Regions tore
From the Proud Sultan; forc'd him to restore
Her Ravag'd Cities to her Ancient Sway:
Made trembling Bashaws her Great Chief obey,
As if New Conquests grew with every Day.
The Glorious LORRAINE taught th' Imperial Arms
To baffle Fate; Before him flew whole Swarms
Of Haughty Infidels, who oppos'd in vain
That Arm which sow'd whole Countries with their Slain.
But who th' Immortal Laurel shall transfer
From Buda's Walls, to grace His Sepulcher?
Buda! That single Word sums all Renown;
A Matchless Bashaw, and a Matchless Town;
Rise, Mighty Waller, Right the Heroe here,
The Theme's too Great for my poor Muse to bear.
He that Great LORRAINE's Vict'ries would rehearse,
Must fill vast Volumes, not confine t' a Verse;
At's Conq'ring Feet the prostrate Visiers fall,
Their Gasping Empire dreads the General.
Vanquisht Seraskiers with their Legions run;
Like Caesar, where he came, the Day he won.
Here we must rest, whilst thou, my Muse, dost tell
His Swords Exploits 'gainst a greater Infidel.
Leave the proud Banks of Danow's famous Stream,
Loaden with Trophies of the General's Fame;
And to the Fertile Rhine let's now advance,
And view the Pannick Fear he brought on France;
That worser Turk, Tyrannick Monster, who
Conscious, of plotting Europe's Overthrow,
'Twas now high time, his Injur'd Neighbours call,
To come t' Account with their Great General:
Lorraine he stole 'gainst all pretence of Law,
And Ravag'd Orange from the Brave Nassaw,
Encroacht on Spain, endeavoured to tear
Th' Imperial Lawrel, on his Brows to wear
Augustus's Power, and with Sword and Fire
Beyond his Bounds to stretch his Lewd Desire;
Till he had Planted utter Desolation,
And made his Neighbours like his Abject Nation:
The Glorious LORRAIN's chose to Check his Pride,
And force the Monster in his Cave to hide:
His well-taught Troops disdain the Monsieur's Arms.
Monsieur, who Trembles at the Great Alarms:
Monsieur, who ne'er durst meet this Prince in Field,
Poysons, and Pistols more than's Sword have kill'd;
Inglorious Arts! Scorn'd by the Great and Brave,
They seek not Man's Destruction, but to Save.
In three Months time Monsieur had felt so much
The Courage of th' Allies, 'twas time to touch
On some Design might spoil the Next Campaine,
And lay the dreaded General of Almaine:
The Fortune of his Sword he justly Fears,
And the Large Reckoning for old Arrears:
'Tis done! The Mighty HERO that had Broke
The Insulting Power of the Turkish Yoake,
Made the more Barbarous Frenchman Fear his Sword,
Which daily Reapt more Lawrels for its Lord.
The Empires Hope, the Darling of the League,
Is fallen; not by Arms, but by Intrigue!
Where were ye all ye Powers that attend
On Virtuous Men, and are the HERO's Friend?
Could no Kind Genius Rescue from his Fate
The mighty Conqueror, and prolong his Date?
But as Great Allexander, fell before,
Loaden with Triumphs! So, whom We deplore:
Whose Fate, not th' Empire, but all Europe Mourn;
And shall on France the Treacherous Fact Return.
You most Illustrious Hero's which survive
The Valiant LORRAINE, keep still alive
His Unmatcht Courage, Conduct, Constancy,
And bear his Name up to Posterity.
May th' August Emperour, a New General find,
Matching the Bravery of his Arm, and Mind:
And the Leagu'd Princes such success Acquire
As bears Proportion with their Just Desire.
May You French Lillies with Your Lawrels twine,
And Victory with all Your Armies Join,
'Till humbled Lewis find his Treasons Vain;
And LORRAIN's Fortune to outlive LORRAINE.
Near twice Ten years, betrusted with Commands
In Warlike Ships, in midst of Armed Bands
On all occasions he his Country serv'd,
And from the Post of danger never swerv'd;
Always a Victor, and by Heaven's decree
Preserv'd till this his finall destiny.
'Twas near th' Americ strand when twice 12 days
The Glorious Sun had guilded with his Rays
Fair Maia's bosome. In the Frigot Rose
Ploughing the Ocean to seek out his foes,
And save his Convoy-Fleet, anon appears
A Lusty French Ship, after her he stears.
Twenty odd Guns on either side hawl'd out
Seamen and Soldiers full four hundred stout.
The Rose a Fifth Rate, not full thirty Guns,
Sixscore brave Lads, burthen 3 hundred Tuns.
And when in Call demands, whence your ship, hoy?
The Frenchman cry'd, me tell you by and by
Strike to the King of France then forthwith cry'd
No, no, Monsieur, we'l first well bang your hide,
Cry'd Valiant George, nor shall it e're be told
To England's King his Ship so cheap I sold.
Scarce said, when thund'ring Eccho's pierce the sky
From English Marriners, who French defy.
Shrill Trumpets, and loud Drums do now Invite
The dull and timorous to a bloody Fight:
Then thundring Cannons mixt with Fire and smoak
Send pondrous balls, piercing well-season'd Oak,
Which in their passage to the briny deeps
Numbers of souls lull in Eternal sleeps,
From the Main-topps and quarter-Decks like hail
In showers of Lead, each other now assail:
Now might you see the Rigging cut in twain
And nimble fingers splicing it again.
Ten thousand splinters from all quarters fly,
The sayls hard Bullets pierce then pass to th' sky:
Some spunge the Guns, others dire powder bear,
Loading with chain-shot is anothers care:
All bent to kill, or take, or burn, or both,
No Room is left for Cowardice or sloath.
The Curled Ensigns now are cut in twain,
Streight, daring Sailers put them up again.
And now th'affrighted fishes from the Deep
Their Scaly heads advancing up, do peep,
Above the waves, displeas'd at such distresses,
Amaz'd, return to their unknown recesses;
Mean while the Combatants with clamours fill
Heavens cieled Arch in crying out, kill, kill.
Then dying groans, with shouts commixt are heard,
And from the scoopers flowing blood appear'd.
Thus for some time the success doubtfull was,
When from the Main-top (oh! wo and alas!)
Some Common hand a Cursed ball did send,
Which brought the Noble George unto his end:
Fixt in his Breast, out goes his fleeting Soul,
Whilst in his hearts-blood, his pale Corps doth Rowl:
Yet e're he went to the Elizium shade,
To his next Friends breathing his last he said,
God bless you all, I dye, I'me ill all o're,
You're in a good Cause, play the Men therefore.
Stout Wiggoner the Ships chief Master fell,
With sundry more of whom if I should tell,
Too large would be the Theme, let it content
I'th' Be [...] of honour, they their dear lives spent.
Here should I end, salt tears bids stay my Pen,
But Common Justice prompts me on again,
To speak of Valiant Condon, and his Merits,
Since he the Captains place duly Inherits.
The sword strait he advancing, doth cry out,
Brave Lads fight on, we'le have the other bout.
Your late Commander's dead (brave George) 'tis true,
My life against the Foe I'le spend with you;
Do but your parts, we'le make the Monsieur run,
Or Rost his hide, e're it be set of Sun.
Fresh Courage now revives in every breast,
Scorning to think of life or Interest:
Near one hour more they thump't the Frenchmans hide,
Such sort of treatment he could not abide.
His First, and Second in our view did fall,
His Ports were made as wide as door in Hall;
His Main-yard shot, his Men like Pidgeons fell,
From the Main-top; In death's Embraces dwell
Some hundreds more: for in our view we saw
From bloudy decks they their dead Men did draw.
But that the Poet may not Merit blame,
For he (as well as others) hath some shame.
It must not be forgot how Valiant
Capt. Ben. Clark of Wappin in the Europian of London, a Mast-Ship.
ClarkWith his ten Guns did prove a gallant spark,
And though desired forth with to fall astern,
And safe from blows himself no more concern
In Bloudy Combat, scorn'd to be dismay'd,
Hawl up the Main-sail to his Men he said,
And from the quarter-Deck waving on high
His glittering sword the Frenchman did defy:
Come if you dare (he cry'd) we're ready for ye,
We'le bang your Jacket, or I should be sorry.
Stand by your Guns, it never shall be told
To my disgrace in England—New—or old
I fear'd a Frenchman, or would e're permit
My Captain to be wrong'd I seeing it:
Fire on his quarter, you will [...]ach him now,
Place that great Gun exact against his Bough,
Ply well your small shot, let's do all we can,
What is the least, is not the worst of man.
Thus giving, and receiving on it goes,
Till the poor Monsieur thresh'd with heavy blows
Found he'de too much on't, strait about he wheels,
Finding his hands not half so good as heels.
FINIS.
LONDON, Printed and sold by most Booksellers of London and Westminster.