A Congratulatory POEM On His Highness The Prince of Orange, Upon his Arrival to Town.
WElcom, great Hero, of Illustrious Name;
Of Faith unspotted, and unspotted Fame.
Welcom, as Showers to thirsty Earth, or Light
To Storm-tost-Sailors, or to Lovers Night!
Our clouded Isle was cheer'd to see afar
The hopeful Glimpses of our Morning Star.
Our Hell-born Fiends and Specters fled away,
And durst not stand the Test of open Day.
To other Nations dreadful are Alarms,
But we Congratulate your Peaceful Arms.
You, like Alcides, take your Sword in Hand,
Only to chase the Monsters from our Land.
You only Arm to make our Tumults cease,
Your Wars are glorious, for your End is Peace.
Our Virgin-Church to save from Dragons Jaws,
To fix Religion, and restore our Laws.
Your Martial Aid restores our Publick-Weal,
Your Sword is dipp'd in Balm, and drawn to Heal.
Let guilty Rome, and yet more guilty France,
Tremble to see your glorious Arms advance.
For though the Pride of France has swell'd so high,
A Warlike Empire's Forces to defie,
To crush United States Confederate Pow'r,
And silence the loud Belgian Lyons Roar,
Our longing Islanders shall now advance,
With Courage taught long since to Conquer France;
To seize at once their Spoils of many a year,
And cheaply win what they oft bought too dear.
The terrour still of our Third Edward's Name,
Rebukes their Pride, and damps their swelling Fame.
Nor can the Tide of many rowling years,
Wash the stain'd Fields of Cressey and Poictiers.
A Conscious terrour strikes their Bosoms still,
When they behold that famous fatal Hill,
Where Edward with his Host Spectator stood,
And left the PRINCE to make the Conquest good.
Nor has the black Remembrance left their Brest,
How our Fifth Harry to their Paris prest,
While France wept Blood for their hot Dauphin's Jest.
The British Lyon with the Belgian joyn'd,
For universal Conquest seem design'd:
The Earth's one half to each must quit the Field,
But where their Forces joyn, the World must yield.
LONDON: Printed for H. P. M DC LXXXVIII.