The double welcome. A poem to the Duke of Marlbro'

THE Double Welcome. A POEM To the Duke of MARLBOROUGH. My Lord, THE Muſe that by Your Victory's Inſpir'd, Firſt ſung thoſe Conqueſts, all the World admir'd, Now ſings the Triumphs of your Native Land, Where you our Hearts as well as Troops Command, Her Debt of Praiſe is Yours, but 'tis her Due, That welcom'd Vict'ry, now to welcome You. And tho' her Verſe too mean to ſing your Fame, Injures the Hero by the Poet's Name; Abject and low, and ſcorch'd by Party-Fire, Whom neither Name Invites nor Hopes Inſpire: Yet this ſhe claims, ſhe can Your Fame rehearſe, Ʋnbiaſs'd in Your Praiſe, Impartial in her Verſe. This Character ſh' has kept, and this ſhe brings, She always ſcorn'd to flatter, tho' ſhe ſung to Kings. Satyr has been her Talent, Truth her Song, Truth who can bear it! ſung too loud, too long. Bright Truth! that Stranger to the Jingling Train, Makes all their Praiſes Satyrs, all their Satyrs vain, While Truth can neither this nor that explain. Th' Ʋnſpotted Standard has been all her Aim, For this ſhe has felt her Fate, and ſunk her Fame: For this they've damn'd the Poet and his Rimes, And ſlain th' unhappy Muſe for want of Crimes Adapted thus to Sacred Truth and Fame, She never ſung but they were both her Theam Stranger to Panegyrick and to Praiſe, It muſt be ſome ſublime muſt her juſt Fancy raiſe. To Truth and Merit ſhe was always true, She never could the flattering Flight purſue, And never prais'd but William, Sir, and You. And ſhould ſhe, ſpight of Nature, ſtrain her Thought, Should ſhe his Lawrels ſing that never fought, Should ſhe make Gallo Chaſt and Talus Wiſe, And praiſe Immortal Blockheads in Diſguiſe, Or feign a Hero, 'Twould be ſo forc'd, ſo aukward, and ſo dull, Gallo would ſeem more Lewd, Talus ſeem more a Fool: Truth thro' the Lawn of Flattery would ſhine, And in Mock-Praiſe the Satyr muſt be ſeen. Should we Eternal Trophies ſeem to raiſe, And Flying Chamo's Doubtful Vict'ry praiſe. Diſputed Honours partially decide, And grant that Fame Bellona had deny'd; To Vict'ry's Statue new Mock Honours pay, And ſay they Conqu'red there that run away; 'Twould with ſuch Incoherent Nonſence ſhine, The bluſhing Hero muſt the aukward Praiſe decline: The ſtrong Collateral Banter would appear, Courage ſo ſung would read like Hymns to Fear. The Painters thus by Contraries preſent The allegorick Devil like the Saint, But by ſome faint Reflection ſhow their Care The Cloven Meaning ſhould not fail t'appear. The Poet, Sir, to Plainneſs thus ennur'd, Thus from the Charge of Flatt'ry firſt ſecur'd, An Honeſt and Unbyaſs'd Freedom brings, And all the Nation liſtens while he ſings; In his Inviting Conſort freely Joyn, Juſt ſo they did when firſt he ſung the Boyne; Juſt as when Namur's Conquer'd Walls he ſung, Britannia own'd his Harp Divinely ſtrung. 'Tis Subject makes a Poet, and the Verſe Muſt be Inſpir'd when William we rehearſe; His mighty Name Poetick Force procures, And next to him the Inſpiration's Yours. From Foreign Fields and wild Danubian Shore, Where Engliſh Armies never trod before, Fruitful of Dangers, long ennur'd to War For Great Guſtavus us'd to Conquer There; Herculean Labours paſt, and Hazards run, Unheard of Marches made, unlook'd for Vict'rys won: From Battels fought in Earneſt, and the Field Which none but theſe could win, where thoſe muſt yield:) From unexampl'd Conduct and Succeſs, That ne'er had been ſo great had This been leſs From Deeds too mighty to be ſpoke by Words, Printed in Death, engrav'd with Engliſh Swords, Confeſt by Humbl'd France, and loudly told By Valour dearly bought, by Valour dearly ſold: From ſcatter'd Enemies and reſcued Crowns, Which Envy nor Diſputes nor Pride diſowns; You're welcome, Sir, to this unthankful Shore, Where Men of Worth were never own'd before. If in the future Glories you purſue, You find the hateful Scandal happen true; The Names of Schellenberg and Hockſtet lie Buried with Namure and the Boyn in wild Obſcurity. Let not your Virtue in Suſpence appear, 'T has always been the Fate of Merit here: A ſteady Glory ever has entail'd The Grin of Envy; Envy never fail'd To act the high refin'd Extreme of Hell How William found it, Bluſh my Muſe to tell. Shall any Foreign Bard deſire to know Why Britain can ſo few like William ſhow? Say angry Poet, tell 'em 'tis becauſe Ingrateful Devils grudge them due Applauſe. The Nation's Genius acted from below Rewards no Service, will no Merit know. Fame's empty Record none but Marlbro' ſhows, Would England's Work on England's Terms eſpouſe: But he like Wiliam, Heavens their Fame regard, Purſues true Virtue for its own Reward. Welcome Immortal Hero's to that Shore, Where Men of Equal Worth were never ſeen before. From Fam'd Breda ſet out the mighty Train, William too oft ſet out from thence in vain. Advance my Muſe, and view th' embattel'd Line, They paſs the Maeſe, the Moſelle, and the Rhine. France in Suſpence the mighy Storm foreſaw, The Conq'ring Squrdrons for the Battel draw, And Mars ſtood blindly hov'ring o'er Landau. Laugh at the guilty baffled God of War, Ye Sons of Arms, the Scene's prepar'd afar; Not Lewis now, not Mars himſelf could know Where Engliſh Jove his Thunderbolt would throw: No Traytors brib'd by France could lead the way, Not Hell it ſelf the Project could betray, Nor ſell the Nation, as in William's time, for Pay. The Troops amus'd with Halts and Feints of War The juſt Surprize inſtructs them what to fear; When you to Danube's Banks in haſt advance, A Length unlook'd for, unforeſeen by France. Swift, as the German Eagles lead, you fly On Guſts of Hope, and Wings of Victory; Your Paſſes o'er the Swabian Rocks appear Like Hannibal's, with Flame and Vinegar: And when the diſtant Vales their Proſpect ſhow, You threaten Conqueſt to the Plains below. Before your powerful Troops Bavaria's fly, And Schellenberg give way to Victory. The fam'd Aſcent had thirteen times and more Been ſtorm'd, and ne'er was won but once before. Once did the great Guſtave Bavaria here purſue, He Conquer'd here becauſe he fought like You. From thence thro' ravag'd Towns and conquer'd Plains The Monument of Victory remains, Augsburg and Munick trembl'd at your Name, Tho' not inform'd of your approaching Fame: To Blenheim, happy Name! the Scenes advance, There gathers all the Thunderbolts of France. A Leaſh of Armies on thy Plains appear Each fancied able to ſupport a War, And free a Nation from the Vanity of Fear. We that at Diſtance ſaw th' approaching Day, Knew the Deſign, and ſaw the Bloody Way. Blame not, great Prince, the doubts we own were true; Our anxious Thoughts for England and for You. We knew your brave reſolv'd and ſteady Mind, But who durſt hope for what remain'd behind; Who durſt foretell the Glories of the Day, That ſaw the dreadful Dangers of the Way: Not Heaven it ſelf, had we the News receiv'd From Heaven it ſelf, would here ha' been believ'd. When firſt the Tidings thro' the Nation flew, We pauz'd to ask if 'twas a Dream or true; Amaz'd almoſt as much as they that fled, While thoſe with Fear, and theſe with Joy, diſmay'd. Speak all ye Sons of Rhime, the Day rehearſe, The Theme's too high for my too humble Verſe: Apollo muſt your Heads at once inſpire, For needful Praiſe with Emblematick Fire. He that in ſuited Verſe to Marlbro' writes, Should feel that very Spirit by which he fights. Yet ſtill the meaneſt Poet of the Train Keeps on, nor ſhall his Tribute come in vain: Not all are Virgils to Mecaenas come, Yet all huzza'd Auguſtus back to Rome; When from the leſſer Honour of the Day He brought the Aegyptian Lover's Crown away And thus while Caeſar's Glory you purſue, The Nation's Praiſes are your Native Due: The univerſal Suffrage ſpreads your Name, And all Men bleſs the Poet in your Fame. Poet, a large Parentheſis allow, Say here he Conquer'd—leave the mighty How: The vaſt Particulars let thoſe explain, That ſing in Numbers ſuited to the Man: Let Addiſon our Modern Virgil ſing, For he's a Poet fitted for a King; No Hero will his mighty Flight diſdain, The Firſt, as thou the Laſt of the Inſpir'd Train; Maecenas has his Modern Fancy ſtrung, And fix'd his Penſion firſt, or he had never ſung; Thou unregarded pay'ſt thy Debt to Fame, Oppreſs'd by Fate, and too obſcure to Name. Envy and Party-Spleen h' has never known, No humbling Jayls has pull'd his Fancy down: The Towring Youth with high Succeſs aſpires, And fings as one whoſe Song the World admires. Yet ſay he Conquer'd, tho' the mighty How For Addiſon thou may'ſt in large Parentheſis allow; Trace him from Bleinheim and Danubian Plains, The Gallick Captiv'd Heoes in his Chains: Trace him to Philipsburgh and to Landau, And tell the French 'tis true as they foreſaw; He would the mighty Baſtions there pull down, Tho' not before their Army's overthrown. Attend the Hero to the ancient Saar, And ſee him threaten Native France with War; Surrender Treves that fatal Town to France, Their Troops abandon it as his Advance; Remind them of old Holſtein and Crequi, There France, as now at Bleinheim, learn'd to fly. Tell us no more of Conqueſt, Fame's oppreſs'd, The Breathleſs Muſes claim ſome time to reſt; Saarbruck and Traarback will but ſpoil our Verſe, So harſh no Numbers can their Sounds rehearſe: So Nimeghen diſtracted ſoft Boileau, The Subject lofty, and the Poet low, Made his juſt Numbers halt, his Verſes lame, For want of Rhimes to the Exotic Name. Thus from a vaſt Variety of Scene, And ſix huge Conqueſts fix'd in one Campaign, Bavaria Conquer'd, Settl'd, and Subdu'd, The flying Prince four Hundred Mile purſu'd: From Nineteen Towns ſurrendred, and the Field With ſlaughter'd Heaps and vanquiſh'd Legions fill'd From Captive Princes in your Train brought Home, So Caſar led the Kings of Gaul to Rome; From Trophies nobly bought, and fetch'd from far, From boldly finiſhing the Jeſt of War, Your're welcome, Sir, behold th' approaching Throng Of Three great Nations liſt'ning to my Song. How has this wiſe pretending Age till now Talkt big of Fighting, never yet knew how; Our Soldiers tyr'd with ſtrange Fateaguing Die, And in the Ditch, not Bed of Honour Lie; Starv'd with the Cold and Terror of the Night, But never ſhow'd the how or where to fight. The weary Land the Trade of War reſents, For what the End deſigns the Means prevents. The Miſeries we to this Day endure They caus'd that always have been paid to cure; Plunder's their Battles, and the Pay's their End, They ſhun their Enemy and rob their Friend: Peace would ſuch Soldiers Livelihood deſtroy, And ſo indeed they'd for their Country die. For Fighting's juſt the way to be undone, And Conqueſt would conclude a War too ſoon. Good Husbandry, as Wo—ly told us how, Had made the Iriſh War ha' held till now; But Fighting Ginkle ſtruck the Stroke too ſoon, And ſo the Nation's ſav'd, and all the R—s undone. But you inſtructed for your Country's Good, The Cheats of War have all at once ſnbdued: And they that thought the Field was but a Play, Where all might cheat the Nation for their Pay; With Lace and Feathers bluſtering a Campaign To all the Nation but themſelves in vain; Grow rich upon the Plunder of our Lands, And raiſe great Fortunes out of low Commands; Theſe found the Banter on themſelves made good, While you the proper End of War purſu'd. Our Campaign Beaus no more ſhall mock the Field And none take Arms but thoſe that dare be kill'd; The Powder'd Wig, the Snuff-Box an •… •… me Will court no more the Muſquet and the Drum, And Beaus go Rakes to War, come Bullies Home. The very Words a different Accent bear, Fighting muſt now be underſtood by War; Battel and Death's ſynonimous in Name, And Wounds and Blood will only purchaſe Fame; Cowards muſt lay their bought Commiſſions down, Their Camps the Pit, and their Campaign the Town; There they may bully, ſwagger, and repeat The mighty no Engagements they were at, And fight the French in Tea and Chocolate. But he that follows Marlbro' to the Field, Muſt all his Fame on dangerous Merit build, Muſt look for Blows, and fairly ſtate his Caſe Shame at his Back, and Death before his Face; A General that can ſhow him how to die, And puſh him on to Conquer Victory. Shame, Fear's Twin-Siſter, makes a Coward brave, He fights to loſe the Life he dares not ſave; Fear makes him bold becauſe he dares not fly, It wants more Heart to run away than die, For who dare turn his Back when Marlbro's by. The Engliſh Arms grown dull with Ruſt and Peace, Tarniſh'd with Luxury, and ſtain'd with Eaſe, You have new pointed, Sir, with Hearts of Steel, And France confeſſes what ſhe can't conceal: Our Honour clouded with Contempt and Time, Sullied with long Diſuſe, and ſunk in Crime; Buried ſo deep allow the Muſe to grieve, William himſelf could not her Name retrieve; Tho' thro' Ten Thouſand different Dangers ſought, Tho' thro' Ten Thouſand Victories he fought: The tranſ-migrated Phantoſme you obtain, And in your Fame revive her once again: Our Heroes Few, and long ago forgot, The Breed extinct, behold the Barren Spot; Stiril in Worth, and Poor in Sons of Fame, Crime taints the beſt Record, and blaſts the worthleſs Name. William's the Firſt, for Thirteen Ages paſt, And Fate portends that Marlbro' will be Laſt: How ſhall the Strength of Nature ſave the Breed, Who ſhall to William's Fame and Yours ſucceed! And now from all the Dangers of the Field, Which Gods and Men with equal Joys beheld; Which all our widowed Harps has newly ſtrung, Which Thouſand Heroes fought a Thouſand Poets ſung. To Britain's crowded Shores your Triumphs come, And all the wond'ring Nation ſhouts you Home: A Double Welcome you at once poſſeſs, For Double Conqueſts crown you with Succeſs: With Double Joy we ſhout, and twice applaud Councils at Home and Conqueſt from Abroad. Intereſt in all our Praiſes will appear, You're welcome, Sir, becauſe you're wanted here; We want you here to calm our wild Debates, And ballance Parties as you ballance States; To check Inſulting Factions, and ſupply Immoderate Heat with forc'd Humility; Con—dators to Conſolidate, And Tack our T—ers to their own dear Fate; To calm the Churches Sea, and keep it ſtill, And fix the Nation's Peace againſt her Will. Thus when from fighting Armies, Sir, you come, You muſt engage with Devils nearer Home. Armies of Hell born Monſters muſt appeaſe, The Titans Heaven attack'd were Fools to theſe; They Mountains threw, and Hills erect on Hills, Theſe Mountain Bi-s Conſolidate to Bi-s; The mighty Parallel agrees in Parts, From Hell they fetch'd their Strength, as theſe their Arts They Heavens high Power with borrow'd Power invade, Theſe Heaven's Vicegerent Queen aſſault by her own Aid; Like them they fall, Heaven has decreed it ſo, And you muſt ANN's Immortal Thunder throw. See how th' embattel'd Troops of Strife appear, Words are their miſſive Weapons, Noiſe the War; With High-Church Zeal and Party Spirits fir'd, With Hell's immortal Hate of Peace inſpir'd, A Pulpit War! whence ſhould Sedition come? Our Soldiers fight Abroad, our Prieſts at Home; Arm'd with vaſt Helms of Contradicting Truth, With Plumes of Incoherent Sence ſet forth; Self inconſiſtent Reaſon puffs the Mind, Bluſter comes on before, and Diſtant Modeſty behind. See how the Black Brigades in Arms advance, You'll ſee no ſuch, Sir, when you conquer France; Their Meaning's eaſy to be underſtood, The Gown has often dipt the Slieves in Blood: Would you their Sence of things, Sir, underſtand, And know for what it is they embroil the Land; Quite different Ends of War they all profeſs, They fight for Plunder, Sir, and You for Peace: Your nobler Hazards help the World t' enjoy, You fight for Right, theſe meerly to deſtroy. Pardon the Poet all your Wars are Jeſts, You've fought with Men, you never fought with Prieſts. Diſdain not, Sir, the Inſtructions of our Verſe, Your Arts of War will not this Cloud diſperſe; Prieſts, like the Female Sex, when they engage, There's always ſomething bloody in their Rage. Thus Nature always in Extremes delights, The greateſt Falls are from the greateſt Heights. Angels ſublime in Nature, and Divine, Are therefore turn'd to Devils when they ſin; And Humane Sons of God are worſe than they, When once they can the Laws of Crime obey; The high Seraphick Office qualifies, And they're the wickeder becauſe they're wiſe. Expect no Quarter where the Tribe Commands, They fight you with their Heads and not their Hands. My Muſe prophane no more the ſacred Name, Jeſus are theſe thy Sons! The Church the horrid Raviſhers diſowns, And loud beneath the Weight of Party's Groans. Theſe are the ſtrong Bandity of the Gown, Who preach for God's Sake, plunder for their own. Our State Divines that puſh the Party Cauſe, And ſwear and pray for Perſecution Laws, Own 'tis againſt their Doctrine and their Senſe; But freely grant they'd be at that Expence, Would ſell the Church, the Nation, and the Queen, While all our mod'rate Clergy ſtrive with them in vain. With mighty Arms thus they invade our Peace, In vain the Queen entreats their calm Receſs: Tells them if ſhe ſhould grant the wild Deſire, And paſs the Publick Miſchief they require, They'd graſp but Air, an empty fruitleſs Name, And be the firſt would periſh in their own Flame. In vain the united Peers reject the Bill, Men ſeldom quit the Hopes of doing ill, They're doubly damn'd that can deſpair of Hell. Th' unhappy Wretches bent to puſh their Fate, And born to find their own Miſtakes too late, Only adjourn the Miſchiefs they deſign'd, Pleas'd with the Hopes of Greater yet behind So far from Peace, Peace ne'er was their Deſign, They can for no Repulſe the Feud decline; Their weighty Clamours all the Nation fill, And Damn the Lords becauſe they dam'd the Bill; Whole Troops of Satyrs in their Front advance, Their Houſhold Bands more fierce than thoſe of France. Our Poet trembles when their Troops appear, But You, Sir, never have been us'd to fear. There fam'd Sachevrel leads the Vaſt Forlorn, By him the Party's Bloody Standard's born; Abandon'd both by Modeſty and Sence, And Manners left him as the Conſequence: Scolding's his Native Talent, and to Rail Serves him for Arguments when Reaſons fail; With College Licence and Aſſize Applauſe, He damns the Queen, the Biſhops, and the Laws; Nor ſpares the Church her ſelf, but gives the Lie To all her Doctrine and Authority; High Church Buffoon, the Oxford's ſtated Jeſt, A Noiſy, Sawcy, Swearing, Drunken Prieſt. L—y a Turncoat with extended Throat Has chang'd his Caſſock for a Campaign Coat: Stript of his Shepherd's Cloathing he appears The very Wolf he dreſs'd in Aſſes Ears; His Eccleſiaſtick Dignity lays down, And hates the Pulpit for he hates the Crown; The Revolution damns, affronts the Queen, His Sword the Gown ſupplies, the Text his Pen He's now a Prieſt incog—with Sword and Wig, And ſwears to let you know he hates a Whig; His ſtrong Non jurant Squadrons brings along, Below Lampoon too rakiſh for our Song; He damns the Church for Schiſmaticks becauſe They alter'd their Allegiance by the Laws; Declares the Church of England's only there Where ſtrong Averſions to the Regency appear; Unchurches all our Clergy at a Blow, And votes the Biſhops uſeleſs— This mighty Captain Rake deſerves your Care, His pointed Darts in High-Church Front appear Ready to charge the Loyal Troops you bring, With Mock-Religion and a Pageant King. M—n, a ſtarving Mercenary Prieſt, A Jobbing, Hackney, Vicious Pulpit Jeſt, From Oſtia and from Belgia lately fled, And took the Oaths for very want of Bread; Immoral Life, and an immodeſt Tongue And dealt in Rhime, and Wit, and Baudy-Song. The needy Prelate, at whoſe bounteous Gate He lay expecting and importunate, Bought his wiſh'd Abſence with a Teaching Cure To make juſt Room for D—s about his Door; 'Till from the clam'rous Claimers forc'd to fly, His Juſtice gave his Charity the L— May they from Creditors be never free That nouriſh Sacred Drones in Charity; Whoſe mighty Alms by mighty Debts are known, And lend to God what never was their own; Give borrow'd Sums, and borrow'd Sermons preach, And rob the Poor to help relieve the Rich. Theſe are the Generals of the mighty Band, The Tallards and Marſins of high Command; Mean as they are they lead the wond'rous Hoſt Of Prieſt-rid Worthies who ſome Brains have loſt, With Packingtonian Fury hurried on, Whoſe Zeal muſt for their Ignorance attone; Who hunt deep Contraries with eager Pain, Pull down the Church to build it up again: For how can high non jurant L—rail, When ſtrong Conſolidating Projects fail: How can they all their wav'ring Logick fix, And prove we ſhould Conform to Schiſmaticks. For if the Church, as Learned Men have ſaid, Is parted from her only lawful Head, And the weak few, their Duty who retain, Are all the real Church that can remain, The Devil muſt this double Knot untie, And explicate the wilder Myſtery, How the Diſſenters can be charg'd by both, Two Contraries agree, and neither of them Truth; Damn the whole Party's Nonconformity, And yet would damn them too if they comply. Coercive Powers provoke, and ſtrive by Force To Re-reform us all from bad to worſe; Force us with one Schiſmatick Church to joyn, And at one Breath unchurch us all again. Let B—ly bluſh, if not forſook by Grace, And let his Sence aſſume his loſt Religions Place; Let him confeſs the throwing out the B—, Cannot two Claſhing Churches Wiſh fulfil: That Theſe muſt firſt abandon Common Sence, Forſake their Cauſe, and quit their own Defence, When they Occaſional Oppreſſions ſeek, And cure the Schiſm by the Schiſmatick. Aſſiſt, Great Sir, your Suppliant Country's Peace, And ſcreen the Church from wild Abſurdities; Aid her more moderate Clergy to defend, Temper the Means, and Peace the mighty End; The Univerſal Voice of Truth and Law That made to drive when this ſhould fail to draw; Joyn to engage you in the ju •• Defen •• , Of Temper, Moderation, Right and Sence, And of the Nation's Peace by Conſequence. On this the mighty Publick Weal depends, Conqueſt the Nation from her Foes defends, Compleat it, Sir, and ſave us from our Friends. Thus, Sir, the Nation's Guardian you'll appear, Abroad ſuppreſs, at Home prevent the War; Anticipate our Factions in their Growth, And ſmother Feud beneath the Arms of Truth; And this Your Double Vict'ry will create, You'll heal Religion and preſerve the State. Whenever Heaven ſhall thus at once en •• ine One Agent two ſuch vaſt Events to join, The Nations muſt concur, the General Voice Will bleſs the Man to crown the ſacred Choice FINIS.