The ravenous vulture, and the bird of night,
As safely tempt the stooping eagle's flight;
As Lewis to unequal arms defy
Yon hero, crowned with blooming victory,
Just triumphing o'er rebel rage restrained,
And yet unbreathed from battles gained.
See! all yon dusty field's quite covered o'er
With hostile troops, and Orange at their head.
Orange, destined to complete
The great designs of labouring fate;
Orange the name that tyrants dread;
He comes, our ruined empire is no more;
Down, like the Persian, goes the Gallic throne,
Darius flies, young Ammon urges on.'
Now from the dubious battle's mingled heat,
Let Fear look back, and stretch her hasty wing,
Impatient to secure a base retreat;
Let the pale coward leave his wounded king,
For the vile privilege to breathe,
To live with shame in dread of glorious death,
In vain; for fate has swifter wings than fear,
She follows hard, and strikes him in the rear;
Dying and mad the traitor bites the ground,
His back transfixed with a dishonest wound;
While through the fiercest troops, and thickest press,
Virtue carries on success;
Whilst equal heaven guards the distinguished brave,
And armies cannot hurt whom angels save.
Virtue to verse immortal lustre gives,
Each by the other's mutual friendship lives;
Eneas suffered, and Achilles fought,
The hero's acts enlarged the poet's thought,
Or Virgil's majesty, and Homer's rage,
Had ne'er like lasting nature vanquished age.
Whilst Lewis then his rising terror drowns
With drums' alarms, and trumpets' sounds,
Whilst hid in armed retreats and guarded towns,
From danger as from honour far,
He bribes close murder against open war;
In vain you Gallic muses strive
With laboured verse to keep his fame alive:
Your mouldering monuments in vain ye
On the weak basis of the tyrant's praise:
Your songs are sold, your numbers are profane,
'Tis incense to an idol given,
Meat offered to Prometheus' man
That had no soul from heaven.
Against his will you chain your frighted king
On rapid Rhine's divided bed:
And mock your hero, whilst ye sing
The wounds for which he never bled;
Falsehood does poison on your praise diffusc,
And Lewis' fear gives death to Boileau's muse.
On its own worth true majesty is reared,
And virtue is her own reward;
With solid beams and native glory bright,
She neither darkness dreads, nor covets light;
True to herself, and fixed to inborn laws,
Nor sunk by spite, nor lifted by applause,
She from her settled orb looks calmly down,
On life or death, a prison or a crown.
When bound in double chains poor Belgia lay,
To foreign arms and inward strife a prey,
Whilst one good man buoyed up her sinking state,
And virtue laboured against Fate;
When fortune basely with ambition joined,
And all was conquered but the patriot's mind;
When storms let loose, and raging seas,
Just ready the torn vessel to o'erwhelm,
Forced not the faithful pilot from his helm,
Nor all the syren songs of future peace,
And dazzling prospect of a promised crown,
Could lure his stubborn virtue down;
But against charms, and threats, and hell, he stood,
To that which was severely good;
Then, had no trophies justified his fame,
No poet blest his song with Nassau's name,
Virtue alone did all that honour bring,
And Heaven as plainly pointed out the king,
As when he at the altar stood
In all his types and robes of power,
Whilst at his feet religious Britain bowed,
And owned him next to what we there adore.
Say, joyful Maese, and Boyne's victorious flood,
For each has mixed his waves with royal blood,
When William's armies passed, did he retire,
Or view from far the battle's distant fire!
Could he believe his person was too dear,
Or use his greatness to conceal his fear?
Could prayers or sighs the dauntless hero move,
Armed with Heaven's justice, and his people's love! Through the first waves he winged his venturous way, And on the adverse shore arose,
(Ten thousand flying deaths in vain oppose.) Like the great ruler of the day,
With strength and swiftness mounting from the sea; Like him all day he toiled; but long in night
The god had eased his wearied light,
Ere vengeance left the stubborn foes,
Or William's labours found repose!
When his troops faltered, stepped not he between?
Restored the dubious fight again;
Marked out the coward that durst fly,
And led the fainting brave to victory!
Still as she fled him, did he not o'ertake
Her doubtful course, still brought her bleeding back!
By his keen sword did not the boldest fall;
Was he not king, commander, soldier, all!
His dangers such as, with becoming dread,
His subjects yet unborn shall weep to read;
And were not those the only days that e'er
The pious prince refused to hear
His friends' advices, or his subjects' prayer?
Where'er old Rhine his fruitful water turns,
Or fills his vassals' tributary urns;
To Belgia's saved dominions, and the sea,
Whose righted waves rejoice in William's sway;
Is there a town where children are not taught,
Here Holland prospered, for here Orange fought; 210
Through rapid waters, and through flying fire,
Here rushed the prince, here made whole France retire?
By different nations be his valour blessed,
In different languages confessed;
And then let Shannon speak the rest.
Let Shannon speak, how on her wondering shore,
When conquest hovering on his arms did wait,
And only asked some lives to bribe her o'er;
The godlike man, the more than conqueror,
With high contempt sent back the specious bait; 220
And, scorning glory at a price too great,
With so much power, such piety did join,
As made a perfect virtue soar
A pitch unknown to man before;
And lifted Shannon's waves o'er those of Boyne.
Nor do his subjects only share
The prosperous fruits of his indulgent reign;
His enemies approve the pious war,
Which, with their weapon, takes away their chain,
More than his sword his goodness strikes his foes; 250
They bless his arms, and sigh they must oppose,
Justice and freedom on his conquests wait;
And 'tis for man's delight that he is great:
Succeeding times shall long with joy contend,
If he were more a victor, or a friend;
So much his courage and his mercy strive,
He wounds to cure, and conquers to forgive.
Ye heroes, that have fought your country's cause,
Redressed her injuries, or formed her laws,
Το my adventurous song just witness bear,
Assist the pious muse, and hear her swear;
That 'tis no poet's thought, no flight of youth,
But solid story, and severest truth;
That William treasures up a greater name,
Than
any country, any age can boast.
And all that ancient stock of fame
He did from his forefathers take,
He has improved, and gives with interest back;
And in his constellation does unite
Their scattered rays of fainter light.
Above or envy's lash, or fortune's wheel
That settled glory shall for ever dwell;
Above the rolling orbs, and common sky,
Where nothing comes that e'er shall die.
Where roves the muse? Where, thoughtless to return,
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