Juft triumphing o'er rebel-rage restrain'd,
And yet unbreath'd from battles gain'd.
See all yon' dufty field's quite cover'd o'er
With hoftile troops, and Orange at their head ;
Orange, deftin'd to complete
The great defigns of labouring Fate;
Orange, the name that tyrants dread :
He comes; our ruin'd empire is no more;
Down, like the Perfian, goes the Gallic throne;
Darius flies, young Ammon urges on."
VI.
Now from the dubious battle's mingled heat,
Let Fear look back, and ftretch her hafty wing,
Impatient to fecure a bafe retreat :
Let the pale coward leave his wounded king,
For the vile privilege to breathe,
To live with fhame in dread of glorious death!
In vain for Fate has swifter wings than Fear,
She follows hard, and ftrikes him in the rear;
Dying and mad the traitor bites the ground,
His back transfix'd with a difhoneft wound;
Whilft through the fierceft troops, and thickest prefs, Virtue carries on fuccefs;
Whilft equal Heaven guards the diftinguifh'd brave, And armies cannot hurt whom angels fave.
Virtue to verfe immortal luftre gives,
Each by the other's mutual friendship lives;
Æneas fuffer'd, and Achilles fought,
The Hero's acts enlarg'd the Poet's thought,
'Or Virgil's majefty, and Homer's rage,
Had ne'er like lafting nature vanquish'd age.
Whilft Lewis then his rifing terror drowns
With drums' alarms, and trumpets' founds,
Whilft, hid in arm'd retreats and guarded towns,
From danger as from honour far,
He bribes clofe murder against open war:
In vain you Gallic Muses strive
With labour'd verfe to keep his fame alive :
Your mouldering monuments in vain ye raise
On the weak bafis of the tyrant's praise:
Your fongs are fold, your numbers are profane,
'Tis incenfe to an idol given,
Meat offer'd to Prometheus' man
That had no foul from Heaven.
Against his will, you chain your frighted king
On rapid Rhine's divided bed;
And mock your hero, whilft ye fing
The wounds for which he never bled;
Falfhood does poifon on your praise diffufe,
And Lewis' fear gives death to Boileau's Mufe.
On its own worth true majefty is rear'd,
And Virtue is her own reward;
With folid beams and native glory bright,
She neither darknefs dreads, nor covets light;
True to herself, and fix'd to inborn laws,
Nor funk by fpite, nor lifted by applause, She from her fettled orb looks calmly down, *On life or death, a prifon or a crown.
When bound in double chains poor Belgia lay,
To foreign arms and inward ftrife a prey,
Whilst one good man buoy'd up her finking state,
And Virtue labour'd against Fate;
When Fortune bafely with Ambition join'd,
And all was conquer'd but the Patriot's mind;
When storms let loofe, and raging feas,
Juft ready the torn vessel to o'erwhelm,
Forc'd not the faithful pilot from his helm,
Nor all the Syren fongs of future peace,
And dazzling prospect of a promis'd crown,
Could lure his ftubborn virtue down ;
But against charms, and threats, and hell, he stood,
To that which was feverely good;
Then, had no trophies juftified his fame,
No Poet bleft his fong with Naffau's name,
Virtue alone did all that honour bring,
And Heaven as plainly pointed out THE KING,
As when he at the altar ftood
In all his types and robes of power,
Whilft at his feet religious Britain bow'd,
And own'd him next to what we there adore.
Say, joyful Maefe, and Boyne's victorious flood,
(For each has mixt his waves with royal blood)
When William' armies paft, did he retire,
Or view from far the battle's diftant fire?
Could he believe his perfon was too dear?
Or ufe his greatnefs to conceal his fear?
E 4
Could prayers or fighs the dauntless hero move? Arm'd with Heaven's justice, and his people's love, Through the first waves he wing'd his venturous way, And on the adverfe fhore arose,
(Ten thoufand flying deaths in vain oppose).
Like the great Ruler of the day,
With ftrength and swiftness mounting from the fea :
Like him all day he toil'd; but long in night,
The god had eas'd his wearied light,
Ere vengeance left the ftubborn foes,
Or William's labours found repofe !
When his troops faulter'd, ftept not he between ?
Reftor'd the dubious fight again,
Mark'd out the coward that durft fly,
And led the fainting brave to Victory?
Still as he fled him, did he not o'ertake
Her doubtful courfe, ftill brought her bleeding back
By his keen fword did not the boldest fall?
Was he not king, commander, foldier, all ?-
His dangers fuch as, with becoming dread,
His fubjects yet unborn fhall weep to read
And were not thofe the only, days that e'er
The pious prince refus'd to hear
His friends' advices, or his fubjects' prayer?
Where'er old Rhine his fruitful water turns,
Or fills his vaffals' tributary urns;
To Belgia's fav'd dominions, and the fea,
Whofe righted waves rejoice in William's fway;
Is there a town where children are not taught,
Here Holland profper'd, for here Orange fought;
Through rapid waters, and through flying fire,
Here rufh'd the prince, here made whole France retire?
By different nations be his valour bleft,
In different languages, confeft;
And then let Shannon fpeak the rest:
Let Shannon fpeak, how on her wondering shore,
When Conqueft hovering on his arms, did wait,
And only afk'd fome lives to bribe her o'er ;
The god-like man, the more than conqueror,
With high contempt fent back the specious, bait;
And, fcorning glory at a price too great,
With fo much power, fuch piety did join,,
As made a perfect virtue foar
A pitch unknown to man before;
And lifted Shannon's waves o'er those of Boyne..
Nor do his fubjects only share
The profperous fruits of his indulgent, reign;
His enemies approve the pious war,
Which, with their weapon, takes away their chain.
More than his fword his goodness ftrikes his foes;
They blefs his arms, and figh they must appofe..
Juftice and freedom on his conquests wait;,
And 'tis for man's delight that he is
Succeeding times fhall with long joy contend,
If he were more a victor, or a friend.:
So much his courage and his mercy, ftrive,
He wounds, to cure; and conquers,, to forgive.
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