Eucharisticon; OR, An Heroick POEM upon the late Thanksgiving-day, which was the Vigil or Fastof St. Simon and St. Jude.
'TWas on the Evening of that Day,
That very memorable Day,
The Twenty Seventh of
October,
When none but
Jacobites were sober,
That we beheld the Blessed sight
Of Glorious Eucharistick Light:
But that the Morn we may not wrong,
Which ushered in the Evening Song;
Nor th'Infant Day which grew so great,
After it was regenerate
And re-baptiz'd by Proclamation,
And call'd
Thanksgiving-day o'th' Nation,
We shall relate all that was done
In open Face of Moon and Sun.
But, first, 'tis fit that we rehearse,
In bold, but grave, Heroick Verse,
Why a
Thanksgiving-day was chose,
What were the Reasons, what the Cause;
And why it was resolv'd, at last,
They'd not Proclaim this Day a
Fast.
First, To the First we should begin,
And the
Supports bring after in;
But since
Supporting's out of fashion,
By the Wise, Warlike,
Belgick Nation,
The Rear shall take the Advance Post,
And shew you how the
Fast was lost.
In Council grave, our Senators were met,
About th'important Bus'ness of the State;
Bus'ness so weighty, that all
Europe stood,
Hoping from hence, the Stream of all their Good,
Great Things were mov'd, and mighty Kingdoms flew,
Like sporting Bubbles, round the God-like Crew:
They puft those Cares away; but fell, at last,
Upon the Bus'ness of the
Monthly Fast:
The great Debate was this, Whether 'twas fit
They should for longer time continue it;
Or else Adjourn; or else Prorogue the Day;
Or throw their
Pray'rs and
Fastings quite away.
To this hard knotty Question, it was said,
By a most Grave and Venerable Head,
That the
Descent was baulk'd, and
Numur won,
And the Campaign in all appearance done;
That Heaven could not be now besieged in Form,
And 'twas too late o'th' year to tak't by Storm;
It would be fruitless too, and serve their turns,
No more than
Dixmuid does, or little
Furnes:
But (in his Judgment) if they'd cast their Pray'r
To Winter Quarters, till the Spring o'th' year,
They might have need with all their strength to pray,
And then Proclaim a
Weekly Fasting Day.
There was no answering to so plain a case,
But (with low Bowes) the Motion all embrace.
Strait they gave Orders that a Proclamation
Should strictly charge this
Praying, Fasting Nation,
That it no more should trouble Heavens quiet,
Wit Pray'rs, or Guts croaking for want of Dyet.
So much Devotion in this Age we find,
That were it not by publick Laws consin'd,
Our Publick Pray'rs
and Fasts
would strike us blind.
But see how vain all Mortal Councils are,
We Dream of Peace, but feel th'Effects of War;
For scarce were these great Orders fully given,
Scarce the
blank Sheet dy'd with the
Stygian Leven,
When
Charleroy cry'd out, Oh help she cry'd,
The
French are
plying hard my
leaky side;
Is this a time to give your Praying o'er,
When we are weltring in Confed'rate gore?
When whizzing Bullets, and the roaring Bomb,
Gall us from
Stem to
Stern, can you be dumb?
What hath your Arms, what hath your Mony done?
Your
Pray'rs are all that we depend upon.
She spake; and the amazed Council heard her Tale,
They hung their Heads, and look'd with envy pale:
Ah cursed
French, they cry'd, cannot one Town
Escape your lasting fury? What renown
Can you obtain, what Honour get you by't?
'Tis well our Mighty Monarch's out of sight;
Had he been nigh! But 'tis no time to talk,
Post to the Printer, tell him we revoke
Our late deliberate Orders; we will
Fast
Whilst
Gallick Bullets fly, and
Pray as fast;
But 'twas to late, for hasty Time had set
His
Iron Teeth upon the
fatal Sheet:
But Fame (as Goddesses have done before)
Came in the nick, and brought a Story o'er,
That our most vigilant King was gone to fight,
And vow'd t'should not be lost, out of his sight:
This News restored us, and with swifter speed
Fresh Posts were sent, to tell there was no need
To stop the Press.
But, O ye Gods! how short
Are Mortal Joys, how are we made your sport?
Like Tennis-Balls you toss us to and fro,
Or Shittlecocks, driven from Foe to Foe.
Scarce was this Post dispatch'd, when an Alarm
Put all the Council in a new
Vacarme;
For it was said, our Conq'ror was retir'd,
And the unlucky Town again was fir'd.
Fast, Fast, the Council cry'd, let's
Pray amain,
Fly to the Press and bid it stop again.
So on the top of Horeb, Moses
stood,
Out of whose flinty side he lash'd a Flood;
Aaron
and Hur
with him beheld the fight,
Between brave Joshua
and th' Amalakite,
When he held up his Finger, they prevail;
But when he let it down, the Jews
turn tail.
During this time, Posts hurried through the Town,
And in their course fell'd one another down;
Flux, and reflux, of differing Councils dash'd,
And, in rebounding Air, their Orders clash'd.
So rose the Attoms from their Bed of Night,
And in confusion choak'd the new-born Light.
What heart could hold to see the sad Distractions,
Which had well-nigh o'er-whelm'd three potent Nations?
The
French themselves took pity of our Fear,
And vow'd they'd spare the Town 'till the next Year.
But now proclaim a Calm; for once more Fame
Post on a Gale of blust'ring Weather came;
And 'midst this
hurly, burly, loudly sings
A rest to us, and to the best of Kings.
In short, the King (with all his Victories)
Had safely past the dangerous
Northern Seas.
What wou'd y' have more? We've got our King at last,
And all must grant 'tis now no time to fast.
Sing then my Muse a
Halleluja Song,
Raise up thy Lute, which was to
Fasting strung:
Thanksgiving is thy Theme, and lofty
Ode,
And Eucharisticon thy
charming Mode.
Great in the Field, and subtle in Debate,
The King conven'd his Ministers of State;
Flanders was not nam'd there, nor the Descent,
Whether it was, or was not truly meant:
Nor did they speak of the great Siege of
Dunkirk,
Nor of their Victory obtain'd at
Steinkirk.
But not to spend our Oil and Time, in dwelling
On Negatives, as I was now a telling;
We do affirm, in short, that the sole Cause
Of this August and Grave Assembly, was
How to resolve on this
Thanksgiving-Day:
For some still thought we had more Cause to pray.
These urg'd besides, the Saints might think it rude
To make a
Feast upon the
Fast of
Jude;
But the Arch-
Haman, whose Advice they took
In all such Matters, first his Noddle shook;
Then cry'd, Great Sir, Saints neither eat nor drink,
Nor do they care, or know what Mortals think,
To fast before, or else behind a Saint,
Or not at all, we for Convenience grant,
But at the worst, when three Fasts come together,
We may
post-pone, or else
commute at pleasure.
Our gracious Queen (God bless her) when she spy'd
How well this Man of God could thus divide,
Distinguish, prove, lay open, and decide;
Well spoke, she said, my Vote concurs with yours:
Let sick Men fast for Four and twenty hours
Because they cannot eat: What's that to those
Whose Health and Strength requirea treble dose?
Besides, the King's return'd, let that suffice
For you, and
Ʋs, to dry
Our Royal Eyes;
His mighty self, all o'er with Trophies grac't,
As sometime Men wore Ribbands round the Waste;
Or like an
Orange stuck with Cloves, so thick
Between the Spice, a Pin can hardly stick:
'Tis he's return'd again, and with him brought
Blessings in store, for which he stoutly fought.
But that's your Care; I have another Cause,
And am oblig'd to feast by Nature's Laws:
Born for Delight, to eat, drink, sleep and play,
I cannot force my self to fast or pray,
I wish that every one were a
Thanksgiving-day.
All bow'd around, and with submissive Voice
Agreed we had great Reason to rejoice;
But a Debate arose, where they should fix
The
main great Cause; for to be too prolix
In Proclamations, 'twould anticipate
Those Rhimes and Pamphlets which on Conquest wait.
Some then propos'd to put the stress o'th'matter
On his Return: But those who could not flatter
Own'd 'twas a
Cause; but all they stood upon,
Was, that 'twas
not a Cause
sine quâ non:
For had he ne'er return'd, no Man will say
There was
no Cause for a Thanksgiving-day.
Kings may be
lost, but Kings can never
dye;
For still successive
Kings their place supply:
But if a Battel's lost, or Town be ta'en,
The Devil's in't, how shall we tak't again?
High Words had like t'arose; but the wise King
Who was best able to decide the thing,
Thus spake—My Lords, said he, I would believe
(How e'er you differ now) you all receive
My Person as a Blessing to the Nation;
'Twas I brought Riches in with
Reformation;
'Twas I restor'd you to your
Liberties;
'Twas I secur'd your
Lives and
Properties;
'Twas I kept out the
Foreigners you sear'd,
Since that you little
French or
Irish heard:
'Twas I made
Ireland happy, entred
France,
Where
Schonberg, by my Order, did advance
The
Protestant Religion, vow'd in Print
That near a
Monk or
Papist should live in't.
'Twas I turn'd Popery out from hence, and sent
The
English-Scottish Kirk to Banishment.
'Twas I turn'd
Sancr— out, and put one in
Who will dispence, as fast as you can sin;
Who will not tie you up to the strict Rules
Of
Oaths, or
Orders, Snares for squeamish Fools:
Unblest, and Unbaptized, this Church's Son
Hath all his Mother's Children half undone.
My Country-men I brought, without pretension
(To serve you here) of either
Pay or
Pension.
'Twas I that call'd, and kept your Parliament
So
Pure and
Free, there's not one Member in't
(God is my Witness if I tell you a Lye)
That e'er took Bribe, Pension, or Sallary:
'Twas I that all your
Grievances redrest,
And did my self of my own Rights divest:
'Twas I
convoy'd, and then
increas'd your Trade:
None but my self did e'er your Rights invade.
'Twas I — But 'tis too much, I will not boast
What I have done for you, to your own cost.
Let it suffice, I'll not put such a stress
On my own Merits, as to clog the Press.
But since I find some of you seem to grutch,
And think the Cause of my
Return's too much;
What think you of my Victory at Sea?
Make that the Cause of your
Thanksgiving-day.
For my part, I'm indifferent, chuse you whether;
Or if you please, we'll twist them both together;
There will enough be left t' expatiate,
For all must grant that this Campaign was great.
'Twas not in
hugger, mugger, what I've done,
Since all the World knows 'twas in th'open Sun.
All with deep Admiration were struck dumb,
The King admir'd too what at last would come.
At length, after they'd
gaz'd and
gap'd a while,
A Lord stood up, and with a Courtier's Smile,
Great Sir, said he, 'tis now well understood,
What e'er your
Actions are, your
Memory's good:
We now perceive how great's the
Obligation,
Which justly's
owing to you by the Nation.
We'er loath to break with you upon that score,
And to our
broken Merchants add still more.
But if you'll trust us still (for all that's past)
We may perhaps be
even with you at last.
In the mean while,
We will proclaim a Feast in your own way,
And to so joyful a Thanksgiving-day,
Whole Tuns of
Grease and
Kitchen-stuff we'll pay:
'Twas said, and it was done, and strait each Lord
Made his low
Exit from the Council-board.
Now good
Miss Muse once more bring in your Aid,
And shew your self a well-bred, civil Maid;
For I'm oblig'd to squeeze more Reasons out,
How this damn'd Proclamation came about.
Imprimis, then (for Method must be chose
Whether we write in Verse, or write in Prose)
We'll take these Matters fairly as they lie,
Not all at once) but each successively:
First then (if I may say't without Offence)
'Twere fit to thank the King for
going hence;
For had he stay'd, God knows what had been done,
Namur it self perhaps had not been won:
But more of that hereafter. Next let's tell
The sad Disasters which the
French befell
At Sea, I mean; for 'tis well known at Land,
They had both Wind and Weather at Command:
Their Fleet came strugling 'gainst the
Eastern Wind,
And full six Weeks they tack'd about, to find
Our Navy out, which
not a
hundred were,
And they
full four and
forty Men of War.
With Insolence upon our
Lane they bore,
And whole Broadsides with wondrous Fury roar:
The Fight was sharp, and Fortune doubtful stood
To which she'd give the Empire of the Flood;
When mighty
Mars descended in a
Mist,
The fierce equal Combatants dismist:
We neither took, nor lost a Ship of ours;
Nor were we
conquer'd, or
Conquerours.
But
Neptune, who of late a
Neuter stood
Between the
British and the
Mogan Blood,
Finding both running in our King; cry'd out,
Return you Tide, and bring the
French about:
Since
England, and my
Dutch are join'd, what Foe
Shall dare t'attack them, and unpunish'd go?
I'll beat the
French my self, and for their sake
So strong a Tide in
Alderney, I'll make
Their Cables all shall
drag, and
Anchors break.
'Twas said, and it was done; and the poor
French.
Fir'd sixteen Ships his dreadful Ire to quench.
Thanks to the King then for
this Victory won;
For if this will not
pass, I'Gad I've done.
Item, the Siege of
Namur next comes on,
At last 'twas weak, at first damnably strong:
So
Mons at first was held impregnable;
But when 'twas ta'en, Faith, 'twas scarce tenable.
But howsoe'er it was, the King was there,
And ne'er express'd a single Mark of Fear:
He heard the Cannons roar, saw the Bombs fly;
And that's a Demonstration he was nigh.
'Tis true the Town was lost; who can help that?
The
French stood in his way; so 'twa'nt his Fault.
The King of
France our Monarch came to meet,
And in the
Trenches kiss his conq'ring Feet:
But our good King thought fitter to forbear;
And, out of
Modesty, would not come there:
But Thanks are due, that he was pleas'd to own,
And then
depose to'th'taking of the Town.
For our Gazets such strange Relations bring,
A
hundred thousand Men might doubt the thing
Without the
Attestation of a King.
Item—
Two hundred thousand Pound to
Savoy sent,
I will be sworn that Money was well spent:
For with this
Aid, That Duke (like that Great Man,
The King of
France)
with forty thousand Men
Went down the Hill, and so came up agen.
'Tis true Duke
Schonberg then declar'd in
Print,
That to recover our
Rights he there was sent;
And promis'd if he took all
Dauphiny,
He firmly would establish
Popery:
Thanks t'him for
that, or we had never known
Who fought for
Int'rest, who
Religion.
Next, Our
Descent at Sea appears, which ran
(So much 'twas nois'd) from hence to
Ispahan:
Four hundred thousand Pounds (so great a Sum
Into a measur'd Verse 'twill hardly come)
Yet this, and more, and much in Debt was spent
To furnish our this well-contriv'd Descent.
Louis, they say, was almost dead with Fear;
And 'cause he thought
Versailes might be too near,
He soon retir'd still further from the Foe,
And went to
hunt and
dance at
Fontainbleau:
Some say he did
not fear; but if 'twere true,
I'm sure our Thanks, at least, for
that are due.
Next bloody
Steinkirk comes full in our way,
Pox on't, we fought upon the
Sabbath-day;
And that's been ever held a Prophanation
By our
True, Protestant, Reformed Nation:
That's the true Reason why
we bore the brunt,
We see the
Godly Dutch would ne'er have don't:
They
stood their ground, and
pray'd whilst we Fools fought;
But we, forsooth, were better
fed than
taught:
The
French retir'd, and ran away to
Mass;
Our
Lyon's
Paw was
headed by an
Ass.
Well, we were flog'd, and pepper'd too, 'tis true;
But yet to give the
Devil and
Dutch their due,
Had not they
brought us off, we might have lain
Till we had been
wash'd away with Winter's Rain:
This then deserves a long Thanksgiving-day;
For thô we lost our
Men, we sav'd their
Pay.
And now our hand is in, let's not forget
To thank Count
S — s, That we were soundly beat:
Go on, brave Men, cry'd he,
Conquer or
dye,
The Truth shall not be wrong'd, whilst I
stand by;
And
stand he did, as firm as any
Post,
Till he saw all his
hated English lost.
Ah, Country-men, had I but time to prove
How well the
Dutch our
poor three Kingdoms love,
There's not a Man but would forsake his Farms,
And our dear
Dutch embrace with open Arms.
Now little
Furnes, thou shalt be called great,
And future Ages shall thy Fame repeat:
We little thought that our high-slown Descent;
(And now the Riddle's out) for she was meant,
Some Politicians laid, 'twould land at
Bolen;
Others as wisely judg'd 'twould sail to
Colen:
Some were for
Brest, St. Malo's, or the
Havre,
And laid great odds the
French would never save her;
Some for
la Hogue; but others with less Malice,
Only pretended to recover
Calais:
Some were for
Bilboa; but none thought of
Thee,
This was
Design, this was Sheer-
Policy;
The rest was given out for a pretence,
First to surprize, and then to
nabb the
French.
And who in War or Poetry
would rise,
Take it from me, must do it by surprize.
Thrice
little Furnes, and great
Dixmuid thy Brother,
For whom
ten thousand Men made such a
pother:
You are the
Twins which our Descent brought forth,
The World must grant it was a mighty Birth:
Dunkirk and
Ghent were Gossips, and some think
The first may dearly pay the
Groaning Drink;
Then Thanks, Great Monarch, for whate'er they cost,
These Forts declare our Money was not lost.
Lastly, and Chiefly (for 'tis fit at last
The biggest Plumb should keep our Mouth in Taste)
What Thanks are due for the King's Preservation
From the
Grandvallian Assassination;
It was a strange Escape as e'er was heard;
And yet 'twas strange the King too should be scar'd
With
One Gun, who so many Guns had heard;
Nor would we fail to thank that happy
Spirit,
Whose Vigilance did such
Encomiums merit;
But that he look'd so
stern, one scarce could tell
Whether he came from
Heaven or from
Hell.
If from the
last, we ought to
thank the Devil
That to our Monarch was so wondrous civil.
Thank
Grandvall's Powder, which mistook its Aim,
And made it
felf invisible, not
him.
Thank
Parker that he left St.
German's Court
Three days before the cautious
Witness swor't:
Thanks to the King too, that he took such Care
T'escape these
private Dangers of the War.
Poor Gentleman, he was much pitied here;
And these
Esoapes have cost us many a Tear,
Heaven send him better luck for the next Year.
But hold my Muse, for should our
Thanks run on,
They would
amaze the all-beholding Sun,
And strike a blush upon the pale-fac'd Moon;
Then modestly take up, and loudly tell
How we set forth our Joys by
Candl' and
Bell.
Scarce did the
Polish, Northern Star appear,
Which some great Authors call the
lesser Bear.
Scarce had the Cock crow'n
once or
twice at most,
And
Phoebus within ken o'th' Eastern Coast.
Or in plain
English, fcarce had the Clock struck four;
'Tis no great Matter, whether less or more,
When a litigious jangling, ill-bred sound,
Through all our Hills and Valleys did rebound;
'Twas thought the
Devil's
Arse o'th'Peak had got
Some rumblind Wind, or Collick in his Gut,
And by successive
Raptures did foretell
Downfall of Church, as by the sound of Bell;
Some thought the
Body-Politick in a Fit,
And the
Soul-Bell knelling its last
Exit.
'Twas not ill Guest, for
Church and
State may find
There are
strange sounds in your
Rebellious Wind;
And't might be prov'd by easie
Metaphor,
Wind may be said to ring, and Bells to roar;
Others scarce well awake, judg'd it the Groan
Of drowsie
Sackbut, or the
Bag-pipes Drone:
Some swore (who lately had ta'en a larger
Sup,
The
Glasses klink'd round the
Indented Cup.
In short, they were the City-
Choristers,
Which thus untimely lugg'd us by the Ears;
The Bells, I mean, that early thus were singing
Their
Lauds and
Mattins, which some Men call
ringing.
Thus pass'd the chirping
Morn. Now when the Sun
Was driving up to our
Meridian,
Some went to Church to hear the
New Pray'rs read;
Others, who lik'd the
Old, lay close in Bed.
Some shut their Shops, which was a silent Token,
That if those Days came off, they'd all be broken.
The Canons from the Tower broke through the Wind,
And roar'd their Thanks,
that they were left behind.
Lambeth return'd the Complement, and fir'd
Volleys of
Blessings as they'd been inspir'd.
High Pr — of
Mars sprung from
Samaria's Race,
Thou still dost love t'adore in the
High Place:
Thou
thunder'st out thy
Gospel in our Ears,
And those loud
Organs tun'd thy
new-made Pray'rs,
Thou
worst and
first of
Canterbury's Race,
That with a
Wife divided Lambeth
's Grace.
Mars and
Bellona ne'er before had met,
Roaring and
singing on the High-Priest's Seat.
Thou Man of
Faith, could we believe like you,
Who would not turn a Circumcised
Jew?
Lastly, for now my Muse is almost weary;
And too much labour makes a Mare miscarry,
I should say something of the
blessed Night
How 'twas set forth with
artificial Light;
'Twas
mothy at the best, not of a piece,
Some
black, some
white, checker'd like
Fox and
Geese.
The Lights were not of
Virgin-Wax, 'tis true;
For
Hybla's
Bee works not for such a
Crew,
Nor of your precious Aromatick
Gums,
Nor your
sweet Oil which from
Oneglia comes.
In short, they were of
greasie Kitchen-stuff,
Most
proper for th'
Occasion; that's enough.
May those who love them see no better Light;
For my part I have done,
and so good Night.
FINIS.