THE French KINGS LAMENTATION For the Death of so many of his Generals, and his Ill Success in Ireland and Germany, where he Lost so many of his Commanders, particularly in the Defeat given by Prince Louis of Baden, to the Turkish Army.
⟨29. Aug. 1691⟩ With Allowance.
LONG has my Breast been with Impatience swell'd,
While I the Doubtful Chance of
War beheld,
Though I by
Proxy Fought with others Arms,
And in my
Palace liv'd most safe from Harms;
As Men who sit securely on the Shoar
Can view a Storm, and hear the Billows roar:
Yet when I hear how fast my
Gen'rals fall,
Something within me does for
Pity call;
PITY!—'tis Childish, for great Souls like
Mine,
Should never at the Will of Fate repine:
But when Grim Death does such Great
Heroes call,
'Tis fit some Sighs attend their Funeral;
A
Monarchs Tears Embalm their Mem'ry more
Than all the Spices of the
Eastern Shore.
But oh! such diff'rent Passions wrack my Breast,
And I with mighty Loads of Grief Opprest,
In Change of Pleasure cannot find relief,
(But yet there is a Pleasure sure in Grief.)
Had
Private Centinells by Thousands fell,
And
Troops and
Regiments gone quick to Hell;
Were their
Commanders safe I had not car'd,
Those
Wretches are like Shavings of my Beard
Which grows again, for 'tis my Subjects care
To get me Children to supply the War:
But when a
Gen'ral gets a Mortal Harm,
▪Tis like the loosing of a Leg or Arm,
Which Loss can never be repair'd agen;
What Praises then are due to Valiant Men
St. Ruth, thou best of
Gen'rals and of
Friends,
Thou Trusty
Drudge to my Ambitious Ends;
Who didst with
Hereticks take mighty Pains,
To set their Judgment right, Knock't out their Brains:
Oh! 'twas a Sawcy Bullet snatch't thee hence,
But against
Chance how can there be Defence?
Yet to thy Mem'ry I will Altars raise,
And little Babes shall learn to Sing thy Praise;
Thy mighty Fame thy Murd'red Corps survives,
St. Ruth shall Flourish while my Glory lives;
Historians shall thy mighty Acts rehearse,
And
Poets write thy Praise in Lofty Verse.
But must the Great
Tyrconnel be forgot?
Tyrconnel worthy of a Braver Lot,
Shall
Generals like Common Mortals Die,
And in a Scorching Feaver Gasping lie?
'Twas his hard Fate to be so Poorly Kill'd,
Commanders should Expire within the Field:
'Twas strange he should so well
Two Kings Obey,
James gave Command, but
Lewis gave him Pay;
Promises may to Arms the Brave Invite,
But 'tis the Ready Gold which makes 'em Fight:
More Ill News Still? the
Turks by Thousands Kill'd,
And
Baden Louis Conqu'ror in the Field;
My Trusty Friends in
Turkish Habits Slain,
The
Army routed, and their
Baggage ta'ne;
Sure Fate Designs to crush me with my Woes
By repetition of such Overthrows,
But let the Angry Stars do what they will,
Lewis I am and will be
Lewis still.
My Tears are still to more Commanders due,
But Grief does best by Dumb Expressions shew:
My hopes are frustrate, and the
Irish Coast
No longer must of my Assistance boast,
The
Fatal Battel was at
Aghrim fought,
Such dreadful Terrors to my Fancy brought,
As Gamesters who have deeply lost at Play,
With their last Stake throw all their hopes away.
O
Ireland, what Sums thy Quarrel Cost,
What store of Blood was in thy Country lost?
My Folly I but now too late repine,
Let who will take thee, for thou'lt ne're be mine.
LONDON, Printed for T. Tillier. MDCXCI.