A CONGRATULATORY POEM To His Highness THE PRINCE of ORANGE, Upon His ARRIVAL At LONDON.
HAIL happy
Troy-novant's Triumphant Walls,
Hark how thy Princely Guardian
Genius calls.
Fair
Albion rowze thy Head, and mourn no more,
Great
NASSAW thy
Palladium shall restore.
Yes, Mighty Prince, our Fear and Danger's fled,
Error and
Ignorance by Thee struck dead,
No more th' old
Chaos o're our World shall spread.
Thy Word
bids there be Light, and strait a Ray
All Heavenly bright, calls forth a New-born Day.
By Thee our new Commanded Glories shine:
That great Creation Work is onely Thine.
So when on Man th'All-smiling Pow'r looks down,
And do's, with unexpected Blessings, crown;
Delighted and amaz'd Mortality
With bended Knee, and with uplifted Eye,
Owns the bright Providence from whence they flow'd;
Each Smile a Bliss, and in each Bliss the God.
Methinks I heard the
Belgick Lyon roar,
Landed in Triumph on the
British Shoar;
Strength in his Paw, and Terror in his Brows,
To bid his Three Dull Couching Brothers Rowze:
Off from their Necks their Long-bourne Fetters shake,
From their Lethargick
Gallick Philters wake.
Yes, Great
Bohemian Race, thy Banner's spread,
And th'
English Arms by Mighty
NASSAW led,
Break the long Leagues with
Mahomet and Hell;
And the World's Ravager,
Europe's Monster quell.
Ambition's All-devouring Rapine crush,
And into Peace his Dragoon
Bonners hush:
T'Eternal Night his conjur'd Devils hist,
ORANGE the haunted World's great
Exorcist.
Great
TRƲTH's Foundation set once more upright,
And wash the Sanguin'd
Fleur-de-Lisses white.
Go on, Bold PRINCE, and in that Cause Divine,
That Holy War, a brighter Heroe shine,
Than
Boloign's
GODFREY crown'd at
Palestine.
Thus to Great
BRITAIN her lost Right restore,
Enstall'd proud
Europe's Arbiter once more.
Now
England's Champion to thy just Applause,
To wreath Thee Chaplets worthy of thy Cause,
Triumphal Arches, Pyramids,—Alas!
Too mean Records are Monuments of Brass.
Thy Victory stands crown'd with such Success,
That ev'n our Unborn Heirs thy Name shall bless.
Temples themselves thy Monuments shall turn,
And thy rich Sweets even with our Incense burn:
So fragrant, so perfum'd, thy hallow'd Praise,
Ligh't by Heav'ns bright'st Altar Coal shall blaze.
The very Wind, that drove the World around
Cranmer and
Ridley's Dust, thy Deeds shall sound.
Even the old Martyrs Blood shall Tribute bring,
And 'midst their Cryes to Heav'n, thy Trophies sing.
For thou'st the
Channel damm'd, and that Rich Gore
Shall now bedew the sprinkled Globe no more.
That Conqueror, whose soaring Eagles flew
So high, that but to
Look, was to
Subdue,
Must Veil his Bays to thine. For Oh! Behold
The
SACRED VOLƲME on thy Crest Enroll'd.
And whil'st thy Standart do's those Arms supply,
No Wonder that thy Victories out-fly
The
Roman Julius, or the
Macedon Youth:
So weak is Mortal Pow'r, t'Immortal Truth.
But as Record makes the Renown more High,
Nobly to use, than gain a Victory:
There there's thy loudest Trump, whose Ecchoing Sound
Shall even to both the distant Poles rebound.
No sooty Spark of black Ambitions Fire,
Thou dost to Glory, not to Thrones aspire.
Safe the Great
JAMES, Heav'ns dear Vicegerent, stands
In thy Victorious, but Protecting Hands.
No Forty Eights abhorred detested Shame:
But a bright Page of pure unsullied Fame.
Caesar may still live Blest: No ravisht Jem,
To rifle or deface the Diadem.
And if a humane Step his erring Foot has trod,
Thou'dst but refine the Man, to reinstate the God.
Yet
British Mother Church, 'tis now thy Day,
The Golden Hour that brings thy Game in Play.
Now show the Diff'rence, in their Veins there runs,
Betwixt thy True-born, and thy
Hagar Sons.
FINIS.