A Congratulatory POEM On King WILLIAM's Victories in Ireland, and his Happy Return into England.
WHen
French like Locusts spread the
Irish Coast,
And
Teague could justly of his Numbers boast,
Sad was the Winter, heavy the Campagn,
Shockt with Distempers and Tempestuous Rain;
Tents were our Tombs, and Men lay dead unslain:
Not the great
Schomberg could Resistance yield,
But Death reign'd Conquerour and kept the Field.
WILLIAM alone could War and Fate command;
Victorious
Caesar has subdu'd the Land.
Hence, Mighty Prince,—
I'll never scruple Transmigration true,
Since
Alexander's Soul survives in you,
His Conduct, Courage and his Fortune too.
What
Sobietzky at
Vienna got,
All that
Lorain with Toyl and Time e're fought,
Admits no Ballance (were it duly weigh'd)
With what King
WILLIAM's daring Arms have made.
Their Cause was Intrest and the Papal See;
His, True Religion, Laws and Liberty.
Long and uncertain steps their Ends attain'd,
Whil▪st nothing here, but
Vidi, Vici, reign'd.
At his approach th' affrighted Rebels run,
Like flying Mists before the rising Sun.
Dublin rejoyc'd to quit her Copper Coyn,
When
Caesar forc'd the Passes of the
Boyn:
Thunder and Lightning from his Cannon flew;
Not storms of Rain, but streams of Blood ensue:
Drogheda quitted on the first Alarm,
Duncannon, Waterford, pursue the Charm,
And all submit to his victorious Arm:
An Arm on which the Foe with wonder gaz'd,
An Arm at which the Battail stood amaz'd,
At which the Bullet trembled when it graz'd.
Heavens bless the Victor! May his Triumphs rise
Till Angels guard him to his native Skies.
And now with grateful Hearts and willing Hands,
England receives him from the
Irish Bands.
And tho' the
Empire courts him,
Holland more,
To act as General on a foreign Shore;
Unwillingly we wish his Grandeur shown,
Unless his Person still supplies the Throne.
FINIS.
LONDON: Printed for James Blackwell at Bernard's-Inn-Gate in Holborn, 1690.