AN Encomiastick and Congratulatory Poem. On the Glorious and Peaceable Return of His Sacred MAJESTY KING WILLIAM III. Into ENGLAND, 1697.
I Sing not
Hannibal's, nor
Caesar's Fate,
Nor do I Brave
Adolphus Celebrate,
Full of Extatic Valour out of Breath,
That Nobly Conquering Ttiumph'd after Death;
But that great Hero, who surpasses far
Him, who was styl'd the Thunder-bolt of War.
Recovering drooping, Europe, makes War ceas,
Healing its Bloody Wounds with Balms of Peace.
The Glittering
Macedonian Swords and Shields
Struck mighty Terror thro the
Persian Fields,
Darius t'
Alexander fairly yields.
The Heavenly Hosts, that do assist you still,
O may those Guardian Angels guide my Quill,
And clasp me with their Wings in endless Fame,
Great Monarch, whilst I have You for my Theam;
Whom by Philosophy we truly call.
The Worlds great Genius, Universal Soul.
Your brave Heroic Acts, and
Nassau's Name
Are fled through th' Earth, on th' airy wings of Fame;
Fame, which altho' she dares som Kings belie,
Yet cares not, can't bely your Majesty,
As far beyond Poetic Flattery.
For the Imperial
Czar of
Muscovy
Pays civil Homage to your Majesty;
As
Cheha's Queen's Ambition led her on,
To pay a Visit to great
Solomon.
We almost (e're You to our Rescue came,)
To th' Roman Eagle as a Prey became,
Our Helpless, Hopeless, Forlorn Case did shew
Nothing was wanting but the Murthering blow.
Som Men t' adore those
Crocodiles were free,
Whose Tears were false as their Hypocrysie.
Astraea saw't, and Blushing vail'd her Head,
The Goddess sigh'd, and then away she fled.
Upstart Aegyptian Gods, (like Wasps or Bees)
Did sting and plague us with their Prodigies.
When You, our great
Apollo, would appear,
These Locusts fled away in less then half a Year.
Conscious of their own Guilt, without delay,
(Like crawling Vermines) slily sneakt away.
As on the Womb o'th' uncreated Mass,
Thick Darkness sat, Huddled in heaps, as 'twas,
Till Light appear'd, chac'd it away, to shew
Nothing so Welcom as it self, but You.
So Heaven on us with Storms and anger frown'd,
And Floods of Woes our Island almost drown'd,
As Sinking Boats, t' escape we striv'd in vain,
From the profound Embraces of the Main.
Till your Victorious Hand the Scepter bore,
And (Great Dictator) did our Peace restore,
And 'Stablish'd us more firmly than before.
Cowards do dread the Grim, Pale Face of Death,
Who foil'd by't, are but squeezed out of Breath,
You took delight in Trumpet's Martial Sounds,
More then the Music of the Horn and Hounds;
Whilst you pursu'd your Foes, a nobler Chase,
Your Royal Soul was wing'd in Honour's Race.
In Onsets Ferce, in your Encounters Brave,
Potent t' o'recome, most Merciful to save.
You, second
Scanderbeg, for Europe's good,
Fearless in many dreadful Battles stood;
Undaunted, undismay'd, You, You it was
Out-dar'd the Thunder of the roaring Brass;
Made Death to Tremble, made your Foes to fly,
Som prostrate Vassals at your Feet did ly,
Whilst Thousands did yield up the Ghost, and dy.
Just Wars are made, to make unjust Wars ceas,
King
William's War was thus the means of Peace.
Somtimes the most ungrateful Discords throng.
And tune themselves into the sweetest Song.
‘So broken Bones being heal'd, becom more sound,’
‘And
Hydra stronger from its fruitful Wound.’
If Death be sweet by fighting for our King,
If to be Conquer'd be a noble Thing?
To Live, how joyful is it? Can there be
A greater Honour then in Victory?
For in the highest Tow'ring flight of Kings,
Both Victory and Triumph are the Wings,
By which they mount to Heaven; and 'tis this
That is their proper Apotheosis.
'Twixt God and Kings this is the greatest Odds,
God an immortal King, Kings Mortal Gods.
My Soul I vote unto the Deity,
And to your Majesty my Loyalty.
All Joy to
Caesar, Loyalists begin
To play upon the Harp and Violin.
We rock each Steeple through the Land, for now
Englands a Ringing Island, caus of you.
Loud Acclamations meet you every where,
Vollies of Huzza's Eccho in the Air.
Hail King Triumphant! Glorious, Great and Good;
You hear the natural Music of the Wood.
The Trumpets clangor, and Drums loudly beat,
From
Mars his Field the Souldiers now Retreat.
And Cannon's loud Report so rends the Sky▪
That chirping Birds drop down as they do fly,
Which Surfeit with excess of Joy, and dye.
‘So Rivers lose themselves, when swoln too high,’
‘And in their Union with the Ocean dye.’
Hush'd in a blissful Peace, secure we sleep,
Our Guardian Angels constant Watch do keep.
Our Ravishing, Transcendent Joy does prove
Our Church Below, Triumphant; as Above.
Vive le Roy, Traitors to Hell are sent,
If their Repentance may not it prevent.
Let not the Feet against the Head rebel,
So
Lucifer (by Pride) from Heaven fell,
To be a Devil in the Pit of Hell.
Sic Laetabundus cecinit, Joh. Thomas
London, Printed by J. Bradford in Little Britain over against the Pump. 1697.