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         Browne, Joseph, fl. 1700-1721.
      
       
         
           1697
        
      
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         152579
         
           
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             A panegyrick upon His Majesties glorious return from the wars, after the conclusion of a general peace. By Joseph Brown, Dr. of physick and the civil laws
             Browne, Joseph, fl. 1700-1721.
          
           [4], 15, [1] p.
           
             printed for A. Bosvile, at the Dyal over against St. Dunstans Church in Fleetstreet, and to be sold by E. Whitlock, near Stationers Hall,
             London :
             1697.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Williams -- III, -- King of England, 1650-1702 -- Early works to 1800.
           Grand Alliance, War of the, 1689-1697 -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           A
           PANEGYRICK
           UPON
           His
           MAJESTIES
           GLORIOUS
           RETURN
           FROM
           THE
           WARS
           ,
           AFTER
           THE
           CONCLUSION
           OF
           A
           GENERAL
           PEACE
           .
           By
           
             Joseph
             Brown
          
           ,
           Dr.
           of
           Physick
           and
           the
           Civil
           Laws
           .
        
         
           
             Salve
             igitur
             multum
             Regum
             Rex
             maxime
             ,
             Salvus
          
           
             Ingredere
             optatam
             patriam
             ,
             Salvusque
             revise
          
           
             Quae
             loca
             grata
             tibi
             felix
             terraque
             marique
          
           
             Aeternum
             tuos
             ,
             &
             te
             diadema
             coronet
             .
          
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             A.
             Bosvile
          
           ,
           at
           the
           Dyal
           over
           against
           St.
           Dunstans
           Church
           in
           Fleetstreet
           ,
           and
           to
           be
           sold
           by
           
             E.
             Whitlock
          
           ,
           near
           Stationers
           Hall
           ,
           1697.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           
             To
             his
             Grace
          
           HENRY
           
             Duke
             of
          
           NORFOLK
           ,
           
             Earl
             Marshal
             of
          
           England
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           
             VVHEN
             Poets
             write
             th'
             Immortal
             Worth
             of
             Kings
             ,
          
           
             From
             what
             blost
             Source
             their
             Glorious
             Actions
             springs
             ;
          
           
             They
             may
             ,
             with
             less
             Ambition
             justly
             claim
             ,
          
           
             The
             Umbrage
             of
             some
             high-born
             Prince's
             Name
             :
          
           
             Such
             as
             great
             Norfolk
             ;
             boldly
             may
             assume
             ,
          
           
             Next
             to
             his
             Sov
             raigns
             Right
             ,
             as
             justly
             due
             to
             him
             .
          
           
             When
             Bosworth
             Field
             was
             once
             the
             glorious
             Scene
             ,
          
           
             Where
             
             Norfolk's
             Blood
             did
             noble
             Hanours
             gain
             :
          
           
             When
             youthful
             Surrey
             did
             as
             bravely
             show
             ,
          
           
             How
             far
             a
             true
             Heroick
             Soul
             dunst
             go
             :
          
           
             When
             
             Moubrey's
             Lyon
             for
             Example
             strove
             ,
          
           
             To
             kill
             the
             Brutish
             Herd
             ,
             to
             gain
             the
             Conq'rors
             Love
             :
          
           
             Which
             none
             deserv'd
             with
             greater
             worth
             we
             find
             ,
          
           
             A
             noble
             Birth
             joyn'd
             with
             a
             gen'rous
             Mind
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Honour
             is
             talk'd
             of
             much
             ,
             but
             where
             's
             the
             Name
             ,
          
           
             So
             much
             of
             Honour
             from
             their
             Ancestors
             dare
             claim
             ,
          
           
             Embalm'd
             with
             Glory
             ,
             and
             Eternal
             Fame
             .
          
           
             What
             can
             the
             Noble
             Off-sppring
             be
             ,
             but
             brave
             ,
          
           
             That
             such
             Allyance
             from
             the
             Great
             and
             Noble
             have
             .
          
           
             And
             that
             first
             Pow'r
             is
             still
             the
             gen'rous
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             That
             actuates
             and
             moves
             the
             mighty
             whole
             .
          
           
             And
             that
             high
             Genius
             does
             it self
             disperse
             ,
          
           
             Through
             
             Howard's
             Intelectual
             Universe
             .
          
           
             The
             Muses
             I
             am
             sure
             will
             bless
             my
             Choice
             ,
          
           
             When
             
             Norfolk's
             Name
             shall
             echo
             from
             my
             Voice
             .
          
           
             This
             mighty
             Theme
             cou'd
             come
             to
             none
             but
             you
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Noble
             Station
             calling
             it
             your
             due
             ;
          
           
             Of
             Honours
             Laws
             made
             Judge
             and
             Patron
             too
             :
          
           
             Well
             may
             you
             then
             these
             humble
             Lines
             deserve
             .
          
           
             Cou'd
             they
             ,
             Immortal
             as
             your
             Honour
             live
             .
          
           
             Cou'd
             such
             strong
             Torrents
             on
             my
             Numbers
             rowl
             ,
          
           
             Great
             as
             your
             Worth
             ,
             capacious
             as
             your
             Soul
             :
          
           
             Then
             might
             I
             boast
             no
             vain
             Poetick
             Fire
             ,
          
           
             But
             such
             as
             Homer
             might
             himself
             admire
             ,
          
           
             When
             Jove
             with
             Harmony
             did
             him
             inspire
             .
          
           
             And
             such
             the
             Gods
             might
             sure
             bestow
             on
             me
             ,
          
           
             When
             I
             essay
             the
             high-born
             
             Norfolk's
             Pedegree
             :
          
           
             But
             more
             ,
             when
             boldly
             I
             essay
             to
             sing
          
           
             Th'
             Imortal
             Triumphs
             of
             the
             greatest
             King.
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           A
           PANEGYRICK
           TO
           THE
           KING
           .
        
         
           
             ASSIST
             ,
             some
             Godlike
             Muse
             ,
             assist
             my
             Song
             ,
          
           
             Some
             Angel
             now
             with
             Nectar
             touch
             my
             Tongue
             ;
          
           
             Let
             my
             ambitious
             Lyre
             tune
             all
             her
             Strings
             ,
          
           
             To
             Heavenly
             Numbers
             ,
             soft
             Harmonious
             Things
             .
          
           
             Such
             a
             bold
             Theme
             employs
             my
             daring
             Muse
             ,
          
           
             As
             none
             but
             such
             a
             rash
             artless
             Bard
             durst
             chuse
             .
          
           
             Since
             then
             the
             Pow'rful
             Charm
             does
             here
             begin
             ,
          
           
             I
             feel
             ,
             I
             rising
             feel
             ,
             the
             God
             within
             .
          
        
         
           
             Arise
             ,
             ye
             Ruins
             ,
             now
             the
             Conqu'ror's
             come
             ,
          
           
             With
             Peaceful
             Lawrels
             ,
             to
             Britannia
             home
             .
          
           
           
             No
             more
             let
             Fame
             boast
             the
             Grand
             
             Lewis's
             Praise
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             
             William's
             Royal
             Temples
             wears
             the
             Bays
             :
          
           
             To
             which
             more
             justly
             ,
             none
             e're
             yet
             aspir'd
             ,
          
           
             By
             all
             ador'd
             ,
             by
             all
             the
             World
             admir'd
             ;
          
           
             Since
             Peace
             ,
             a
             happy
             glorious
             Peace
             he
             brings
             ,
          
           
             Spreading
             it self
             on
             Fame's
             Eternal
             Wings
             ;
          
           
             A
             lasting
             Triumph
             to
             
             Britannia's
             Kings
             .
          
           
             What
             greater
             Conquest
             cou'd
             our
             Albion
             wish
             ?
          
           
             Than
             have
             her
             Monarch
             crown
             all
             
             Europe's
             Peace
             .
          
           
             What
             greater
             can
             to
             future
             Times
             be
             told
             ?
          
           
             Than
             that
             our
             William
             was
             the
             mighty
             Chief
             of
             Old
             ;
          
           
             That
             he
             more
             Brave
             ,
             Heroick
             Trophies
             won
             ,
          
           
             Than
             other
             Gen'rals
             ,
             great
             in
             Arms
             ,
             had
             known
             .
          
           
             More
             Crowns
             had
             truckled
             to
             his
             vast
             Success
             ,
          
           
             Than
             other
             Monarchs
             durst
             attempt
             to
             wish
             .
          
           
             Such
             Glory
             to
             his
             Arms
             was
             freely
             giv'n
             ,
          
           
             As
             he
             himself
             durst
             never
             ask
             from
             Heav'n
             :
          
           
             For
             Fortune
             to
             his
             great
             Designs
             must
             yield
             ,
          
           
             And
             Fate
             obey
             his
             Conduct
             in
             the
             Field
             .
          
           
             Such
             prosp'rous
             ,
             high
             Success
             ,
             moves
             from
             afar
             ,
          
           
             And
             comes
             not
             from
             the
             formal
             Pageantry
             of
             War
             :
          
           
             For
             if
             by
             chance
             such
             Glorious
             Actions
             move
             ,
          
           
             We
             're
             vainly
             fond
             to
             think
             there
             is
             a
             Jove
             .
          
        
         
           
             Arise
             ,
             brave
             Brittons
             ,
             now
             no
             longer
             mourn
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Tragick
             Cypress
             to
             triumphant
             Lawrels
             turn
             .
          
           
           
             As
             new-born
             Souls
             arise
             ,
             come
             gladly
             show
          
           
             How
             much
             to
             
             Caesar's
             mighty
             Toils
             you
             owe
             :
          
           
             Whilst
             
             Zephir's
             Balmy
             Blasts
             do
             gently
             chear
          
           
             The
             tender
             Plants
             of
             each
             indulging
             Year
             .
          
           
             Let
             Flora
             all
             her
             gawdy
             Nymphs
             adorn
             ,
          
           
             More
             beauteous
             than
             the
             Rosie
             Blushes
             of
             the
             Morn
             .
          
           
             Ceres
             and
             Bacchus
             ,
             on
             the
             desart
             Plain
             ,
          
           
             Let
             them
             a
             far
             more
             fertile
             Conquest
             gain
             :
          
           
             And
             let
             Diana
             ,
             once
             again
             be
             made
          
           
             Free
             of
             her
             wonted
             Solitary
             Shade
             .
          
           
             Romona
             ,
             let
             the
             fruitful
             Gardens
             yield
          
           
             To
             thee
             the
             Luxury
             of
             all
             the
             Field
             .
          
           
             And
             let
             that
             too
             increase
             its
             usual
             Store
             ,
          
           
             Which
             to
             our
             settled
             Peace
             may
             still
             add
             more
             ,
          
           
             Than
             all
             the
             Happiness
             we
             knew
             before
             ;
          
           
             Whilst
             Pan
             ,
             propitious
             of
             the
             Flocks
             ,
             remains
             ,
          
           
             A
             glorious
             Pattern
             to
             succeeding
             Swains
             .
          
        
         
           
             This
             Prodigy
             of
             Peace
             ,
             we
             Britons
             boast
             ,
          
           
             That
             so
             much
             Noble
             Blood
             has
             Europe
             cost
             .
          
           
             The
             want
             thereof
             ,
             so
             much
             benums
             our
             grateful
             Sense
             ,
          
           
             We
             yet
             enjoy
             not
             half
             its
             Influence
             .
          
           
             The
             Pleasure
             so
             surprisingly
             does
             seize
             ,
          
           
             We
             feel
             the
             Dose
             too
             Strong
             at
             first
             ,
             to
             ease
             .
          
           
             This
             wondrous
             Cure
             our
             great
             Apollo
             wrought
             ;
          
           
             But
             how
             't
             was
             done
             ,
             is
             past
             all
             Human
             Thought
             .
          
           
           
             Each
             feels
             th'
             Effect
             ,
             but
             none
             the
             Cause
             can
             find
             ,
          
           
             Or
             
             William's
             God
             ,
             or
             God's
             to
             William
             kind
             .
          
           
             Either
             this
             Pow'r's
             himself
             ,
             or
             to
             him
             giv'n
          
           
             As
             the
             choice
             Favourite
             of
             bount'ous
             Heaven
             :
          
           
             This
             Mighty
             Act
             describes
             Him
             so
             much
             more
             ,
          
           
             Than
             all
             the
             high-fam'd
             Deeds
             he
             did
             before
             :
          
           
             Such
             a
             confused
             Chaos
             ,
             did
             once
             appear
             ,
          
           
             Our
             utmost
             hopes
             was
             but
             a
             doubtful
             War.
          
           
             When
             ,
             loe
             !
             despairing
             ,
             pensive
             Albion
             sate
             ,
          
           
             The
             Son
             of
             War
             reviv'd
             her
             sinking
             State
             ,
          
           
             And
             gave
             her
             Life
             to
             hope
             a
             better
             Fate
             .
          
           
             That
             ev'ry
             Corner
             of
             the
             Land
             became
          
           
             Enrich'd
             with
             Triumphs
             of
             the
             Heroes
             name
             .
          
           
             For
             had
             Achilles
             ,
             or
             Alcides
             liv'd
             ,
          
           
             T'
             have
             seen
             the
             Scene
             of
             War
             so
             boldly
             now
             reviv'd
             .
          
           
             They
             'd
             thought
             their
             Heroes
             here
             return'd
             again
             ,
          
           
             Bravely
             to
             fight
             ,
             not
             barely
             to
             be
             seen
             ,
          
           
             That
             they
             were
             Deities
             ,
             but
             Warlike
             Men.
          
           
             So
             like
             to
             Mars
             Heroic
             Nassau
             reigns
             ,
          
           
             He
             out-rivals
             all
             his
             Virtues
             but
             his
             Vice
             refrains
             .
          
           
             Noble
             by
             Birth
             ,
             by
             bold
             Experience
             ,
             wise
             ,
          
           
             Inur'd
             to
             hard
             ,
             and
             toilsom
             Victories
             ;
          
           
             Bold
             even
             to
             a
             Fault
             ,
             if
             such
             a
             Fault
             we
             blame
             ,
          
           
             That
             gain'd
             our
             Peace
             ,
             and
             his
             Immortal
             Fame
             .
          
           
             His
             well
             taught
             Passion
             rules
             his
             Warlike
             Rage
             ,
          
           
             And
             a
             mild
             Clemency
             his
             Actions
             gage
             .
          
           
           
             So
             soft
             by
             Nature
             ,
             to
             Compassion
             led
             ,
          
           
             His
             Souldiers
             are
             no
             Tyrants
             ,
             but
             to
             Mercy
             bred
             .
          
           
             So
             great
             in
             Arms
             ,
             each
             to
             a
             
             Caesar's
             grown
             ,
          
           
             And
             as
             well
             ,
             
             Caesar-like
             ,
             deserves
             a
             Crown
             ,
          
           
             Bold
             Sons
             of
             War
             ,
             and
             to
             that
             Honour
             born
             ,
          
           
             Vertue
             's
             their
             Aim
             ,
             and
             Baseness
             what
             they
             scorn
             ;
          
           
             With
             Arms
             ,
             like
             Atlas
             ,
             they
             support
             a
             Crown
             ,
          
           
             And
             they
             must
             fall
             ,
             e're
             that
             can
             tumble
             down
             ;
          
           
             The
             noblest
             Title
             they
             desire
             to
             gain
             ,
          
           
             Is
             their
             great
             Gen'ral's
             Honour
             to
             maintain
             :
          
           
             Under
             whose
             Conduct
             they
             may
             boast
             more
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Then
             ever
             Monarch
             yet
             ,
             on
             his
             own
             Score
             durst
             claim
             .
          
           
             If
             Caesar
             knew
             the
             Peace
             his
             Pow'r
             doth
             give
             ,
          
           
             Ev'n
             Caesar
             wou'd
             be
             proud
             under
             that
             Pow'r
             to
             live
             .
          
           
             To
             all
             that
             's
             good
             ,
             and
             Vertuous
             ,
             so
             inclin'd
             ,
          
           
             He
             Godlike
             shares
             the
             praise
             of
             every
             Mind
             ;
          
           
             Whilst
             Things
             inanimate
             do
             seem
             to
             move
             ,
          
           
             In
             just
             Obedience
             ,
             to
             express
             their
             Love.
          
           
             The
             batter'd
             Walls
             before
             his
             Souldiers
             fall
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             neighbouring
             Rocks
             with
             Clamour
             call
             ,
          
           
             Fall
             ,
             fall
             ,
             to
             
             Albion's
             Heroe
             Homage
             pay
             ,
          
           
             For
             Stones
             and
             Rocks
             must
             
             Albion's
             Pow'r
             obey
             ;
          
           
             Fall
             yee
             Rebellious
             Towns
             before
             his
             Force
             ,
          
           
             Lest
             your
             Proud
             Tow'rs
             do
             perish
             with
             a
             Curse
             :
          
           
             Lest
             your
             green
             Fields
             be
             dy'd
             with
             Purple
             Blood
             ,
          
           
             Yield
             to
             his
             Arms
             ,
             and
             own
             him
             all
             divinely
             good
             .
          
           
           
             Whilst
             lofty
             Mountains
             do
             their
             Tribute
             give
             ,
          
           
             And
             fruitful
             Valleys
             rise
             to
             ask
             Reprieve
             ,
          
           
             That
             they
             may
             yet
             descend
             again
             ,
             and
             live
             .
          
        
         
           
             But
             Peace
             ,
             Triumphant
             Nassau
             does
             prefer
             ,
          
           
             Ignoble
             Peace
             ,
             before
             destructive
             War.
          
           
             Tho'
             he
             a
             Noble
             ,
             Glorious
             Peace
             might
             claim
             ,
          
           
             'T
             was
             all
             beneath
             the
             Godlike
             Hero's
             Fame
             :
          
           
             His
             Vertue
             was
             too
             strong
             ,
             himself
             too
             brave
          
           
             T'
             usurp
             that
             Pow'r
             ,
             which
             other
             States
             enslave
             .
          
           
             Earth
             is
             too
             base
             ,
             too
             high
             Heav'n's
             glorious
             call
             ,
          
           
             For
             
             Albion's
             Peace
             imports
             the
             Peace
             of
             all
             .
          
           
             Uniting
             France
             ,
             he
             has
             enlarg'd
             his
             Throne
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             divided
             Europe
             all
             in
             one
             .
          
           
             Far
             from
             a
             common
             Pitch
             his
             Actions
             rise
             ,
          
           
             Their
             just
             Designs
             enough
             convince
             the
             wise
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             Amazement
             dazle
             vulgar
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             Yet
             some
             bold
             Infidels
             deny
             that
             Light
             ,
          
           
             Which
             like
             the
             glaring
             Sun
             betrays
             their
             Sight
             :
          
           
             So
             screeching
             Night-Owls
             o're
             the
             desarts
             fly
             ,
          
           
             And
             hate
             the
             Lustre
             of
             the
             beamy
             Sky
             .
          
        
         
           
             Methinks
             I
             see
             the
             Times
             already
             here
             ,
          
           
             Hasting
             their
             Motion
             thro'
             each
             circling
             Sphere
             ;
          
           
             These
             Days
             I
             see
             with
             Joy
             return
             again
             ,
          
           
             Which
             will
             ,
             
             Augustus's-like
             ,
             be
             thought
             a
             glorious
             Reign
             .
          
           
           
             When
             
             Arthur's
             name
             must
             yield
             to
             Time
             ,
             and
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             fam'd
             Julian
             Period
             lose
             its
             Date
             :
          
           
             When
             in
             the
             more
             Victorious
             
             William's
             Name
             ,
          
           
             Time
             shall
             begin
             anew
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             Rites
             proclaim
             ,
          
           
             Which
             gracefully
             inshrine
             the
             Heroe's
             Fame
             .
          
           
             When
             all
             the
             daring
             Conquests
             ,
             glorious
             Fights
             ,
          
           
             Perform'd
             by
             Edward
             ,
             and
             his
             Garter
             Knights
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             be
             ,
             by
             great
             Nassau
             ,
             excell'd
             as
             far
             ,
          
           
             As
             Meteors
             are
             by
             the
             Idalian
             Star.
          
           
             Then
             shall
             they
             raise
             Portraicts
             of
             Massie
             Gold
             ,
          
           
             Such
             as
             Men
             gave
             unto
             their
             Gods
             of
             old
             .
          
           
             Then
             shall
             they
             Fanes
             ,
             and
             Sacred
             Altars
             call
             ,
          
           
             By
             
               William
               ,
               Henry
               ,
               Nassau
            
             ,
             or
             them
             all
             ;
          
           
             Then
             shall
             Men
             with
             Ambitious
             Pride
             desire
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sacred
             Name
             of
             William
             to
             admire
             .
          
           
             This
             is
             the
             Hero
             ,
             shall
             the
             Mystick
             Sybils
             say
             ,
          
           
             For
             whom
             ,
             ev'n
             Time
             oblig'd
             it self
             to
             stay
             .
          
           
             The
             long
             wish'd
             Heroe
             ,
             by
             whose
             conqu'ring
             Reign
             ,
          
           
             Britannia
             shou'd
             her
             ancient
             Pow'r
             regain
             .
          
           
             The
             Heroe
             ,
             that
             of
             Mortals
             best
             deserves
             the
             Style
             ,
          
           
             To
             govern
             great
             
             Britannia's
             glorious
             Isle
             .
          
        
         
           
             Too
             great
             't
             is
             to
             relate
             all
             he
             hath
             done
             ,
          
           
             Since
             he
             ascended
             that
             Successful
             Crown
             :
          
           
             How
             by
             Example
             ,
             more
             than
             rigid
             Laws
             ,
          
           
             He
             did
             support
             
             Britannia's
             Sacred
             Cause
             .
          
           
           
             How
             ,
             while
             the
             neighbouring
             Worlds
             ,
             toss'd
             by
             the
             Fates
             ,
          
           
             So
             many
             Phaetons
             had
             in
             their
             restless
             States
             ,
          
           
             Which
             into
             furious
             Flames
             turn'd
             their
             bright
             Thrones
             ;
          
           
             Our
             peaceful
             William
             quench'd
             their
             burning
             Zones
             .
          
           
             With
             Lute
             in
             hand
             ,
             full
             of
             Coelestial
             Fire
             ,
          
           
             To
             the
             Pierian
             Groves
             he
             did
             retire
             .
          
           
             Incircled
             there
             with
             all
             
             Urania's
             Flow'rs
             ,
          
           
             In
             sweeter
             Lays
             than
             rais'd
             up
             Theban
             Tow'rs
             :
          
           
             He
             charm'd
             the
             fleeting
             Time
             ,
             'till
             from
             her
             Sphere
             ,
          
           
             The
             fair
             Astraea
             kindly
             did
             appear
             .
          
           
             Then
             did
             the
             Sun
             its
             wonted
             Heat
             regain
             ,
          
           
             And
             Light
             diffus'd
             it self
             o're
             all
             the
             Plain
             :
          
           
             The
             peaceful
             Brooks
             in
             silent
             Streams
             do
             glide
             ,
          
           
             The
             Meadows
             stretch
             themselves
             ,
             with
             wanton
             Pride
          
           
             Embroid'ring
             all
             their
             Banks
             ;
             whilst
             the
             proud
             Hills
             aspire
             ,
          
           
             To
             crown
             their
             Heads
             with
             more
             Aetherial
             Fire
             .
          
           
             The
             feather'd
             Choir
             display
             their
             grateful
             Wings
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             soft
             Harmony
             glad
             Anthems
             sings
             :
          
           
             Each
             circling
             Flood
             to
             Thetis
             Tribute
             brings
             .
          
           
             The
             starry
             Senate
             looks
             serene
             and
             fair
             ,
          
           
             And
             no
             disorder'd
             blasts
             disturb
             the
             Air.
          
           
             Pan
             without
             Care
             may
             keep
             his
             peaceful
             Flocks
             ,
          
           
             Seas
             need
             no
             Dangers
             fear
             ,
             but
             the
             deceitful
             Rocks
             .
          
           
             What
             Altars
             then
             to
             Nassau
             can
             we
             raise
             ?
          
           
             Or
             sing
             due
             Poeans
             to
             the
             Heroe's
             Praise
             ?
          
        
         
           
           
             But
             more
             ,
             what
             can
             t'
             
             Iberia's
             Land
             compare
             ?
          
           
             Once
             the
             great
             Monarch's
             Toil
             ,
             and
             now
             his
             constant
             Care
             ,
          
           
             But
             the
             Event
             that
             crown'd
             that
             tedious
             War.
          
           
             The
             Glory
             that
             he
             won
             on
             that
             fam'd
             Field
             ,
          
           
             Trophies
             engrav'd
             on
             his
             Immortal
             Shield
             .
          
           
             But
             what
             sums
             all
             ,
             is
             this
             his
             last
             Success
             ,
          
           
             That
             makes
             him
             Glorious
             ,
             and
             all
             Europe
             bless
             ,
          
           
             With
             the
             redoubled
             Echoes
             of
             a
             welcome
             Peace
             .
          
           
             Was
             these
             recorded
             by
             some
             
             Maro's
             Quill
             ,
          
           
             Our
             very
             Foes
             the
             conqu'ring
             Charm
             wou'd
             feel
             ,
          
           
             And
             own
             the
             Magick
             of
             the
             pointed
             Steel
             .
          
           
             How'midst
             his
             Troops
             the
             Heroe
             flew
             like
             Fire
             ,
          
           
             His
             Martial
             Soul
             burning
             with
             hot
             Desire
             ;
          
           
             Which
             ev'ry
             Souldiers
             Breast
             did
             so
             inspire
             .
          
           
             With
             hugh
             Gigantick
             Strides
             he
             mov'd
             apace
             ,
          
           
             Amazing
             all
             his
             Foes
             to
             see
             his
             warlike
             Grace
             .
          
           
             O're
             Torrent
             Streams
             ,
             and
             the
             high
             Mountain's
             Top
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Ramparts
             cou'd
             his
             thund'ring
             Progress
             stop
             :
          
           
             Rending
             in
             pieces
             ,
             with
             impetuous
             Shocks
             ,
          
           
             The
             harden'd
             Flint
             ,
             and
             the
             rebounding
             Rocks
             ,
          
           
             Into
             ten
             thousand
             Atoms
             shiv'ring
             ev'ry
             part
             ,
          
           
             Irreparable
             ,
             ev'n
             by
             
             Vaughban's
             matchless
             Art.
             
          
        
         
           
             Whilst
             others
             ,
             daring
             in
             the
             Feats
             of
             War
             ,
          
           
             Do
             shew
             ,
             how
             brave
             't
             is
             to
             be
             bold
             ,
             how
             base
             to
             fear
             .
          
           
           
             To
             serve
             their
             Pious
             Chief
             ,
             they
             hazard
             all
             ,
          
           
             And
             glory
             ,
             if
             before
             him
             they
             can
             fall
             ;
          
           
             With
             such
             Ambition
             do
             their
             Souls
             aspire
             ,
          
           
             To
             mount
             to
             Bliss
             ,
             tho
             't
             is
             by
             vulgar
             Fire
             .
          
        
         
           
             So
             Curtius
             once
             ,
             a
             Noble
             Roman
             born
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Name
             
             Rome's
             Sacred
             Annals
             does
             adorn
             ;
          
           
             Himself
             for
             Liberty
             a
             Victim
             gave
             ,
          
           
             And
             dy'd
             ignobly
             ,
             that
             he
             Rome
             might
             save
             .
          
           
             With
             Glorious
             Pride
             he
             bore
             the
             scorching
             Flame
             ,
          
           
             And
             suffer'd
             bravely
             ,
             to
             raise
             
             Rome's
             sinking
             Fame
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             serve
             a
             Pious
             Prince
             ,
             then
             who
             'd
             not
             chuse
             ,
          
           
             Who
             wou'd
             not
             gladly
             Life
             or
             Empire
             lose
             ;
          
           
             Since
             't
             is
             for
             Honour
             ,
             and
             for
             Peace
             to
             strive
             ,
          
           
             And
             thus
             to
             dye
             ,
             is
             doubly
             blest
             to
             live
             ?
          
           
             Whilst
             other
             States
             for
             Monarchy
             contend
             ,
          
           
             And
             boldly
             their
             Designs
             at
             Empire
             bend
             ,
          
           
             Their
             vain
             Ambition
             finds
             a
             juster
             End.
          
           
             Since
             Peace
             the
             Universal
             World
             does
             crown
             ,
          
           
             Who
             can
             but
             with
             excessive
             Pleasure
             own
          
           
             The
             Glory
             of
             our
             Heroe's
             Arms
             ?
             —
          
           
             Ev'n
             the
             wild
             Fame
             from
             Envy
             this
             just
             Praise
             imparts
             ,
          
           
             
             William's
             the
             only
             Monarch
             of
             all
             Hearts
             ,
          
           
             The
             only
             Victor
             is
             ,
             sent
             from
             above
             ,
          
           
             What
             others
             gain
             by
             Force
             ,
             to
             win
             by
             Love.
          
           
           
             By
             softer
             Means
             he
             makes
             Mens
             Pride
             obey
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             unwilling
             readiness
             his
             Tribute
             pay
             .
          
           
             But
             let
             this
             curs'd
             Age
             frown
             ,
             the
             next
             due
             Praise
             will
             give
             ,
          
           
             And
             wish
             that
             William
             long
             as
             his
             Fame
             may
             live
             .
          
           
             '
             Midst
             undistinguish'd
             Crowds
             of
             endless
             Praise
             ,
          
           
             In
             Glory
             to
             out-live
             old
             
             Nestor's
             days
             .
          
           
             Whilst
             the
             glad
             Tritons
             of
             the
             watry
             Field
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             give
             him
             what
             far
             distant
             Shores
             can
             yield
             .
          
        
         
           
             Whilst
             from
             the
             Northern
             Clime
             ,
             and
             frigid
             Zone
             ,
          
           
             The
             mighty
             Caesar
             of
             the
             World
             is
             come
             ,
          
           
             Our
             greater
             
             Caesar's
             Glory
             to
             behold
             ,
          
           
             Crown'd
             with
             Imperial
             Diadems
             of
             Gold.
          
           
             To
             both
             the
             Poles
             the
             Sun
             spreads
             forth
             his
             Praise
             ,
          
           
             And
             turns
             their
             sable
             Nights
             to
             bright
             refulgent
             Days
             .
          
           
             Thus
             does
             great
             Nassau
             to
             dark
             Climates
             shine
             ,
          
           
             Proving
             thy
             far
             fam'd
             Merits
             all
             Divine
             ,
          
           
             Not
             gain'd
             by
             Chance
             ,
             but
             by
             wise
             Conduct
             thine
             .
          
           
             As
             the
             wise
             King
             of
             
             Israel's
             Fame
             was
             spread
             ,
          
           
             From
             
             Tago's
             Stream
             to
             Indus
             Sacred
             Head
             :
          
           
             So
             thro'
             the
             spacious
             extent
             of
             the
             Land
             ,
          
           
             Victorious
             William
             shall
             his
             Troops
             command
             ;
          
           
             And
             barbarous
             Kings
             to
             his
             just
             Laws
             subject
             ,
          
           
             Not
             to
             usurp
             their
             Pow'r
             ,
             but
             to
             protect
             :
          
           
           
             Whilst
             they
             the
             Conduct
             of
             his
             Arms
             admire
             ,
          
           
             His
             mild
             Revenge
             ,
             and
             yet
             his
             warlike
             Fire
             ;
          
           
             Thoughtful
             of
             Glory
             ,
             not
             of
             high
             Applause
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             deserving
             both
             ,
             the
             Merit
             of
             his
             Cause
             .
          
           
             Yet
             tir'd
             with
             Honour's
             Load
             ,
             and
             Wars
             vast
             Toil
             ,
          
           
             He
             thus
             expostulates
             upon
             the
             grateful
             Soil
             .
          
        
         
           
             As
             Man
             when
             first
             from
             Native
             Turf
             did
             rise
             ,
          
           
             He
             all
             around
             him
             cast
             his
             wond'ring
             Eyes
             ;
          
           
             Absolute
             Monarch
             then
             himself
             might
             call
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             under
             his
             great
             Maker
             ,
             Lord
             of
             all
             .
          
           
             The
             Royal
             Lyon
             willing
             Homage
             paid
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             huge
             Elephant
             Obeysance
             made
             :
          
           
             Ambition
             cou'd
             not
             find
             a
             thing
             to
             ask
             ,
          
           
             And
             Pleasure
             had
             as
             difficult
             a
             Task
             ;
          
           
             His
             most
             luxurious
             Wish
             cou'd
             seek
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             When
             all
             fair
             Eden
             was
             his
             own
             before
             .
          
           
             He
             saw
             the
             Am'rous
             Palms
             out-stretching
             wide
          
           
             Their
             leafy
             Hands
             ,
             to
             reach
             the
             distant
             Side
             :
          
           
             The
             Groves
             all
             whisper
             ,
             and
             the
             Birds
             all
             sing
             ,
          
           
             Murmur
             each
             Crystal
             Brook
             ,
             and
             Silver
             Spring
             .
          
           
             No
             wind
             ,
             but
             gentle
             
             Zephir's
             Spicy
             Breeze
             ,
          
           
             Which
             into
             softer
             Motions
             fans
             the
             Waves
             ,
             and
             Trees
             .
          
           
             An
             Universal
             Calm
             around
             him
             cast
             ,
          
           
             He
             saw
             ,
             which
             into
             Eden
             quickly
             past
             ,
          
           
             This
             more
             than
             Mortal
             Bliss
             ,
             too
             great
             to
             last
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Hail
             then
             ye
             Sacred
             Sons
             of
             Levi
             ,
             hail
             !
          
           
             Let
             Peace
             and
             Union
             o're
             your
             Tribe
             prevail
             ,
          
           
             And
             let
             seditious
             Zeal
             from
             hence
             be
             driv'n
             ,
          
           
             As
             most
             pernicious
             to
             the
             Peace
             of
             Heav'n
             .
          
           
             No
             more
             let
             Plots
             the
             awful
             Robe
             profane
             ,
          
           
             Or
             Stains
             of
             Blood
             condemn
             their
             Souls
             for
             gain
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             let
             ambitious
             Greatness
             prompt
             the
             wise
             ,
          
           
             To
             wilful
             Sacrilegious
             Perjuries
             .
          
           
             Whilst
             Ignorance
             ,
             the
             common
             Cause
             of
             Strife
             ,
          
           
             Acts
             the
             Seditious
             Bigot
             to
             the
             Life
             .
          
        
         
           
             You
             Noble
             Senators
             ,
             that
             Laws
             dispense
             ,
          
           
             With
             utmost
             Justice
             ,
             not
             with
             Violence
             ;
          
           
             Depress
             this
             Monster
             Envy
             that
             does
             rise
             ,
          
           
             
             Argos-like
             ,
             with
             a
             Thousand
             killing
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             Hells
             spiteful
             Engins
             !
             like
             huge
             Winds
             that
             roar
             ,
          
           
             Deaf'ning
             the
             glad
             Pilot
             ,
             when
             in
             sight
             of
             Shore
             ,
          
           
             He
             joyfully
             proclaims
             the
             Danger
             o're
             .
          
           
             So
             look
             the
             Heav'ns
             when
             no
             Star
             appears
             ,
          
           
             But
             slow
             and
             weary
             ,
             shroud
             them
             in
             their
             Sphears
             .
          
        
         
           
             O
             ,
             bright
             Augusta
             !
             let
             thy
             Streets
             be
             fill'd
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             the
             Triumphs
             that
             united
             Joy
             can
             yield
             ;
          
           
             Let
             the
             wild
             Populace
             aloud
             proclaim
          
           
             Their
             extasie
             of
             Joy
             ,
             in
             
             William's
             Fame
             ;
          
           
           
             Mov'd
             by
             a
             sense
             of
             Gratitude
             ,
             let
             them
             confess
          
           
             Their
             due
             Obedience
             ,
             and
             their
             Happiness
             ;
          
           
             Needing
             no
             more
             the
             dire
             avenging
             Sword
             ,
          
           
             But
             humbly
             yield
             to
             Mercy
             's
             milder
             Rod.
             
          
        
         
           
             O
             ,
             happier
             Thames
             !
             let
             thy
             proud
             Flouds
             arise
             ,
          
           
             To
             meet
             the
             watry
             ,
             and
             impending
             Skies
             :
          
           
             Advance
             thy
             Surges
             thro'
             
             Nassovia's
             Court
             ,
          
           
             With
             Pompous
             Pride
             ,
             in
             soft
             luxurious
             sport
             .
          
           
             Whilst
             the
             kind
             Banks
             the
             forward
             Noise
             proclaims
             ,
          
           
             And
             sounds
             the
             Echo
             thro
             the
             Neighb'ring
             Plains
             :
          
           
             From
             a
             far
             distant
             Shore
             ,
             the
             busie
             Nymph
             imparts
          
           
             This
             blissful
             Welcome
             to
             our
             grateful
             Hearts
             .
          
           
             That
             William
             ,
             O!
             th'
             Heroick
             ,
             God-like
             Man
             ,
          
           
             Victorious
             William
             is
             return'd
             again
             .
          
           
             Eas'd
             from
             laborious
             War
             ,
             a
             servile
             Toil
          
           
             He
             undertook
             ,
             to
             make
             
               Britanni
               '
            
             a
             peaceful
             Isle
             ,
          
           
             O
             Nassau
             !
             let
             me
             blush
             for
             the
             ungrateful
             Soil
             .
          
        
         
           
             Soon
             as
             these
             Tidings
             from
             the
             Main
             was
             brought
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             Ambitious
             Stream
             convey'd
             her
             joyful
             Thought
             ,
          
           
             To
             all
             the
             nimble
             Floods
             ,
             adjoyning
             nigh
             ,
          
           
             She
             told
             her
             Tale
             ,
             she
             told
             her
             melting
             Joy
             :
          
           
             Thames
             first
             the
             soft
             diffusive
             Pleasure
             took
             ,
          
           
             Which
             she
             convey'd
             to
             Isis
             ,
             and
             fair
             
             Charwell's
             Brook
             ,
          
           
             Where
             all
             the
             Muses
             round
             about
             her
             flock
             ;
          
           
           
             Each
             Bard
             attending
             to
             her
             pow'rful
             Tale
             ,
          
           
             Each
             Bard
             has
             Charms
             ,
             but
             none
             o're
             hers
             prevail
             .
          
           
             The
             tickling
             Pleasure
             like
             Inchantments
             spread
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             fresh
             Flow'rs
             adorn'd
             each
             uncloath'd
             Mead.
             
          
        
         
           
             But
             why
             shou'd
             Isis
             only
             make
             thee
             shine
             ,
          
           
             Is
             not
             thy
             Thames
             ,
             more
             than
             thy
             Isis
             thine
             ?
          
           
             Tho'
             Isis
             may
             in
             softer
             Songs
             adore
             ,
          
           
             Let
             it
             suffice
             ,
             thy
             Thames
             doth
             love
             thee
             more
             .
          
           
             Tho'
             Isis
             ,
             for
             her
             Beauty
             may
             compare
             with
             Seyne
             ;
          
           
             For
             Swans
             ,
             and
             Flood-Nymphs
             with
             Imperial
             Rhine
             :
          
           
             Yet
             in
             the
             Title
             both
             may
             claim
             in
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Isis
             ,
             nor
             the
             World
             shall
             equal
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             When
             in
             her
             Am'rous
             Arms
             Thames
             does
             thee
             fold
             ,
          
           
             And
             dries
             thy
             Martial
             Hairs
             ,
             with
             hers
             of
             Gold
             :
          
           
             Whilst
             floating
             Skiffs
             ambitious
             are
             to
             ride
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             the
             undisturbed
             Stream
             ,
             and
             Peaceful
             Tide
             .
          
           
             As
             Bees
             ,
             after
             a
             stormy
             Show'r
             is
             past
             ,
          
           
             Return
             unto
             their
             Flow'rs
             with
             eager
             haste
             ;
          
           
             The
             busie
             Insect
             doubles
             her
             Desire
             ,
          
           
             To
             gain
             the
             End
             which
             Nature
             does
             require
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             Mankind
             with
             Wonder
             so
             admire
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
         
      
    
     
  

