Poems on Affairs of State

I need but sigh, for I was always heard,
And William on my welcome Shores appear'd.
With Wings of speed to rescue me he came,
And all my Sorrows vanish'd into Flame.
New Joys sprung up, new Triumphs now abound,
And all my Virgin Daughters hear the Sound:
Eternal Dances move upon my Plains,
And Youthful Blood springs in my antient Veins.
With open Arms I yielded my Embrace,
And William saw the Beauties of my Face.
He had before the knowledge of my Charms,
For he had my Maria in his Arms.
While he remain'd, I gave eternal Spring,
Made him my Son, my Darling, and my King;
While all the wondring World my Choice approve,
Congratulate his Fate, and justify my Love.

Of British Blood in Belgian Plains he liv'd,
My only Foreign Off-spring that surviv'd.
Batavian Climates nourish'd him a while,
Too great a Genius for so damp a Soil:
And freely then surrendred him to me,
For wise Men freely will the Fates obey.
Yet in my William they had equal Share,
And he defended them with equal Care.
They were the early Trophies of his Sword,
His Infant Hand their Liberty restor'd.
His Nurse, that Belgick Lion, roar'd for Aid,
And planted early Lawrels on his Head.
His easy Victories amaz'd Mankind;
We wonder'd what the dreadful Youth design'd.
Fearless he fought his Country to set free,
And with his Sword cut out their Liberty.
The Journals of his Actions always seem'd
So wonderful, as if the World had dream'd:
So swift, so full of Terrour he went on,
He was a Conquerour before a Man.

The Bourbon Sword, tho it was brighter far,
Yet drawn for Conquest, and oppressive War,

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Had all the Triumphs of the World engrost,
But quickly all those Triumphs to him lost.
Justice to William early Trophies brought;
William for Truth and Justice always fought.

He was the very Mystery of War,
He gain'd by't when he was not Conquerour.
And if his Enemies a Battel won,
He might be beaten, they would be undone.
Antæus like from every fall he rose,
Strengthen'd with double Vigour to oppose;
Those Actions Mankind judg'd Unfortunate,
Serv'd but as secret Steps to make him Great.
Then let them boast their Glory at Landen,
In vain th'Embattl'd Squadrons crowded in,
Theirs was the Victory, the Conquest mine.

Of all the Heroes Ages past adore,
Back to the first Great Man, and long before;
Tho Virtue has sometimes with Valour join'd,
The Barren World no Parallel can find.

If back to Israel's Tents I shou'd retire,
And of the Hebrew Heroes there enquire,
I find no Hand did Judah's Scepter wear,
Comes up to William's Modern Character.
Namure's Gygantick Towers he o'erthrew;
David did less when he Goliah slew.
Here's no Uriah's for Adult'ry slain,
Nor Oaths forgot to faithful Jonathan.
And if to Jesse's Grandson we've recourse,
William his Wisdom had without his Whores.

Joshua might still have staid on Jordan Shore,
Must he, as William did the Boyne, pass o'er.
Almighty Power was forc'd to interpose,
And frighted both the Water and his Foes:
But had my William been to pass that Stream,
God needed not to part the Waves for him.
Not Forty Thousand Canaanites cou'd stand,
In spight of Waves or Canaanites he'd land:

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Such Streams ne'er stemm'd his Tide of Victory;
No, not the Stream; no, nor the Enemy.

His Bombs and Cannon wou'd ha' made the Wall,
Without the Help of Jewish Rams-Horns, fall.
When his dear Israel from their Foes had fled,
Because of stoln Spoils by Achan hid;
He'd ne'er, like Joshua, on the Ground ha' laid,
He'd certainly ha' fought as well as pray'd.

The Sun would rather ha' been thought to stay,
Amaz'd to see how soon he'ad won the Day,
Than to give time the Canaanites to slay.
The greatest Captains of the Ages past,
Debauch'd their Fame with Cruelty at last:
William did only Tyrants subdue;
These conquer'd Kings, and then the People too:
The Subjects reap'd no Profit for their Pains,
And only chang'd their Masters, not their Chains;
Their Victories did for themselves appear,
And made their Peace as dreadful as the War:
But William fought Oppression to destroy,
That Mankind might in Peace the World enjoy.

The Pompeys, Cæsars, Scipio's, Alexanders,
Who crowd the World with Fame, were great Commanders.
These too brought Blood and Ruin with their Arms,
But William always fought on other Terms.
Terrour indeed might in his Front appear,
But Peace and Plenty follow'd in his Rear:
And if Oppression forc'd him to contend,
Calmness was all his Temper, Peace his End:
He was the only Man we e'er saw fit
To regulate the World or conquer it.
Who can his Skill in Government gainsay,
He that can England's brittle Scepter sway,
Where Parties too much rule, and Kings obey?
He always reign'd by Gentleness and Love,
An Emblem of the Government above.

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Vote me not Childless then in Christendom,
I yet have Sons in my suspended Womb:
And till just Fate such due Provision makes,
A Daughter my Protection undertakes.
Crowns know no Sexes, and my Government
To either Kind admits a just Descent.
Queens have to me been always fortunate,
E'er since my English Phœnix rul'd the State;
Who made my People rich, my Country great.
Satyr be just, and when we lash their Crimes,
Mingle some Tears for William with our Rhimes.
Tho Baseness and Ingratitude appear,
Thank Heaven that we ha' weeping Millions here:
Then speak our hearty Sorrows if you can,
Superior Grief in feeling Words explain:
Accents that wound, and all the Senses numb,
And while they speak may strike the Hearer dumb:
Such Grief as never was for King before,
And such as never, never shall be more.

See how Authority comes weeping on,
And view the Queen lamenting on his Throne.
With just Regret she takes the Sword of State,
Not by her Choice directed, but his Fate;
Accepts the sad Necessity with Tears,
And mournfully for Government prepares.
The Peoples Acclamations she receives
With sadn'd Joy, and a Content that grieves.

View next the sad Assemblies that appear,
To tell their Grief for him, and Joy for her.
The first confounds the last with such Excess,
They hardly can their noble Thoughts express.
The Illustrious Troop address her to condole,
And speak such Grief as wounds her to the Soul:
They lodg their Sorrows in the Royal Breast,
The Harbour where the Nation looks for Rest.

Next these, the Representatives arise,
With all the Nations Sorrow in their Eyes.

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The Epithets they righteously apply
To the Restorer of their Liberty,
Are Tokens of their Sense and Honesty.
For as a Body we were always true,
But 'tis our Parties that our Peace undo.
Who can like them the Peoples Grief express?
They shew her all the Tokens of Excess:
O'erwhelm'd with Sorrow, and supprest with Care,
They place the Nation's Refuge now in her:
Nothing but her Succession cou'd abate
The Nation's Sorrow for their Monarch's Fate:
And nothing but his Fate cou'd their true Joy
For her Succession lessen or destroy.

The Civil Sword to her, as Heaven saw fit,
With general Satisfaction they commit:
How can it in a Hand like hers miscarry?
But who shall for us weild the Military?
Who shall the jarring Generals unite;
First teach them to agree, and then to fight?
Who shall renew'd Alliances contrive,
And keep the vast Confederacies alive?
Who shall the growing Gallick Force subdue?
'Twas more than all the World, but him, cou'd do.

Sighs for departed Friends are sensless things,
But 'tis not so when Nations mourn for Kings:
When wounded Kingdoms such a Loss complain,
As Nature never can repair again;
The Tyrant Grief, like Love, obeys no Laws,
But blindly views th'Effect, and not the Cause.

Dark are the Works of Sovereign Providence,
And often clash with our contracted Sense:
But if we might with Heaven's Decrees debate,
And of our Maker's Works expostulate;
Why shou'd he form a Mind supremely great,
And to his Charge commit the Reins of Fate,
And at one hasty Blow the Work defeat?
A Blow so sudden, so severe and swift,
We had no time for Supplication left:

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As if Almighty Power had been afraid,
Such Pray'rs wou'd by such Multitudes be made;
Such Moses's wou'd to his Altars go,
To whom he never did, or wou'd say no;
He hardly cou'd know how to strike the Blow.

For Prayer so much the Sovereign Power commands,
Ev'n God himself sometimes as conquer'd stands,
And calls for Quarter at the Wrestler's Hands.

How strenuous then had been the Sacred Strife,
While all the kneeling World had begg'd his Life,
With all that Earnestness of Zeal, and more
Than ever Nation begg'd for King before?
See how the neighbouring Lands his Fame improve,
And by their Sorrows testify their Love;
Sprinkle his Memory with grateful Tears,
And hand his Glory to succeeding Years.

With what Contempt will English Men appear,
When future Ages read his Character?
They'll never bear to hear in time to come,
How he was lov'd abroad, and scorn'd at home.
The World will scarce believe it cou'd be true,
And Vengeance must such Insolence pursue.
Our Nation will by all Men be abhor'd,
And William's juster Fame be so restor'd.

Posterity, when Histories relate
His Glorious Deeds, will ask, What Giant's that?
For common Vertues may Mens Fame advance,
But an immoderate Glory turns Romance.
Its real Merit does it self undo,
Men talk it up so high, it can't be true:
So William's Life, encreas'd by doubling Fame,
Will drown his Actions to preserve his Name.
The Annals of his Conduct they'll revise,
As Legends of Impossibilities.
'Twill all a Life of Miracles appear,
Too great for Him to do, or Them to hear.
And if some faithful Writer shou'd set down
With what uneasiness he wore the Crown;

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What thankless Devil had the Land possest;
This will be more prodigious than the rest.
With Indignation 'twill their Minds inspire,
And raise the Glory of his Actions higher.
The Records of their Fathers they'll deface,
And blush to think they sprung from such a Race.
They'll be asham'd their Ancestors to own,
And strive their Fathers Follies to atone.
New Monuments of Gratitude they'll raise,
And Crown his Memory with Thanks and Praise.

Thou, Satyr, shalt the grateful Few rehearse,
And solve the Nation's Credit in thy Verse;
Embalm his Name with Characters of Praise,
His Fame's beyond the Power of Time to rase.

From him let future Monarchs learn to Rule,
And make his lasting Character their School.
For he who wou'd in time to come be Great,
His nothing now to do but Imitate.
Let dying Parents when they come to bless,
Wish to their Children only his Success.
Here their Instructions very well may end,
William's Example only recommend,
And leave the Youth his History to attend.

But we have here an Ignominious Croud,
That boast their Native Birth and English Blood,
Whose Breasts with Envy and Contention burn,
And now rejoice when all the Nations mourn:
Their aukward Triumphs openly they sing;
Insult the Ashes of their injur'd King:
Rejoice at the Disasters of his Crown,
And drink the Horse's Health that threw him down.

Blush, Satyr, when such Crimes we must reveal,
And draw a silent Curtain to conceal.
Actions so vile shall ne'er debauch our Song;
Let Heaven alone: tho Justice suffers long,
Her Leaden Wings, and Iron Hands, may show
That she is certain, tho she may be slow.

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His Foreign Birth was made the Fam'd Pretence,
Which gave our Home-born Englishmen Offence.
But Discontent's the antient English Fashion,
The Universal Blemish of the Nation.
And 'tis a Question, whether God cou'd make
That King whom every Englishman wou'd like?
Nor is it any Paradox to say,
William had more of English Blood than they;
The Royal Life flow'd in his sprightly Veins,
The same that in the Noble Stock remains;
The same which now his Glorious Scepter weilds,
To whom Three Nations Just Obedience yields.

ANNE, the remaining Glory of our Isle,
Well she becomes the Royal English Stile:
In William's Steps sedately she proceeds,
William's a Pattern to Immortal Deeds.
Preserves his Memory with generous Care;
Forgetting him is disobliging her;
Where shall the murmuring Party then appear!
Where wou'd the Nation, but for her, ha' found
So safe a Cure for such a sudden Wound?
And cou'd she but as well the Camp supply,
The World the sooner wou'd their Grief lay by:
But there the Fatal Breach is made so wide,
That Loss can never, never be supply'd.
Ye Men of Arms, and English Sons of War,
Now learn from him how you may fight for her;
Your Grief for him express upon her Foes,
For William lov'd such Funeral Tears as those.
'Tis William's Glorious Scepter which she bears,
Like William she for Liberty appears.
She mounts to Honour by the Steps of Truth,
And his Example imitates in Both.
'Tis you must make her blooming Fame increase,
'Tis you must bring her Honour, Wealth and Peace;
And let it once more to the World be seen,
Nothing can make us Greater than a Queen.

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