Poems or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson |
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The Royal Rendezvous. Or, the Magnificence of His Majesties Fleet.
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The Royal Rendezvous. Or, the Magnificence of His Majesties Fleet.
Bless me! where am I? to what Ruine bent?I should be by this moving Grove in Kent.
Me thought, I saw a City on the Seas,
And by the Steeples told the Parishes.
There might be as I guess, twice seventy seven,
Whose Babel Towers were climbing up to Heaven.
Their Language was confusion, and their breath
Darken'd the Aire with sentences of death.
They seem'd as 'twere a stand of Pikes, or Trees
That over-top the humble Coppices.
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And, where such Sign-posts are, what are the Inns?
Those Trojan Horses, form'd by Pallas charms,
Not stuffd with Garbidg, but with Men and Arms;
Those wooden Mountains, on the Navy Main,
As if the Gyants fought with Jove again.
If Philip King of Spain did once call his
Invincible, what wou'd he think of this?
Away with Xerxes Chains, fond foolerie,
'Tis such a Fleet as this, fetters the Sea.
You wou'd have thought that the tumultuous flood
Was not so much an Ocean, as a Wood:
And that vast womb of Ships, Forest of Dean,
Stub'd by the Rebels, was grown up agen.
A floating Island, a Realm did surpass,
Denmark and Dantzick for your choice of Masts.
I'm confident next Month we shall advance
May-Poles enough to make the Dutchmen dance.
Did you but see our Frigats, you would swear,
Norway had left scarce either Pitch or Tar.
For Lead, you won'd suppose here Darby was,
For Iron Bilboe and Corinth for Brass.
And for provision, you wou'd think you were
In Ægypt to behold the Corn that's here.
Brandy, although sufficient, we decline,
Spirits of Men are here, give Cowards wine:
And say, seven Provinces united be
Each Ship of ours is a whole Colonie.
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Honour'd with such a Fleet, may well be proud.
Whilst both the Waters and the VVinds agree,
To swell our Sailes into a Tympanie.
VVhat shall we not be able then to do,
That have great Cæsar, and his fortunes too.
And superadded to this a Cause so just,
We might to providence and cockboats trust;
But blest be Heaven, we have a Royal Fleet,
Will make those Picture-mongers crouch to see't.
Talk not of Tempus est, Bacon's an Ass,
Our wooden Walls are stronger than his brass.
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