The Triumphs of Peace, or, The Glories of Nassaw A Pindarick Poem. Occasioned by the Conclusion of the Peace between the Confederacy and France. Written at the time of His Grace the Duke of Ormond's Entrance into Dublin in Ireland, By Mr John Hopkins |
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To the truly Honourable The Lord CUTTS. |
 | The Triumphs of Peace, or, The Glories of Nassaw |  |
To the truly Honourable The Lord CUTTS.
Let some with, servile, mean Devices bow,And bend their Souls, as well as Bodies, low;
Flatter the Great, cringe deep, to gain Esteem,
And by their own Dishonour, honour them.
By Wiles like these, new Favours, poorly claim;
I pay your Lordship, but what's paid by Fame,
'Tis through your Merits, not my own, I choose
Thus to salute you by my rising Muse;
She must fly up, to pay Respect to you.
Let others spread their Patron's Feathers far,
The Toys of Peace, your Laurels spread thro' War.
Some Pride in Wreaths, which bolder Arms have made,
But your own conquering Hands have deckt your Head.
To you, my Lord, a double Crown is due,
At once the Hero, and the Poet too.
Since Nassaw's Actions still remain untold,
While Dryden lives; immortal; yet he's old.
'Tis your, we hope, will make them far ador'd,
And serve him with your Pen, as well as Sword.
Beyond his Trumpets Clangors, make them known,
With Powers unequal, I the Task resign,
A Task too great for any Strength, — but thine.
What other Genius can our Sovereign choose?
War's your Delight, Bellona is your Muse.
Your Pen and Sword with like Success you wield,
Fam'd thro' your Study, glorious thro' the Field.
With the same vigour and impulse of thought,
Now may you write, as thro' the Plains you fought.
In the Attempt, tho' my weak Genius fail,
Be pleas'd at least, to recommend my Zeal.
Unknown, this Favour dare I humbly claim,
Unknown to you, my Lord, unknown to Fame.
Disdain to fear, while I have you, my Head;
Your well-rais'd Greatness my Success secures,
I grow assur'd of Fame, by trusting yours.
Great both in Arts and Arms; our Jove, in you
Secures his Lightning, and his Thunder too.
Thus, shou'd your Judgment my Presumption blame,
Pleas'd shall this Semele expire in Flame;
To you, my Lord, most fit, this Suit I move,
You, who are plac'd at the Right Hand of Jove.
| The Triumphs of Peace, or, The Glories of Nassaw | |