Three poems the first, Sacred to the Immortal Memory of the late King; the second, On the happy Succession, and Coronation of His present Majesty; and a third Humbly Inscrib'd to the Queen [by Laurence Eusden] |
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A POEM, Sacred to the Immortal Memory of the late KING. |
 | Three poems |  |
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A POEM, Sacred to the Immortal Memory of the late KING.
'Tis not enough in secret to lament;
Muse! give a-loud thy loyal Sorrows Vent!
Draw Majesty at length, and in full Day
The King, the Heroe, and the Sire display!
Vain, pompous Names! lost in one narrow Urn!—
Who mourns not now, may he for ever mourn!
Exalted Grief ev'n humble Verse can show;
There is a native Eloquence in Woe:
Ye Numbers, as my Tears, free, and un-artful, flow!
Muse! give a-loud thy loyal Sorrows Vent!
Draw Majesty at length, and in full Day
The King, the Heroe, and the Sire display!
Vain, pompous Names! lost in one narrow Urn!—
Who mourns not now, may he for ever mourn!
Exalted Grief ev'n humble Verse can show;
There is a native Eloquence in Woe:
Ye Numbers, as my Tears, free, and un-artful, flow!
Scarce had we ceas'd to solemnize that Sun,
Beneath which, GEORGE's glorious Race begun,
Where we saw, flatter'd with a false Presage,
Long, blissful Scenes in his Nestorean Age;
When the big Bus'ness of Mankind again
Call'd CÆSAR, and his Fortunè, to the Main:
The Main confess'd the Charge, and safe once more
Landed its Ruler on the Belgic Shore.
Sweet was the Sound of Fame's first soothing Tongue;
But Horrors on her second Accents hung,
And thro' fair Albion's Cliffs, dead BRUNSWIC! hollow rung!
How is the Mighty fall'n! how swiftly gone!
Be the sad News t'exulting Gath unknown,
Nor, Echo, tell the Vales of haughty Ascalon!
Beneath which, GEORGE's glorious Race begun,
Where we saw, flatter'd with a false Presage,
Long, blissful Scenes in his Nestorean Age;
When the big Bus'ness of Mankind again
Call'd CÆSAR, and his Fortunè, to the Main:
The Main confess'd the Charge, and safe once more
Landed its Ruler on the Belgic Shore.
Sweet was the Sound of Fame's first soothing Tongue;
But Horrors on her second Accents hung,
And thro' fair Albion's Cliffs, dead BRUNSWIC! hollow rung!
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Be the sad News t'exulting Gath unknown,
Nor, Echo, tell the Vales of haughty Ascalon!
Such dire Delusions once old Rome befell;
Raptur'd she heard, Germanicus was well:
For Him her choicest Hecatombs were slain!
For Him a thousand Altars smoak'd in vain!
New Letters lost Germanicus declare,
The Senate weep, their Locks the Matrons tear,
And Crowds with Pain are taught their Guardian Gods to spare!
Raptur'd she heard, Germanicus was well:
For Him her choicest Hecatombs were slain!
For Him a thousand Altars smoak'd in vain!
New Letters lost Germanicus declare,
The Senate weep, their Locks the Matrons tear,
And Crowds with Pain are taught their Guardian Gods to spare!
Yet fell not BRUNSWIC on Barbarian Plains,
But, in the Confines of his own Domains,
Calm, as he reign'd, expir'd:—so Moses spy'd
The promis'd Land, and bow'd his Head, and dy'd.
Long had he toil'd to make whole Nations blest,
Restless Himself, 'till fix'd was Europe's Rest;
Then soar'd his longing Soul, in haste to know
The Crowns, above reserv'd, for Kings of Peace below.
But, in the Confines of his own Domains,
Calm, as he reign'd, expir'd:—so Moses spy'd
The promis'd Land, and bow'd his Head, and dy'd.
Long had he toil'd to make whole Nations blest,
Restless Himself, 'till fix'd was Europe's Rest;
Then soar'd his longing Soul, in haste to know
The Crowns, above reserv'd, for Kings of Peace below.
Ye mortal Deities of gilded Clay!
Who, now sublime, your dazling Beams display,
Hence learn, that all those dazling Beams shall fail,
And Darkness o'er your Globes of Light prevail!
Nor think, a Watchfulness still Heav'n t'adore,
Tyrants to quell, and Liberties restore,
To rule your Subjects with a Father's Care,
With Grief to punish, but with Joy to spare,
To face grim Death in many a purple Field,
Can Kings from Death's un-erring Arrows shield!
Death imitates, too just, proud Tarquin's Blow,
And lops the lofty Flow'rs, but spares the low.
Could Innocence, or Virtue, check Fate's Doom,
GEORGE had not dy'd, and young NASSAU would bloom!
Who, now sublime, your dazling Beams display,
Hence learn, that all those dazling Beams shall fail,
And Darkness o'er your Globes of Light prevail!
Nor think, a Watchfulness still Heav'n t'adore,
Tyrants to quell, and Liberties restore,
To rule your Subjects with a Father's Care,
With Grief to punish, but with Joy to spare,
To face grim Death in many a purple Field,
Can Kings from Death's un-erring Arrows shield!
Death imitates, too just, proud Tarquin's Blow,
And lops the lofty Flow'rs, but spares the low.
Could Innocence, or Virtue, check Fate's Doom,
GEORGE had not dy'd, and young NASSAU would bloom!
Hear shrieking Näids from Britannia's Floods,
By Dryads answer'd in Hercynian Woods!
Cam sees the Muses languish on the Ground,
And Thames with Tears o'er-floats his wonted Bound:
Onacra's Banks convulsive Startings show,
And Leine, with Sorrows chill'd, forgets to flow.
By Dryads answer'd in Hercynian Woods!
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And Thames with Tears o'er-floats his wonted Bound:
Onacra's Banks convulsive Startings show,
And Leine, with Sorrows chill'd, forgets to flow.
Lo! Mountain-Nymphs, a beauteous, sighing Train,
Descend in Bevies, and adorn the Plain!
Their last, fond Gifts in Canisters they bring,
Spices, and Flow'rs, and Greens that ever spring.
Ah! needless Presents, grateful Nymphs, forbear!
Not GEORGE demands this too-officious Care;
Her Gums for others let Arabia weep!
Him Fame alone herself, embalm'd, shall keep:
Hence, short-liv'd Flow'rs, where fadeless Glories bloom!
Hence, borrow'd Greens, that cast a loveless Gloom,
Where his own Laurels rise, and high-imbow'r his Tomb!
Vi'lets, and Hyacinths, and fragrant Trees
A Paris, or a Lydian Shade may please;
But, here, becoming Obsequies to show,
Breathe deep the Clarion, venerably slow!
Bid Drums, half-brac'd, send forth a sullen Sound,
And on Steel-Helmets ring deaf Peals around!
Let Standards, won, wave solemn in the Air,
And, what the Heroe was, hung Spoils declare!
Swords, Spears, and Cuirasses, inverted, place,
And the Pile's Top with Wreaths of Olive grace!
For Fun'ral Pomps, like these, true Honour calls,
When SCIPIO, CÆSAR, or a BRUNSWIC falls.
Descend in Bevies, and adorn the Plain!
Their last, fond Gifts in Canisters they bring,
Spices, and Flow'rs, and Greens that ever spring.
Ah! needless Presents, grateful Nymphs, forbear!
Not GEORGE demands this too-officious Care;
Her Gums for others let Arabia weep!
Him Fame alone herself, embalm'd, shall keep:
Hence, short-liv'd Flow'rs, where fadeless Glories bloom!
Hence, borrow'd Greens, that cast a loveless Gloom,
Where his own Laurels rise, and high-imbow'r his Tomb!
Vi'lets, and Hyacinths, and fragrant Trees
A Paris, or a Lydian Shade may please;
But, here, becoming Obsequies to show,
Breathe deep the Clarion, venerably slow!
Bid Drums, half-brac'd, send forth a sullen Sound,
And on Steel-Helmets ring deaf Peals around!
Let Standards, won, wave solemn in the Air,
And, what the Heroe was, hung Spoils declare!
Swords, Spears, and Cuirasses, inverted, place,
And the Pile's Top with Wreaths of Olive grace!
For Fun'ral Pomps, like these, true Honour calls,
When SCIPIO, CÆSAR, or a BRUNSWIC falls.
Muse! trace His Fame, and Glory's Circle run
From the first Rising, to His setting Sun!
Not the third Lustrum past, nor Boy-hood gone,
See! how at Treves the beardless Heroe shone!
Æmilius for less Acts was greatly prais'd,
When, 'midst her Gods, Rome his young Statue rais'd.
Early thou lend'st an Ear to piteous Cries;
Vienna groans:—Thy Youth with Succour flies:
Beleagu'ring Turks are routed on the Plain,
And all their threat'ning Crescents taught to wane!
How oft the Fortune of thy Fights still yields
Surprise to Peasants in Hungarian Fields,
While the deep Plough-share to their View up-throws
Bare Sculls, and rusty Helms, the Relicks of thy Foes!
The Danube, rouling thro' a hundred States,
The various Wonders of thy Arms relates:
How oft by Thee, slain thousands choak'd his Flood!
How oft he roar'd, swell'd with big Tides of Blood!
I pass New-hausel's Siege, where, white in Years,
Still proud of thy Command, renown'd Chauvet appears!
Un-sung, with gory Streams be Hartzan cloy'd,
And Esseck's vast, stupendous Bridge destroy'd!
Nor will I here record a faithful Tale,
And tell, to whom we owe the Leagues of Travendale!
See! see! Germania, with her Fears half-dead,
Courts Thee, in haste her fainting Troops to head!
Thou could'st alone great Baden's Loss restore,
And teach her Eagles Flights, they never knew before!
Where am I snatch'd by thy un-bounded Fame?
Triumphs, the Rhine beheld, the Rhine proclaim!
Too weak my Voice, and too un-nerv'd my Strains
For the loud Io's of three bright Campaigns!
There Vivans foil'd, in War long hoary grown,
Himself a Captive, and his Troops o'er-thrown;
There Wetlingham's strong Lines, yet forc'd, I see,
And all Germania sav'd, once more, by Thee!
But lo! pale Albion, ripe for Ruin made,
Menac'd by Foes, and by false Sons betray'd,
To Thee, as to a Guardian-Angel, flies,
And home-bred Frauds, and Popish Chains defies!
Just in a timely Hour, 'ere yet too late,
Just in th'important Crisis of our Fate,
Thee Providence gave to the British Throne,
By Laws, by Birth-Right, and Desert Thy own.
Who could th'infernal Schemes, un-mov'd, declare?
Who saw all crush'd, but saw Heav'n's Hand was there?
From the first Rising, to His setting Sun!
Not the third Lustrum past, nor Boy-hood gone,
See! how at Treves the beardless Heroe shone!
Æmilius for less Acts was greatly prais'd,
When, 'midst her Gods, Rome his young Statue rais'd.
Early thou lend'st an Ear to piteous Cries;
Vienna groans:—Thy Youth with Succour flies:
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And all their threat'ning Crescents taught to wane!
How oft the Fortune of thy Fights still yields
Surprise to Peasants in Hungarian Fields,
While the deep Plough-share to their View up-throws
Bare Sculls, and rusty Helms, the Relicks of thy Foes!
The Danube, rouling thro' a hundred States,
The various Wonders of thy Arms relates:
How oft by Thee, slain thousands choak'd his Flood!
How oft he roar'd, swell'd with big Tides of Blood!
I pass New-hausel's Siege, where, white in Years,
Still proud of thy Command, renown'd Chauvet appears!
Un-sung, with gory Streams be Hartzan cloy'd,
And Esseck's vast, stupendous Bridge destroy'd!
Nor will I here record a faithful Tale,
And tell, to whom we owe the Leagues of Travendale!
See! see! Germania, with her Fears half-dead,
Courts Thee, in haste her fainting Troops to head!
Thou could'st alone great Baden's Loss restore,
And teach her Eagles Flights, they never knew before!
Where am I snatch'd by thy un-bounded Fame?
Triumphs, the Rhine beheld, the Rhine proclaim!
Too weak my Voice, and too un-nerv'd my Strains
For the loud Io's of three bright Campaigns!
There Vivans foil'd, in War long hoary grown,
Himself a Captive, and his Troops o'er-thrown;
There Wetlingham's strong Lines, yet forc'd, I see,
And all Germania sav'd, once more, by Thee!
But lo! pale Albion, ripe for Ruin made,
Menac'd by Foes, and by false Sons betray'd,
To Thee, as to a Guardian-Angel, flies,
And home-bred Frauds, and Popish Chains defies!
Just in a timely Hour, 'ere yet too late,
Just in th'important Crisis of our Fate,
Thee Providence gave to the British Throne,
By Laws, by Birth-Right, and Desert Thy own.
Who could th'infernal Schemes, un-mov'd, declare?
Who saw all crush'd, but saw Heav'n's Hand was there?
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Bigotted Rebels next arise in vain,
At Preston quell'd, or slaughter'd at Dumblain!
Wretches! that, like the Viper, would betray,
And thro' their Mother's Entrails eat their Way!
Doubtful, if with more Ease thy Troops could give
Conquest, or Thou could'st bid the Conquer'd live!
With Antonine's, thy Clemency was spread,
And griev'd it could not re-inspire the Dead:
Ev'n when the publick Weal sign'd Dooms demand,
The Father's Eyes weep o'er the Monarch's Hand!
Hence white, distinguish'd Hours, and Halcyon Days
Began their lovely Rounds to GEORGE's Praise;
For in great GEORGE were happily combin'd
Rome's Founder's Courage, and her Numa's Mind!
Glorious He shone thro' Life's still-vary'd Stage,
But far most glorious in expiring Age!
At Preston quell'd, or slaughter'd at Dumblain!
Wretches! that, like the Viper, would betray,
And thro' their Mother's Entrails eat their Way!
Doubtful, if with more Ease thy Troops could give
Conquest, or Thou could'st bid the Conquer'd live!
With Antonine's, thy Clemency was spread,
And griev'd it could not re-inspire the Dead:
Ev'n when the publick Weal sign'd Dooms demand,
The Father's Eyes weep o'er the Monarch's Hand!
Hence white, distinguish'd Hours, and Halcyon Days
Began their lovely Rounds to GEORGE's Praise;
For in great GEORGE were happily combin'd
Rome's Founder's Courage, and her Numa's Mind!
Glorious He shone thro' Life's still-vary'd Stage,
But far most glorious in expiring Age!
When Lachesis had finish'd just her Clue,
The Plan for Europe's endless Peace he drew:
There, since Fame stretch'd to such a vast Degree,
That Earth could give no more, 'twas Heav'n's Decree
The Mortal should be lost in Immortality!
The Plan for Europe's endless Peace he drew:
There, since Fame stretch'd to such a vast Degree,
That Earth could give no more, 'twas Heav'n's Decree
The Mortal should be lost in Immortality!
So rapid Trent a nobler Current shows,
As from his Fount the farther still he flows;
Proud of his liquid Spoils, he rouls along,
With thrice ten Floods majestically strong;
'Till all his Stores collected in one Plain,
No more he winds, but, rushing to the Main,
Amidst old Ocean hastes Eternity to gain!
As from his Fount the farther still he flows;
Proud of his liquid Spoils, he rouls along,
With thrice ten Floods majestically strong;
'Till all his Stores collected in one Plain,
No more he winds, but, rushing to the Main,
Amidst old Ocean hastes Eternity to gain!
Elysian Frontiers past, the Fields of Day,
And ever-blooming Scenes, their Charms display:
Delightful Seats! where happy Souls enjoy
Pleasures on Pleasures roul'd, that still no Senses cloy!
See! the great ERNEST, and three Heroes run!
The Brother they salute, and He the Son:
Here, the third WILLIAM eagerly demands,
If still Rome's Locusts vex his rescu'd Lands?
If still Wealth, Freedom, Property, and Ease,
Or her own Happiness, can Albion please?
There, Halifax, in his lov'd King's Embrace
Transported, learns his un-degenerate Race.
Garth beckens Marlb'rough from the laurel'd Throng,
And, with Him, Rowe leads Tamerlane along;
While to his BRUNSWIC Addison again
Warbles another, sweet, immortal Strain:
The crowding Shades the Harmony admire,
And think each Sound the Sound of Maro's Lyre.
Silent they listen to th'exalted Lays,
But loud repeat the Burthen of the Praise;
And ever-blooming Scenes, their Charms display:
Delightful Seats! where happy Souls enjoy
Pleasures on Pleasures roul'd, that still no Senses cloy!
See! the great ERNEST, and three Heroes run!
The Brother they salute, and He the Son:
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If still Rome's Locusts vex his rescu'd Lands?
If still Wealth, Freedom, Property, and Ease,
Or her own Happiness, can Albion please?
There, Halifax, in his lov'd King's Embrace
Transported, learns his un-degenerate Race.
Garth beckens Marlb'rough from the laurel'd Throng,
And, with Him, Rowe leads Tamerlane along;
While to his BRUNSWIC Addison again
Warbles another, sweet, immortal Strain:
The crowding Shades the Harmony admire,
And think each Sound the Sound of Maro's Lyre.
Silent they listen to th'exalted Lays,
But loud repeat the Burthen of the Praise;
“Hail, BRUNSWIC, hail from fair Britannia's Throne!
“Thou in these blissful Mansions well art known:
“Thy Life had Bound'ries, but thy Glory none!
“Thou in these blissful Mansions well art known:
“Thy Life had Bound'ries, but thy Glory none!
Farewell, blest Prince!—if Thee the Dead proclaim,
How shall the Living glow with grateful Flame?
By Thee we mourn not Alexandria lost,
And vie with all, that Bodley's Gifts can boast!
May Granta's stately Domes auspicious rise,
And, Rome, thy haughty Vatican despise!
Flourish, like BRUNSWIC's Fame, ye growing Piles,
Grac'd with learn'd Sons, and blest with Freedom's Smiles!
Ye Sons, when learn'd, in various Language show
To whom your various Languages you owe!
GEORGE from his Granta well may Thanks demand;
By Him she speaks the Tongue of ev'ry Land:
And from his kind Munificence alone,
She to the World, to Her the World is known.
How shall the Living glow with grateful Flame?
By Thee we mourn not Alexandria lost,
And vie with all, that Bodley's Gifts can boast!
May Granta's stately Domes auspicious rise,
And, Rome, thy haughty Vatican despise!
Flourish, like BRUNSWIC's Fame, ye growing Piles,
Grac'd with learn'd Sons, and blest with Freedom's Smiles!
Ye Sons, when learn'd, in various Language show
To whom your various Languages you owe!
GEORGE from his Granta well may Thanks demand;
By Him she speaks the Tongue of ev'ry Land:
And from his kind Munificence alone,
She to the World, to Her the World is known.
| Three poems | |