The poems of Dr. Yalden :: :: University of Virginia Library

Once more, my Muse, resume thy lyre!
Of heroes, arms, and lofty triumphs sing:
Strike, boldly strike th' unpractis'd string;
'Tis William's acts my soaring thoughts inspire,
And animate my breast with nobler fire.
My daring hand the willing lyre obeys,
Untaught it sounds the hero's praise:
Each tuneful string repeats the victor's name
And echoes back the loud applause of Fame.
No longer, Muse, the blest Maria mourn,
With trophies now her brighter shrine adorn:
Now sing her hero's fame in lofty strains,
Worthy the captive Mase, and Namur's vanquish'd plains.

Nature ne'er brought a fierce destroyer forth,
Of that portentious size and growth:
But still, to poize the balance of the age,
She introduc'd a hero on the stage.
Injurious Lewis like a torrent grows,
A rapid torrent that the bank o'erflows,
And robs our western world of its repose;
In vain the imperial eagle stops his course,
In vain confederate arms oppose:
On you (great prince!) the infested nations wait,
And from your sword attend a milder fate.

The injur'd Belgians William's aid implore,
A numerous army wastes their shore:
Embark, my Muse, upon the British fleet,
And on the ready hero wait.
He flies, like Jove to meet the Theban dame,
When arm'd with lightning's pointed flame,
And in his hand th' avenging thunder bore:
The terrour of his ensigns still confess his power.

Quick of dispatch, preventing fear,
As cowards cautious, bolder than despair:
Silent, yet swift as light, his active soul
Reaches at once the barriers and the distant goal.

What labour will the hero chuse!
What action worthy of a Muse!
T' employ the hundred busy tongues of Fame,
And make her hundred mouths too few to sound his name.
Namur's the goal in Honour's race,
Tempting the prize, but fatal is the chase:
At once a lovely and amazing sight,
Striking the eye with terrour and delight.
Founded on rocks the imperial fortress stands,
And all around the distant plain commands:
Beauty and strength their utmost force impart,
'Tis wrought by Nature, and improv'd with art;
An awful pile! immoveable as Fate,
Fix'd like the solid rock that proudly bears its weight.
A thousand brazen mouths the walls surround,
That vomit flames, with fatal fury wound:
Death shines with terrour thro' each smoking cloud,
Like lightning swift, and as the thunder loud.
Not the fam'd Colchean fleece could boast
So dread a guard, so terrible an host:
Nassau attempts a nobler enterprize,
The danger's more, and richer is the prize;
Alone his arms can such a power engage,
Destroy with fiercer flames, and thunder back their rage.

Why are the rapid Sambre's streams so slow;
The tardy Mase forgets to flow:
Their lagging waves upon the turrets gaze,
Proud to reflect their Namur's awful face;
Whilst to th' astonish'd shores they tell,
Those wondrous walls are inaccessible.
The lofty Ilion towers, for beauty fam'd,
And sacred walls, though rais'd by hands divine,
Though mercenary gods her turrets fram'd,
In strength and form inferior were to thine;
Walls, that nor Grecian arms, nor arts could gain,
And the divine Achilles storm in vain.
Your greater arms, Nassau, were then unknown,
Where'er your bellowing engines shake,
Where'er your more destructive bombs are thrown,
Nature and Art in vain resistance make,
Nor durst the powers that built defend their shatter'd town.

Two rival armies now possess the field,
In all the horrid pomp of war:
With shining arms and brighter heroes far,
Though both with different looks, and different passions fill'd.
Betwixt both hosts the stake of honour lies,
The object that employs their arms and eyes
How to defend or how to gain the prize.
The Britons are a warlike race,
In arms expert, and fam'd for arts in peace:
Your matchless deeds, Nassau, they imitate,
Like you they death pursue, and rush on certain fate.
Not all the bellowing engines of the war,
Amidst the storm can British minds affright:
Nor sulphur's blasting flames deter,
That glare thro' clouds of smoke with horrid light;
Though bullets there descend in scalding showers,
And those the cannon spare, the ambusht flame devours.

In fatal caverns now the teeming Earth
Labours with a destructive birth:
The loud volcanos stretch their flaming jaws,
And every dreadful blast a host destroys;
This wreck of war the upper regions share,
Whilst arms, and men, and rocks lie scatter'd in the air,
Yet death in every form the Britons face,
And march with an undaunted pace:
Their faithless steps to various ruins lead,
They walk in sepulchres, on graves they tread;
Whilst rocks and mountains rooted from the ground,
Inter the hosts they slay, are tombs to those they wound.

With horrid groans distorted Nature's rent,
Loud as the peals that shake the firmament:
Whilst roaring ordinance confirm the sound,
And mimic thunder bellows under ground.
Thus on Trinacria's mournful shores,
With ruin big the raging Etna roars:
The rising smoke obscures the darken'd sky,
Whilst high as Heaven its flaming entrails fly:
Mountains and rocks its fury hurls around,
Spreading with ruins o'er the desolate ground.

Whence spring those flowing rays of light!
That pierce through war's obscurer night?
Or does the suppliant flag display
Its chearful beams of white?
See! like the phosphorus of peace,
The shades retire before those sacred rays,
Which introduce the bright victorious day.
The trumpet's interceding voice I hear,
Now soft and tun'd unto the ear:
The drums in gentler parlees beat,
The drums and trumpets both entreat;
Whilst war's alarms are charm'd with music's voice,
And all the bloody scene of death withdraws.
Fam'd Boufflers' self consents to fear,
Ev'n Boufflers dreads the British thunderer:
He sues for mercy whilst he feels his power,
And with a trembling hand subscribes him conqueror.

And here your worthies shall your triumphs grace,
In war your guard, your ornaments in peace:
Heroes are William's and the Muse's care,
Partake their labours, and their laurels share.
Let willing Fame her trumpet sound,
Great Ormond's name shall all her breath employ,
And fill the echoing shores with joy:
Whilst each officious wind conveys the sound,
And wafts it all the attentive world around.
In bloody camps he early gain'd renown,
Early the distant goal of honour won:
What toils, what labours, has the hero bore?
Not the fam'd Ossory encounter'd more:
Of whom the Belgic plains such wonders tell,
Who liv'd so lov'd and so lamented fell.
Triumphant prince! thou patron of the Muse,
Unweary'd thee she sings, thy acts with wonder views:
Renown'd in war! thy Rhedecina's pride!
Thou dost o'er wit, and glorious camps preside;
To thee the care of arms and arts belong,
Whose fame shall live to ages in heroic song.

For all thy victories in war,
You valiant Cutts, th' officious Muses crown,
For you triumphant wreaths prepare,
Immortal as your fame, and fair as your renown.
Well did you execute your great command,
And scatter deaths with a destructive hand:
What wonders did your sword perform,
When urging on the fatal storm,
Undaunted, undismay'd!

Up to the walls enclos'd with flames you led,
And overlook'd the works on mighty heaps of dead.
In you the hero and the poet meet,
Your sword is fatal, but your numbers sweet.
When in Maria's praise your lyre was strung,
You charm'd the heavenly nymph to whom you sung.
Oh honour! more than all thy bays,
Than all the trophies fame and conquest raise,
To've charm'd Maria's breast, and gain'd Maria's praise.

Indulge one grateful labour more, my Muse,
A subject Friendship bids thee chuse:
Let Codrington's lov'd name inspire thy thought,
With such a warmth and vigour as he fought:
In vain thou dost of arms and triumphs sing,
Unless he crown thy verse, and tune thy sounding string.
Victorious youth! your Charwell's greatest pride,
Whom glorious arms, and learned arts divide:
Whilst imitating great Nassau you fight,
His person guard, and conquer in his sight:
Too swift for Fame your early triumphs grow,
And groves of laurel shade your youthful brow.
In you the Muses and the Graces join,
The glorious palm, and deathless laurels thine:
Like Phœbus' self your charming Muse hath sung,
Like his your warlike bow and tuneful lyre is strung.

But who fam'd William's valour dares express,
No Muse can soar so high, nor fancy paint
Each image will appear too faint:
Too weak's the pencil's art, and all the pow'r of verse.
How calm he look'd, and how serene!
Amidst the bloody labours of the field:
Unmov'd he views the bullets round him fly,
And dangers move with horrour by;
Whilst judgment sway'd his nobler rage within,
And his presaging brow with hopes of conquest smil'd,
His chearful looks a gayer dress put on,
His eyes with decent fury shone:
Dangers but serv'd to heighten every grace,
And add an awful terrour to the hero's face.

Where'er in arms the great Nassau appears,
Th' extreme of action's there:
Himself the thickest danger shares,
Himself th' informing soul that animates the war.
Heroes of old in wondrous armour fought,
By some immortal artist wrought:
Achilles' arms, and Ajax' seven fold shield,
Were proof against the dangers of the field.
But greater William dares his breast expose
Unarm'd, unguarded to his foes:
A thousand deaths and ruins round him fled,
But durst not violate his sacred head:
For angels guard the prince's life and throne,
Who for his empire's safety thus neglects his own.
Had he in ages past the sceptre sway'd,
When sacred rites were unto heroes paid;
His statue had on every altar stood,
His court a temple been, his greater self a god.

Now tune thy lyre, my Muse, now raise thy voice,
Let Albion hear, her distant shores rejoice:
Thy solemn pæans now prepare,
Sweet as the hymns that fill'd the air,
When Phœbus' self return'd the Python's conqueror.
When every grove, with a triumphant song,
Confess'd the victor as he pass'd along,
Whilst with the trophies every hill was crown'd,
And every echoing vale dispers'd his fame around:
As loud the British shores their voices raise,
And thus united sing the godlike William's praise.
What the fam'd Merlin's sacred verse of old,
And Nostradam's prophetic lines foretold;
To thee, oh happy Albion's shown,
And in Nassau, the promise is out-done.
Behold a prince indulgent Heaven has sent,
Thy boundless wishes to content:
A prophet great indeed, whose powerful hand
Shall vanquish hosts of plagues, and heal the groaning land.

The great Nassau now leads thy armies forth,
And shows the world the British worth:
Beneath his conduct they securely fight,
Their cloud by day, their guardian flame by night.
His bounty too shall every bard inspire,
Reward their labours, and protect their lyre;
For poets are to warlike princes dear,
And they are valiant William's care:
His victories instruct them how to write,
William's the glorious theme and patron of their wit.