Yon hero, crown’d with blooming victory,
Just triumphing o’er rebel rage restrain’d,
And yet unbreath’d from battles gain’d.
See! all yon dusty field’s quite cover’d o’er
With hostile troops, and Orange at their head;
Orange, destin’d to complete 100
The great designs of labouring fate;
Orange, the name that tyrants dread:
He comes; our ruin’d empire is no more;
Down, like the Persian, goes the Gallic throne;
Darius flies, young Ammon urges on.”
Now from the dubious battle’s mingled heat,
Let fear look back, and stretch her hasty wing,
Impatient to secure a base retreat:
Let the pale coward leave his wounded king,
For the vile privilege to breathe, 110
To live with shame in dread of glorious death!
In vain: for fate has swifter wings than fear,
She follows hard, and strikes him in the rear;
Dying and mad the traitor bites the ground,
His back transfix’d with a dishonest wound;
While through the fiercest troops, and thickest press,
Virtue carries on success;
Whilst equal heaven guards the distinguish’d brave,
And armies cannot hurt whom angels save.
Virtue to verse immortal lustre gives, 120
Each by the other’s mutual friendship lives;
Æneas suffer’d, and Achilles fought,
The hero’s acts enlarg’d the poet’s thought,
Or Virgil’s majesty, and Homer’s rage,
Had ne’er like lasting nature vanquish’d age.
Whilst Lewis then his rising terror drowns
With drums’ alarms, and trumpets’ sounds,
Whilst, hid in arm’d retreats and guarded towns,
From danger as from honour far,
He bribes close murder against open war: 130
In vain you Gallic muses strive
With labour’d verse to keep his fame alive:
Your mouldering monuments in vain ye raise
On the weak basis of the tyrants’ praise:
Your songs are sold, your numbers are profane,
’Tis incense to an idol given,
Meat offer’d to Prometheus’ man
That had no soul from heaven.
Against his will you chain your frighted king
On rapid Rhine’s divided bed; 140
And mock your hero, whilst ye sing
The wounds for which he never bled:
Falsehood does poison on your praise diffuse,
And Lewis’ fear gives death to Boileau’s muse.
On its own worth true majesty is rear’d,
And virtue is her own reward;
With solid beams and native glory bright,
She neither darkness dreads, nor covets light;
True to herself, and fix’d to inborn laws,
Nor sunk by spite, nor lifted by applause, 150
She from her settled orb looks calmly down,
On life or death, a prison or a crown.
When bound in double chains poor Belgia lay,
To foreign arms and inward strife a prey,
Whilst one good man buoy’d up her sinking state,
And virtue labour’d against fate;
When fortune basely with ambition join’d,
And all was conquer’d but the patriot’s mind;
When storms let loose, and raging seas,
Just ready the torn vessel to o’erwhelm, 160
Forc’d not the faithful pilot from his helm,
Nor all the syren songs of future peace,
And dazzling prospect of a promis’d crown,
Could lure his stubborn virtue down;
But against charms, and threats, and hell, he stood,
To that which was severely good;
Then, had no trophies justified his fame,
No poet blest his song with Nassau’s name,
Virtue alone did all that honour bring,
And Heaven as plainly pointed out the king, 170
As when he at the altar stood
In all his types and robes of power,
Whilst at his feet religious Britain bow’d,
And own’d him next to what we there adore.
Say, joyful Maese, and Boyne’s victorious flood,
(For each has mixt his waves with royal blood)
When William’s armies pass’d, did he retire,
Or view from far the battle’s distant fire?
Could he believe his person was too dear?
Or use his greatness to conceal his fear? 180
Could prayers or sighs the dauntless hero move,
Arm’d with Heaven’s justice, and his people’s love?
Thro’ the first waves he wing’d his venturous way,
And on the adverse shore arose,
(Ten thousand flying deaths in vain oppose.)
Like the great ruler of the day,
With strength and swiftness mounting from the sea:
Like him all day he toil’d; but long in night
The god had eas’d his wearied light,
Ere vengeance left the stubborn foes, 190
Or William’s labours found repose!
When his troops falter’d, stept not he between?
Restor’d the dubious fight again,
Mark’d out the coward that durst fly,
And led the fainting brave to victory?
Still as she fled him, did he not o’ertake
Her doubtful course, still brought her bleeding back?
By his keen sword did not the boldest fall?
Was he not king, commander, soldier, all? —
His dangers such as, with becoming dread, 200
His subjects yet unborn shall weep to read?
And were not those the only days that e’er
The pious prince refus’d to hear
His friends’ advices, or his subjects’ prayer?
Where’er old Rhine his fruitful water turns,
Or fills his vassals’ tributary urns;
To Belgia’s sav’d dominions, and the sea,
Whose righted waves rejoice in William’s sway;
Is there a town where children are not taught,
Here Holland prosper’d, for here Orange fought;
Through rapid waters, and through flying fire, 211
Here rush’d the prince, here made whole France retire?
By different nations be his valour blest,
In different languages confest:
And then let Shannon speak the rest:
Let Shannon speak, how on her wondering shore,
When conquest hovering on his arms did wait,
And only ask’d some lives to bribe her o’er;
The godlike man, the more than conqueror,
With high contempt sent back the specious bait;
And, scorning glory at a price too great, 221
With so much power, such piety did join,
As made a perfect virtue soar
A pitch unknown to man before;
And lifted Shannon’s waves o’er those of Boyne.
Nor do his subjects only share
The prosperous fruits of his indulgent reign;
His enemies approve the pious war,
Which, with their weapon, takes away their chain,
More than his sword his goodness strikes his foes:
They bless his arms, and sigh they must oppose, 231
Justice and freedom on his conquests wait;
And ’tis for man’s delight that he is great:
Succeeding times shall with long joy contend,
If he were more a victor, or a friend:
So much his courage and his mercy strive,
He wounds to cure, and conquers to forgive.
Ye heroes, that have fought your cou
ntry’s cause,
Redress’d her injuries, or form’d her laws,
To my adventurous song just witness bear, 240
Assist the pious muse, and hear her swear;
That ’tis no poet’s thought, no flight of youth,
But solid story, and severest truth,
That William treasures up a greater name,
Than any country, any age can boast;
And all that ancient stock of fame
He did from his forefathers take,
He has improv’d, and gives with interest back;
And in his constellation does unite
Their scatter’d rays of fainter light: 250
Above or envy’s lash, or fortune’s wheel
That settled glory shall for ever dwell:
Above the rolling orbs, and common sky,
Where nothing comes that e’er shall die.
Where roves the muse? Where, thoughtless to return,
Is her short-liv’d vessel borne,
By potent winds too subject to be tost,
And in the sea of William’s praises lost?
Nor let her tempt that deep, nor make the shore,
Where our abandon’d youth she sees, 260
Shipwreck’d in luxury, and lost in ease;
Whom nor Britannia’s danger can alarm,
Nor William’s exemplary virtue warm:
Tell them, howe’er, the king can yet forgive
Their guilty sloth, their homage yet receive,
And let their wounded honour live:
But sure and sudden be their just remorse;
Swift be their virtue’s rise, and strong its course;
For though for certain years and destin’d times,
Merit has lain confus’d with crimes; 270
Though Jove seem’d negligent of human cares,
Nor scourg’d our follies, nor return’d our prayers,
His justice now demands the equal scales,
Sedition is suppress’d, and truth prevails:
Fate its great ends by slow degrees attains,
And Europe is redeem’d, and William reigns!
PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY LORD BUCKHURST, IN WESTMINSTER SCHOOL.
AT A REPRESENTATION OF MR. DRYDEN’S CLEOMENES, AT CHRISTMAS, MDCXCV.
PISH, lord, I wish this prologue was but
Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak:
But can Lord Buckhurst in poor English say,
Gentle spectators, pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,
I’d go to school six hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they see a critic frown: 10
Poor rogues, that smart like fencers for their bread,
And, if they are not wounded, are not fed.
But, sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our Tragedy to see our friends:
Our generous scenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas’d, at least you’re treated.
The candles and the clothes ourselves we bought,
Our tops neglected, and our balls forgot.
To learn our parts, we left our midnight bed,
Most of you snor’d whilst Cleomenes read; 20
Not that from this confession we would sue
Praise undeserv’d; we know ourselves and you;
Resolv’d to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither censure fear, or beg applause,
For those are Westminster and Sparta’s laws.
Yet, if we see some judgment well inclin’d,
To young desert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks should know,
That greatest souls to goodness only bow;
And that your little hero does inherit 30
Not Cleomenes’ more than Dorset’s spirit.
THE SECRETARY.
WRITTEN AT THE HAGUE, MDCXCVI.
WHILE with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the business of six,
In a little Dutch chaise on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right:
No memoire to compose, and no postboy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee.
This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine,
To good or ill fortune the third we resign: 10
Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,
I drive on my car in professional state.
So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode;
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse;
Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose,
In Holland half drowned in interest and prose?
By Greece and past ages what need I be tried,
When the Hague and the present are both on my side? 20
And is it enough for the joys of the day,
To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say?
When good Vandergoes, and his provident Vrow,
As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow,
That, search all the province, you’ll find no man dar is
So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretaris.
THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE.
I SENT for Ratcliffe; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over:
He felt my pulse, prescrib’d his pill,
And I was likely to recover.
But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm’d the politician,
Cur’d yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.
UPON THIS PASSAGE IN THE SCALIGERIANA.
“Les Allemans ne ce soucient pas quel Vin ils boivent
pourveu que ce soit Vin, ni
quel Latin ils parlent pourveu que ce soit Latin.”
WHEN you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin, and stumm’d wine;
They never taste who always drink;
They always talk, who never think.
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, MDCCIV. THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.
LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band,
That wear the fair Miss Mary’s fetters,
Were summon’d by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen among the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obey’d.
Nor quality, nor reputation,
Forbid me yet my flame to tell, 10
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby’s hair;
She may receive and own my flame,
For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She’ll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet. 20
Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends;
Shell give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
For, as our different ages move,
’Tis so ordain’d, (would Fate but mend it!)
That I shall be past making love,
When she begins to comprehend it.
&n
bsp; PARTIAL FAME.
THE sturdy man, if he in love obtains,
In open pomp and triumph reigns:
The subtle woman, if she should succeed,
Disowns the honour of the deed.
Though he, for all his boast, is forc’d to yield,
Though She can always keep the field:
He vaunts his conquest, she conceals her shame,
How partial is the voice of Fame!
TO CLOE.
WHILST I am scorch’d with hot desire,
In vain cold friendship you return;
Your drops of pity on my fire,
Alas! but make it fiercer burn.
Ah! would you have the flame supprest,
That kills the heart it heats too fast,
Take half my passion to your breast;
The rest in mine shall ever last.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF DEVONSHIRE.
ON A PIECE OF WIESSEN’S WHEREON WERE PAINTED ALL HER GRANDSONS.
WIESSEN and Nature held a long contest,
If she created, or he painted best;
With pleasing thought the wondrous combat grew,
She, still form’d fairer; he, still liker drew.
In these seven brethren, they contended last,
With art increas’d, their utmost skill they tried,
And, both well pleas’d they had themselves surpass’d,
The goddess triumph’d, and the painter died.
That both, their skill to this vast height did raise,
Be ours the wonder, and be yours the praise: 10
For here, as in some glass, is well descried
Only yourself thus often multiplied.
When Heaven had you and gracious Anna made,
What more exalted beauty could it add?
Having no nobler images in store,
It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy well what it had fram’d before.
If in dear Burghley’s generous face we see
Obliging truth and handsome honesty:
With all that world of charms, which soon will move 20
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love:
His every grace, his fair descent assures,
He has his mother’s beauty, she has yours:
If every Cecil’s face had every charm,
That thought can fancy, or that Heaven can form;
Complete Works of Matthew Prior Page 39
