In Valour's temple let him sit With Roman Julius, or our great Plantagenet; Let all to the Nassovian name submit. All to superior greatness bow, Bring olive to his hands, and laurel to his brow. Nor armour to defend his breast, At the sea-goddess's request; Or such as to the British Arthur did belong, By whose enchanted blaze, in Spenser's song, The cursed Paynim fell; while Saxons mourn The desolation of his flaming Calliburn. No: it is less than William, to desire A magic shield, or sword, or dart At Lemnos forg'd in Vulcan's fire, Or charm'd by Merlin's horrid art; No armour like his cause, no weapon like his heart. Whether the princely youth engage No forces could unhinge his mind, So thinly spun is human sleight! When aim'd at Heaven's peculiar favorite! She does, at last, the greedy vulture 'spy, People below, with wonder and affright, But she, who must Jove's thunder bear, She shall the struggling dragon dare, Lo! from the well-hatch'd seeds of time, what fate Had register'd to be, the months and days And all the future years reserv'd for William's praise. Enough of actions past; now look, My Muse, in thy mysterious book; And view what's destin'd for maturer age. See! a large field lies open to thy view, (The fertile womb of fatal gold) All mourning for the monarch lost, and fearing for the new. We call him happy who is doom'd to wear Mistaken notion! not to know What thorns on crowns and sceptres grow, The splendid ornaments of pompous woe. It is for this, perfidious Bourbon's pride And sail to empire through a sanguine tide ? For this so oft the virgin sighs, Tears from the humble shepherd's eyes, And curses from his tongue. Beauteous Iberia! once a potent state, With thy own Indies thou art sold, How often wilt thou wish in vain, For the grim Moor, the Suevian, or Alane, They, like a torrent, pouring from a hill, Taught thro' the weaken'd earth to work its way, And with a bursting quake the tottering ball confound. For this Europa, like a sacrifice, Hark! how she knocks her lovely breast, and wounds the suffering skies! Like that Phoenician dame, From whence she drew her name, When the lascivious, and Impostor-God Laid down his heavenly arms, and that commanding nod, With which he rules the powers above, When on his milky shoulders, thro' the sea Europa lifts her snowy hand, And calls on Jove, but thinks not Jove so nigh. With the false waves the traiterous winds conspire Against th' afflicted Fair, To gratify th' immortal thief's desire, And blow each gentle sigh away, and each engaging prayer. But, O Europa, now forget to fear, Not to beguile thee to a rape, That Gallic pride, which many years hath strove To satisfy his large, insatiate love, |