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.
Tell us, who at the twentieth summer run
The course of fame, when Philip's son,
With all his hopes in prophecy, begun?
Propp'd on his Genius, William leads
To conquest, and heroic deeds,
Nor oracle, nor omen needs;

Nor armour to defend his breast,
Such as Rome's boasted father wore,
Or such as stern Pelides bore,

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
With Luxembourg's experienced age,
Or with cool wisdom temper Conde's rage,

No forces could unhinge his mind,
No arts his cautious steps inclose,
Arts, which his generous soul declin'd,
And pitied in his foes.

So thinly spun is human sleight!
So feeble is Bourbonian wit,

When aim'd at Heaven's peculiar favorite!
Batavia, witness how thy hero flew
To snatch thee, like a flaming brand,
From the fierce ravager's destroying hand,
Thy provinces re-seize, thy liberty renew:
As a brave eagle, when she finds the nest
Robb'd, where her future heroes us'd to rest,
Stays not to mourn, but through the liquid sky
Sails with full wing to seek her barbarous
enemy;

She does, at last, the greedy vulture 'spy,
Lodg'd on some mountain's top, or lofty tree,
A helpless, undefending sanctuary:

People below, with wonder and affright,
Behold the noble fight.

But she, who must Jove's thunder bear,
Buffets the dastard, and redeems the prey,
And gives sure omens of a better day,
When, ripening to the strength and force
Of her imperial ancestors,

She shall the struggling dragon dare,
Provok'd by hunger, or the thirst of war,
And lead her triumph o'er the wide dominions of
the air.

Lo! from the well-hatch'd seeds of time, what

fate

Had register'd to be, the months and days
Leap forth in all their decency, and rays,
Miraculously bright and great,

And all the future years reserv'd for William's praise.

Enough of actions past; now look,

My Muse, in thy mysterious book;
Roll o'er the next immortal page,

And view what's destin'd for maturer age.
I see it 't is a vast Herculean task
Which will collected William ask.
Descend, O Clio, and if near the stream
Of father Cam, or Isis, you delight
To bless the sacred poet's dream,
And succour his auspicious flight;
Or with thy voice, or with thy strings,
Lament the funeral of kings;

See! a large field lies open to thy view,
And the whole world is thy purlieu,
Whether the Eastern Islands you behold,
Or Western Mexico, or rich Peru

(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
A diadem besieg’d with care;

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
Would o'er insulted nations ride,

And sail to empire through a sanguine tide ?
For this so many leagues he breaks,
For this so many widows makes;

For this so oft the virgin sighs,
So oft his iron hand has wrung

Tears from the humble shepherd's eyes,

And curses from his tongue.

Beauteous Iberia! once a potent state,
Magnificent and fortunate!

With thy own Indies thou art sold,
And wilt, I fear, repent, as Midas did of old,
Thy thirst and avarice of gold.

How often wilt thou wish in vain,

For the grim Moor, the Suevian, or Alane,
The Vandal or the Goth, a milder reign?

They, like a torrent, pouring from a hill,
And boisterous as the North from whence they came,
Ravage thy lands, and all thy countries fill
With slaughter, and depopulating flame.
Th' intriguing Gaul, like a dissembling sea,
Whose smiling waters steal below the ground,
Eats under the foundation to betray,

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,
The sword just lifted, on the altar lies ;

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,
Degrading his divinity for love;

When on his milky shoulders, thro' the sea
He bore his beauteous, panting prey.
In vain on the Sidonian strand
Her fellow-virgins weeping stand;
In vain to th' inattentive sky

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,
For, in his own majestic shape,
Behold thy better Jupiter appear,

Not to beguile thee to a rape,
But save thee from the ravisher.

That Gallic pride, which many years hath strove To satisfy his large, insatiate love,