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His life to unseen hazards to expose;
Till pity moved him in our cause to appear,
Pity! that word which now we hate to hear;
But English gratitude is always such,
To hate the hand that does oblige too much.
Britannia's cries gave birth to his intent,
And hardly gain'd his unforeseen assent;
His boding thoughts foretold him he should find
The people fickle, selfish, and unkind;
Which thought did to his royal heart appear
More dreadful than the dangers of the war;
For nothing grates a generous mind so soon,
As base returns for hearty service done.
Satire, be silent! awfully prepare
Britannia's song, and William's praise to hear;
Stand by, and let her cheerfully rehearse
Her grateful vows in her immortal verse.
Loud fame's eternal trumpet let her sound,
Listen, ye distant poles, and endless round,
May the strong blast the welcome news convey,
As far as sound can reach or spirit fly!
To neighb'ring worlds, if such there be, relate
Our heroes fame for theirs to imitate;
To distant worlds of spirits let her rehearse,
For spirits without the helps of voice converse:
May angels hear the gladsome news on high,
Mix'd with their everlasting symphony;
And hell itself stand in surprise to know,
Whether it be the fatal blast or no.
BRITANNIA
The fame of virtue 'tis for which I sound,
And heroes with immortal triumphs crown'd;
Fame built on solid virtue swifter flies,
Than morning light can spread the eastern skies:
The gath'ring air returns the doubling sound;
And loud repeating thunders force it round;
Echoes return from caverns of the deep,
Old Chaos dreams on't in eternal sleep:
Time hands it forward to its latest urn,
From whence it never, never shall return:
Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long,
'Tis heard by ev'ry ear, and spoke by every tongue.
My hero, with the sails of honour furl'd,
Rises like the great genius of the world;
By fate and fame wisely prepared to be
The soul of war and life of victory;
He spreads the wings of virtue on the throne,
And ev'ry wind of glory fans them on;
Immortal trophies dwell upon his brow,
Fresh as the garlands he has won but now.
By different steps the high ascent he gains,
And differently that high ascent maintains:
Princes for pride and lust of rule make war,
And struggle for the name of conqueror;
Some fight for fame, and some for victory,
He fights to save, and conquers to set free.
Then seek no phrase his titles to conceal,
And hide with words what actions must reveal;
No parallel from Hebrew stories take,
Of godlike kings my similies to make;
No borrowed names conceal my living theme,
But names and things directly I proclaim;
His honest merit does his glory raise,
Whom that exalts let no man fear to praise;
Of such a subject no man need be shy,
Virtue's above the reach of flattery;
He needs no character but his own fame,
Nor any flattering titles but his own name.
William's the name that's spoke by every tongue,
William's the darling subject of my song;
Listen, ye virgins, to the charming sound,
And in eternal dances hand it round;
Your early offerings to this altar bring,
Make him at once a lover and a king;
May he submit to none but to your arms,
Nor ever be subdued, but by your charms;
May your soft thoughts for him be all sublime,
And ev'ry tender vow be made for him;
May he be first in ev'ry morning thought,
And heav'n ne'er hear a prayer where he's left out;
May every omen, every boding dream,
Be fortunate by mentioning his name;
May this one charm infernal powers affright,
And guard you from the terror of the night;
May ev'ry cheerful glass as it goes down
To William's health, be cordials to your own:
Let ev'ry song be chorust with his name,
And music pay her tribute to his fame;
Let ev'ry poet tune his artful verse,
And in immortal strains his deeds rehearse:
And may Apollo never more inspire
The disobedient bard with his seraphic fire
May all my sons their grateful homage pay,
His praises sing, and for his safety pray.
Satire, return to our unthankful isle,
Secured by heaven's regards, and William's toil:
To both ungrateful, and to both untrue,
Rebels to God, and to good nature too.
If e'er this nation be distress'd again,
To whomsoe'er they cry, they'll cry in vain;
To heav'n they cannot have the face to look,
Or, if they should, it would but heav'n provoke;
To hope for help from man would be too much,
Mankind would always tell 'em of the Dutch:
How they came here our freedoms to maintain,
Were paid, and cursed, and hurried home again;
How by their aid we first dissolved our fears,
And then our helpers damn'd for foreigners:
'Tis not our English temper to do better,
For Englishmen think ev'ry one their debtor.
'Tis worth observing, that we ne'er complain'd
Of foreigners, nor of the wealth we gain'd,
Till all their services were at an end:
Wise men affirm it is the English way,
Never to grumble till they come to pay;
And then they always think, their temper's such,
The work too little, and the pay too much.
As frighted patients, when they want a cure,
Bid any price, and any pain endure:
But when the doctor's remedies appear,
The cure's too easy, and the price too dear:
Great Portland near was banter'd when he strove,
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