On
the
Death
of
William
III
,
King
of
England
.
Ye
mighty
Nine
,
suspend
your
sacred
Fire
,
Strong
Grief
like
Love
can
coldest
Breasts
inspire
;
Nor
shall
I
want
Castilian
Waters
here
,
For
every
line
can
Boast
an
ardent
Tear
.
But
if
the
artless
Sorrows
of
my
Breast
,
In
numbers
fail
,
my
Sighs
shall
speak
the
rest
;
With
untun'd
Lyre
,
and
slacken'd
Nerves
I
Sing
,
Yet
with
a
Pious
hast
,
my
humble
Tribute
bring
Of
Grief
immense
,
an
equal
Theme
of
Praise
,
But
oh
!
what
Pen
can
worthy
Trophies
raise
.
Great
William
now
our
Annals
proudest
Boast
,
Whose
dawning
Glories
joy'd
the
Belgick
Coast
;
When
at
Seneff
,
he
stem'd
the
impetuous
Strife
,
And
Laurels
flourish'd
in
th'
Bloom
of
Life
.
Nor
did
his
Triumphs
end
where
they
begin
,
Heaven
gave
fresh
Scenes
to
act
his
Glories
in
;
Ammon's
nor
Cæsar's
Fame
,
must
here
contend
,
Their
Valour
had
an
avaricious
End
,
They
fought
to
win
the
World
,
he
to
defend
.
Britannia's
Wrongs
his
willing
Aid
demand
,
He
hazards
all
,
to
save
the
sinking
Land
;
Not
Winter
Seas
the
generous
Prince
restrain
,
Nor
num'rous
Hosts
on
Albion's
shining
Plain
:
No
threat'ning
Danger
terrour
can
afford
,
When
Justice
calls
for
his
avenging
Sword
.
Boldly
he
march'd
to
dare
th'
oppressing
Foe
,
Nor
Conquest
fear'd
,
when
Heaven
directs
the
Blow
;
Frighted
Commanders
,
quit
their
guilty
Post
,
'Tis
Orange
comes
,
they
know
the
Field
is
lost
.
None
dare
approach
the
mighty
Victor's
Face
,
But
such
as
safely
sue
for
his
Imbrace
;
With
blooming
Palms
the
regal
Seat
obtain'd
,
He
saves
those
Rights
his
Valour
had
regain'd
.
But
soon
Hibernia's
insulting
Foes
,
Calls
forth
the
Hero
from
his
short
repose
;
(
Not
thirst
of
Empire
,
Mankind
to
inslave
,
Nor
fights
so
much
to
Conquer
,
as
to
save
:
)
Led
by
a
tenderness
his
Courage
moves
,
Like
Mars's
Chariot
,
drawn
by
Venus
Doves
.
With
Pride
great
Neptune
bears
the
Royal
freight
,
Where
the
defenceless
Isles
,
Impatient
wait
,
And
look
from
him
,
as
Heaven
their
Nations
fate
.
Th'
undaunted
Warrior
like
the
God
of
Arms
,
Shines
thro'
the
Field
and
every
Souldier
warms
.
In
vain
the
Boyne
would
Victory
delay
,
Nor
can
its
Streams
their
generous
Heat
allay
;
Boldly
they
Plunge
the
bright
propitious
Flood
,
And
in
the
Waves
like
arm'd
Trytons
stood
.
The
amphibious
Squadrons
charge
upon
their
Foes
,
Nor
in
the
Liquid
Plain
their
ardor
loose
:
But
with
united
force
the
Fight
persue
,
Till
Laurels
load
the
daring
Monarch's
brow
.
Soon
as
the
Land
was
safe
his
Weapons
cease
,
With
his
victorious
Hand
,
he
seal'd
their
Peace
;
Mourn
all
ye
injur'd
Realms
your
helpless
Cause
,
No
Sword
can
Succour
you
like
kind
Nassaus
,
And
that's
for
ever
sheath'd
—
no
more
can
save
,
That
mighty
Arm
,
lies
useless
in
the
Grave
.
Come
widdow'd
Belgia
with
sad
Britain
join
,
Unite
your
Tears
and
swell
and
gentle
Boyne
;
She'll
rise
in
Silver
heaps
at
Nassau's
Name
,
With
Pride
her
Streams
are
conscious
of
his
Fame
,
And
all
her
wondering
Banks
with
Joy
resound
the
same
.
But
when
your
flowing
Eyes
declare
his
Death
,
She
will
no
more
her
sporting
Waters
heave
;
But
sadly
sink
into
her
mournful
Cell
,
In
subteranean
Murmurs
hast
to
tell
,
At
Neptune's
Court
how
his
great
Master
fell
,
Each
Neried
strait
her
Sea
green
Tresses
tares
,
And
swells
the
Ocean
with
their
flowing
Tears
:
The
Trytons
Unfinisht
.