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