A

POE M

TO HIS

*MAJESTY.

Prefented to the LORD KEEPER.

* King William, printed in the year 1695. The Author's age 24.

To the Right Honourable

SIR JOHN SOMERS,

Lord Keeper of the Great Seal.

F yet your thoughts are loofe from state affairs,
Nor feel the burthen of a kingdom's cares,
yet your time and actions are your own,
Receive the present of a Muse unknown,
A Muse that in advent'rous numbers fings
The rout of armies, and the fall of Kings,
Britain advanc'd, and Europe's peace reftor'd
By SOMERS' Counsels, and by NASSAU'S fword.

To you, my Lord, these daring thoughts belong
Who help'd to raise the fubject of my fong;
To the Hero of my verfe reveals
His great defigns, to you in council tells

you

His inmoft thoughts, determining the doom
Of towns unstorm'd, and battles yet to come.
And well could you, in your immortal strains,
Defcribe his conduct, and reward his pains:
But fince the ftate has all your cares ingroft,
And poetry in higher thoughts is loft,
с

VOL. I.

Attend

Attend to what a leffer Mufe indites,
Pardon her faults, and countenance her flights.
On you, my Lord, with anxious fear I wait,
And from your judgment muft expect my fate,
Who, free from vulgar paffions, are above
Degrading envy, or mifguided love;

If you, well pleas'd, shall smile upon my lays,
Secure of fame, my voice I'll boldly raise,
For next to what you write, is what you praise.

}

ΤΟ

TO THE

K I I

N

G.

HEN now the bufinefs of the field is o'er,

W

The trumpets fleep, and cannons cease to roar, When ev'ry difmal echo is decay'd,

And all the thunder of the battle laid;
Attend, aufpicious Prince, and let the Mufe
In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.
Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd,
Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field;
My Muse expecting on the British strand
Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land:
She oft has feen thee preffing on the foe,

When Europe was concern'd in ev'ry blow;

But durft not in heroic strains rejoice;

The trumpets, drums, and cannons drown'd her voice: She faw the Boyn run thick with human gore,

And floating corps lie beating on the shore;
She faw thee climb the banks, but try in vain
To trace her Hero through the dufty plain,
When through the thick embattel'd lines he broke,
Now plung'd amidst the foes, now loft in clouds of smoke.
C 2

O that