An Heroic POEM
UPON HIS
MAJESTIES
Most GRATIOUS RELEASING the
CHIMNEY-MONEY.
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ABove the Waves, so Neptune shewd his Face,
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To chide the Winds and save the Trojan Race;
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As our Great MONARCH has our Fears releast,
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And threatning Storms of Tyranny supprest.
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Our drooping Nation, almost quite become,
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The Prey of Lawless Power, and Cruel Rome;
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Shatterd by Popish Plots, and Jesuites Hate,
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Is now restord and made a Glorious State.
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The Seat of Empire, where must shortly come,
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The Rebel-Irish to receive their Doom;
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And now proud Rome by His Atchievements scard,
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(Although another Caesar were her Guard)
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Could trembling wish behind more Alps to stand,
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While His fresh Laurels Her swift fall portend.
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The Seas our own, and now all Nations greet,
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With loering Sails each Vessel of our Fleet;
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Our Monarchs Power extends as far as Winds do blow,
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Or swelling Sails around the Globe may go.
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Heaven that has placd this Island to give Law,
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To ballance Europe, and her States to aw;
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In this conjuncture does on Britain smile,
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The Greatest Leader, and the Greatest Ile.
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Whether this Portion of the World were rent,
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By the rude Ocean from the Continent
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Or thus Created, it was sure designd,
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To be the Sacred Refuge of Mankind.
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Here the Oppressed shall henceforth resort,
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Justice to crave, and Succour at our Court;
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And then our Soveraign, not for ours alone,
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But for the Worlds Great MONARCH shall be known.
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Fame swifter than his winged Navy flies,
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To every Land that near the Ocean lies;
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Sounding his Name, and telling dreadful News,
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To all that Tyranny, and Rapine use.
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While his blest Subjects, under their own Laws,
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Where no unjust controle can interpose;
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Enjoy in ample Liberty and Ease,
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With Freedom Plenty, and with Plenty Peace.
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Lords of the Worlds large wast, the Ocean, we
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Whole Forrests send to Rule upon the Sea;
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And every Coast may trouble or relieve,
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But none can visit us, without His leave.
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Our little World, the Image of the great,
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Like that amidst the boundless Ocean Set;
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Of her own growth has all that Nature craves,
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And all thats scarce, as Tribute from the Waves.
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As AEgypt does not on the Clouds rely,
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But to her Nile ows more than to the Skie;
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So what our Earth, and what our Heaven denies,
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Our ever constant Friend (the Sea) supplies.
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The taste of hot Arabias Spice we know,
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Free from the scorching heat that makes it grow;
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Without the Worm in Persian Silk we shine,
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And without Planting, Drink of every Vine.
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Ours is the Harvest where the Indians mow,
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We Plough the deep, and Reap what others sow;
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Things of the Noblest kind our own Soyl breeds,
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Stout are our Men, and Warlike are our Steeds.
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Rome, tho her Eagle through the World had flown,
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Could never make this Island all her own;
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Here flourishd Edward, and the Black Prince too,
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Victorious Henry, and now GREAT SIR, YOU.
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For YOU we stayd, once more to fill our Story
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With great Atchievments, and with Acts of Glory.
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When for more Worlds the Macedonian cryd,
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[H]e wist not Thetys in her lap did hide
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Another yet, a world reservd for You,
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To make more Great, than that he did subdue.
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When Fate or Errour had our Age misled,
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And on this Nation such Confusion spread,
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The only Cure which could from Heavn come down
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Was so much Power and Piety in One.
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One, whose Extraction from an Ancient Line,
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Gives Hope again that well-born Men may shine:
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The meanest, in your Nature, mild and good,
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The Noble rest secured in your Blood.
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For when our Troubld Country calld you forth,
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Your Noble Courage and your Matchless Worth
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Dazling the Eyes of all that did pretend,
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To fierce Contention gave a prosperous End.
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No sooner You, GREAT SIR, the Throne ascend,
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But our Disorders cease, and all things mend.
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As if your Royal Touch were only sure
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The true Kings-Evil of the Realm to Cure.
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Twas not Ambition spurrd our Soveraign on
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To seize the Scepter, and assume the Crown;
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But like the Vestal Heat, his Martial Fire
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Was such as true Devotion did inspire;
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His Zeal for GOD, and Pity to Mankind
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Awakd his Courage, and confirmd his Mind.
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Religion twas, that putting on his shield,
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Brought him Victorious through a bloodless Field;
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His Arms were such, as th Ancient Heroes wore,
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Bequeathd him by the God he does adore.
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And all to save three Kingdoms from the Curse
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Of Lawless Rule, and Romes Tyrannick Force.
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A Prince-like Pious Ardour of Renown,
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To seek the Churchs Triumph in his own:
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Which once accomplishd under his Command,
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Th August and Grateful Senate of the Land
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Gave up what they had left (who had done ill)
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To Him, that more deservd the Throne to fill.
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With equal Love the Generous King releast
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The chiefest Impost, which the poor opprest;
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Which, tho so fair a Branch of publick Store,
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He valud not, because it wrongd the Poor.
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One Landlord to the House, to Chimneys two,
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Seemd more than was to equal Justice due;
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He that once lets his House, his Chimney lets,
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There the poor dresses what his Labour gets;
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Hard, double-Pay for that from whence he eats.
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Or if through Poverty it be not paid,
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For Cruelty to tear away the single Bed,
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On which the poor Man rests his wearied Head,
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At once deprives him of his Rest and Bread.
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But such Injustice He would not Command,
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Who came by Justice to relieve the Land;
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Nor would he have an opulent Land supply
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Th Expence of State by grinding Cruelty.
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Thus the vext World to find repose, at last
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Into Augustus Arms herself did cast.
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As England now with equal Toyls opprest,
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Her wearied Head did on Your Bosome rest.
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Then let the Muses with such Notes as these,
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Instruct us what belongs unto our Peace.
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Here in low strains your milder Deeds we sing,
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Hereafter we will Bayes and Olive bring
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To Crown your Head, while you in Triumph ride
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On Vanquishd Nations, and the Sea bestride;
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While all your Neighbouring Princes unto You,
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Like Josephs Sheaves, pay Reverence, and bow.
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