The Court of Death. A Pindaric POEM, Dedicated to the MEMORY OF Her Most Sacred Majesty, Queen MARY.  
Per audaces Nova Dithyrambos  
Verba Devolvit, numerisque fertur  
Lege Solutis.  Hor. 
By Mr. DENNIS.  
LONDON, Printed for james Knapton, at the Crown in St. Paul's Churchyard, 1695.   

PREFACE.  
THe following Verses seem so bold in the design, and so much bolder in the execution, that though I have made use of all the little judgement I had to distinguish this boldness from such horrible extravagancies as have been lately so falsely and unreasonably laid to my charge, yet lest some people should conclude from a bare appearance that I have gone too far, it will not be amiss to show what the Ode and its Character is in general what Pindar and his manner was in particular, and how far it may be convenient to imitate him in our Age, and in our Language and Climate. L'Ode (says Rapine) doit avoir autant de noblesse, d' elevation, & d'emportment, que l' eglogue a de simplicity, de pudeur, & de modesty. Ce n'est pas seulement par son Esprit qu'elle est grande, c'est aussi par sa matter. Car elle s'occupe a chanter les louanges desdieux, & a celebrer les actions les plus glorieuses des hommes. Ainsi elle demande pour soutenir toute la Majeste de son charactere, un naturel eleve, un esprit grand, une imagination hardy, une expression noble & eclatante mais pure & correct. Tout ce que l'art a de vivacite par ses figures, n'est pas suffisant, pour eleuer l'Ode autant que demande son charactere. The Ode (says Rapine) ought to have as much greatness, elevation and violence, as the Eglogue is obliged to have modesty, restraint and simplicity. It is not only great by the sublimeness of its Spirit, but by the greatness of its Subjects. For it is made use of to sing the praises of gods, and to celebrate the most glrious actions of men. So that it requires, to keep up all that majesty that belongs to its character, a great wit, an exalted genius, a daring imagination, and at once a pure and a noble and sounding expression. All the vivacity that art can supply by its most glaring figures is hardly sufficient to exalt the Ode so much as its character requires. Thus far goes Rapine; and we may conclude from the words of that famous Critic, that the Ode ought to have as much boldness, elevation and majesty, as Epic Poetry itself; but than it is certain that it ought to have more vehemence, more transport and more enthusiasm. The reason is evident, For the Design of the Ode (I mean upon great occasions) is, like that of Heroic Poetry, to move the Reader, and cause in him admiration. Now by Heroic Poetry, the Readers mind is exalted gradually, with a more sedate and composed Majesty; but the Ode, by reason of the shortness of its compass, is obliged to fly into transport at first, and to make use immediately of all its fury, and its most violent efforts, or else it would want time to work its effect.  
Thus Virgil begins his Aeneis calmly and modestly, whereas the greatest thought in one of the noblest Odes of Horace. 
Si fractus illabatur orbis  
Impavidum ferient Ruinae.  Which I have imitated in my eleventh Stanza is in his very first. Let us now consider the Character of Pindar, which we may have from the same Rapine, and which will include the character too of his Wri●ings. Il est grand dans ses desseins, vast dans ses pensees, hardy dans ses imaginations, heureux dans ses expressions, eloquent dans ses discourse. He is great in his designs (says Rapine) vast in his Ideas, daring in his Images, happy in his expression, and eloquent in his discourse.  
But here Rapine falls short of his character, and leaves out some of his most considerable qualities, which may be supplied from one divine Stanza which Horace has writ in his Praise. 
Monte decurrens, velut amnis, imbres  
Quem super notas aluere ripas  
Fervet, immensusque ruit profundo  Pindarus o'er. Which in English Poetical paraphrastick Prose is thus. As a stream that is listed above its usual banks by the influx of celestial waters, comes rolling headlong from some Mountain's Top, so Pindar raised by influence divine, even above his own exalted Genius; grows vehement, swells, and ferments with fury, then precipitately flows with a mighty sound, and knows no bounds to his impetuous course.  
The Reader will easily discern that here are some great qualities conspicuous in Pindar, which Rapine seems not to take notice of. Here is his vehemence, his impetuousness, and the magnificent sounds of his numbers; and here is another thing which is the result of the rest, and that is something dreadful, something which terribly shakes us, at the very same time it transports us. There remains some other things which all the World has observed in Pindar, and that is, his affected digressions, his perpetual rambles, and his sudden and unexpected returns. But 'tis now time to consider how far he may be imitated in our Language and Climate. An English Writer may endeavour to imitate him in several of his greatest qualities, by the Genius of our Nation, which is bold and sublime, as Mr. Waller has observed. But then he ought to be discreet in his boldness; for our Language is not capable of some of the most violent figures of Pindar; and in aiming at two of his principal qualities, which are his Sublimity and his Magnificence, he ought carefully to avoid two things, and those are Fustian and superfluity of Epithets. Now 'tis the easiest thing in the World for a man to know whether he has avoided them, if he has but sensible Friends. Let him consult them, and observe whether his Verses strike and warm them or not. Where they do warm them and strike them, it may serve for an eternal rule, that there can be no Fustian, for a man of Sense must have a very fantastic opinion of himself, if he thinks that the false Sublime can warm him. Fustian is to such a one the coldest thing in the World. For I take it to proceed only from an Impotent effort of the mind to rise, when it wants both warmth and force to take its flight with vigour. Now as Verses that seem warm to a man of sense can never contain any Fustian, so the same rule may serve for superfluous Epithets. For nothing makes Versifying colder than a clog of superfluous Epithets. Epithets are execrable, where they are not necessary, or at least convenient. And they can never be necessary, but where they add to the Thought something which ought to be added; and they can never be convenient, but where they give force to the Expression, or grace or perspicuity. Words are to Thought, what Flesh is to the human Soul; now Flesh increasing to such a degree, imparts Comeliness, and perhaps Majesty; but swelling beyond it, it brings Deformity and Impotence, and becomes a clog to the Mind. And as in a Body where the Soul performs all its functions freely, there cannot be too much Flesh, so in a work of the Mind, where there is a free Spirit, there cannot be too much Expression. But to return to the business, from which I may be said to have in some measure digressed. As we ought not to imitate Pindar in the boldness of some of his figures, so neither in the wildness of his frequent digressions; as Mr. Cowley has imitated him. For the English Reader, generally speaking, not having half the degree of Fire which the Grecians had, nor Spirits so strangely volatile, cannot immediately Sympathise with an Author in his sudden and impetuous starts from his subject; nor discern in a moment the almost imperceptible connexion between the Digression and the principal matter. Experience is a proof of what I have said. For the generality of Readers, nay even some who are Men of Wit, are declared Enemies to the Olympic, and the Nemean Ode of Pindar, which Mr. Cowley has so admirably made our own; and the reasons which they give, are the length and wildness of the Digressions. But now since I have made mention of that great man, I beg leave to take notice of some other errors which he appears to have been guilty of in his imitations of Pindar. The one is an affectation of pointed Wit: For all points in a serious subject are little, and cold, and weak and wanton; whereas the Ode ought to be by its character, strong, and warm, and grave, and great, and exalted. The second is his want of Design in some of his Pindaric Odes. The third is the Neglect of his Style, which seems in several places not to have Pomp and Majesty enough to answer the sublimeness of Pindar's Genius. The fourth is the frequent losing his Rhyme, and the roughness of his Versification. I have taken care to decline his errors as far as my little capacity would give me leave. And I thought myself the more obliged to avoid his faults, because I am very sensible, that I am far from having his excellencies which are his fire and his mighty Spirit. In the writing these Pindaric Verses, I had still Milton in my Eye, and was resolved to imitate him as far as it could be done without receding from Pindar's manner. They have several great qualities common to both, and among the rest, vehemence, elevation, and a terrible Majesty; qualities which are far above me, but the violent desire I had to show, how I honour the Memory of the great Queen that is gone, made me insolently resolve to aspire to them. How I have succeeded I must leave to the Reader▪ I leave the following Verses to his justice.. For every Writer sooner or later will be sure to have justice done him. If these Verses are of Heaven, they will be sure to stand, no Malice of Man can hurt or suppress them; but if they are human they will fall, no mortal aid can support them. Debemur morti nos nostraque. Of us and ours Death has the sure reversion: But Genius is a sacred beam of Divinity respected by the grim Destroyer.  

POSTSCRIPT.  
THE Preface was writ in so great a Hurry, that I have omitted some things which I designed to insert. I had the hint of the design from the sixth Book of Virgil, which the knowing Readers will easily discern, and which I think myself obliged to own to the rest.  
A Young Gentleman who is my Friend, and whose Wit and Learning are very well known in the World, accused me, upon the reading these Verses, of too much description. I hope the accusation is groundless; for the wantonness of description is to be accounted at all times (and more especially in a grave way of writing) a most intolerable fault. But I desire the Reader to consider, that there is a great deal of difference between the describing of persons and places, and the describing of action. In a Poem where is any design, if I am not mistaken, there ought to be some action. Now where there is action, it ought always to go forward, and nothing aught to be much insisted on, which can put any considerable stop to that. For which reason all descriptions of persons and places which are any thing large, are extremely faulty in a Poem which has a design. Now the Reader will easily discern, that I have been very retentive in such descriptions. For I have given very little description of the Court of Death, and none at all of those who compose it. I have but barely named them. Not only because those beings have been described before (for poetical persons and places are general: whereas an action is still particular) but because it would have put a stop to the action. But describing of action is a different thing. For the action in some measure goes on by description, which is often necessary for the better representation of it. And indeed it is my opinion, that there can be no Poetry without such description that is without Painting. And I am very confident, that most of the beauteous places in Virgil are nothing but action, clearly and vigorously described. I have but one thing to add, and that is concerning the numbers. I am not satisfied with my choice of them; but I have taken all the care that I could, that they should be harmonious in their kind.    

The Court of Death. A PINDARIC POEM.  

I.  
NO, 'twas no Dream, 'tis now too clear,  
No Dream could ever thus deceive,  
Then let th' attentive World give ear,  
And thou Posterity believe.  
I saw about the dead of Night,  
I saw a Form divinely bright;  
I did, by Earth and Heaven I swear,  
A Form beyond all mortal Beauty fair!   

II.  
As she came on with Majesty divine,  
From her there flowed immortal Light,  
To gild the secret horrors of the Night,  
And on ill Spirits and the damned with dreadful glory shine;  
When straight she struck her Empyrean Lyre,  
And in a melting strain,  
Did with enchanting Harmony complain.  
Silence was ravished as she sung!  
That Song might dead Indifference inspire.  
First in my Breast a pleasing Sorrow sprung,  
Then thro' each Nerve there flew celestial fire;  
Convulsive Transports did my Vitals tear,  
Gods 'twas too much, too much for Man to bear!   

III.  
The Goddess with a melancholy smile,  
A glance, that Fiends of Malice might beguile,  
And to the damned might Pleasure reconcile;  
Thus the high meaning of her Message broke,  
And in Ambrosial accents spoke.  
Behold O mortal I,  
Even I whom thou wert wont t' invoke;  
One of the noblest Natives of the Sky,  
A Daughter of great Jove's eternal Line,  
And not the meanest of th' immortal Nine,  
Who Flaccus did with sacred Rage inspire,  
Instructing him to rise,  
And filled fierce Pindar with reluctant fire,  
Which the sonorous Bird transported to the Skies,  
I by Command divine descend to thee,  
A Missionary Goddess, sent by Jove's supreme Decree.   

IV.  
Down, down I fell entranced before  
The sovereign Beauty I adore.  
The Goddess waved her Plectrum round,  
And gently struck the sacred ground,  
And cried my faithful Servant rise;  
With such an efficacious sound,  
As Vigour to my Nerves restored, and Brightness to my Eyes.  
I rose, but still amazement kept me dumb,  
When she went on: To thee I come,  
In the deep silence of this still retreat,  
Removed from all that wretched men call great.  
For that Majestic, Royal God,  
Who shakes his whole Creation with a Nod,  
Commanded me to leave the starry Pole for thee,  
As thou hast left the Pomp of all the world for me  
Then take immortal Spirit to thy breast,  
Drive from it every meaner guest,  
For thou shalt sing in wondrous Rhyme  
Of things transcendently sublime;  
Shalt to the listening Globe relate,  
What Gods determine in a dire Debate:  
But first with me (so jove commanded) go  
To Death's most dreadful Court below,  
And see the dark designs of Fate.   

V.  
The Goddess said, and with a dreadful sound  
The trembling Earth dividing, gaped around,  
Then down by black degrees we went,  
A horrible Descent!  
At length we reached a vast infernal Room,  
Where here and there a winking Lamp,  
That seemed expiring, struggled with the Damp,  
And to illustrate horror, glimmered thro' the gloom.  
Thither the Ministers of Death by Fate,  
Were summoned on Affairs of their dread State.  
More monstrous, more abominable sights  
Than ever Fancy magnified in frights;  
In their most execrable shapes were there  
Discord, Revenge, and grinding Care,  
Grief, Terrors, Furies, Horrors, and Despair:  
A thousand pale Distempers too appear,  
A very ghastful Crew, and conscious Fear,  
With the bad pleasures of the mind, brought up th'infernal rear.  
With sudden Trembling I was struck;  
But the bright Muse with one immortal look  
Could all the Powers of Death control,  
And thro' my Eyes dart Courage to my Soul.  
Grim Death, the Giant Terror rose at last,  
On all th'accursed Divan a ghastful smile he cast;  
Thro all th'accursed Divan a frightful murmur ran,  
When thus their formidable King the great Consult begun.   

VI  
Chief of the powers which in these Mansions dwell,  
Grief, Fury, Discord, and thou black Despair!  
Ye Fevers of the fiery kind, and thou revenging Care!  
Terrors and Horrors, Natives all of Hell!  
Whom roaring in its fiercest flames I found,  
By cruel Destiny severely bound  
With Adamantine Chains,  
Who at my instance were relieved;  
And for my service for a time reprieved  
From everlasting pains!  
Dire Spirits all! to my command consigned  
T'obtain the Empire of the World, and to enslave Mankind;  
All ye who wrack the wretched limbs, and ye who plague the mind!  
Full Parliament of Gods thus called by fate,  
In this stupendous council to debate  
Th'important business of our mighty State!  
From day they bring fresh tidings every hour,  
That we're contemned there, and have lost our power.  
We who the Conquerors of the world subdue,  
Are we contemned? we who command even you?  
Will you no Zeal to serve your Monarch show,  
In just return for the vast debt you owe?  
Know, if we perish, you must surely fall,  
And our Disgrace reflects upon you all.  
What do you stand unmoved at these alarms?  
And must we tamely fall? To arms, to arms,  
By force our credit with the world restore,  
ere we the King of Terrors are no more.   

VII.  
This said, the Tyrant with a voice and look  
Unutterably fell:  
Then, bounding with a furious start,  
He whirled about a dreadful Dart,  
With which the ground tremendously he struck,  
The ground even to the centre shook  
And frighted all in Hell.  
With horrid strides he marching stormed;  
The fiercest Spirits round him stared,  
And trembled as he strode,  
And all the others never dared  
To view th' outrageous God.  
At last a Spectre dreadfully deformed,  
Resuming vigour, silence broke,  
And to th'inexorable King the grisly Terror spoke.   

VIII.  
O thou who governest Land, and Air, and Main,  
By Fate subjected to thy rigid Reign;  
Where all that Mortals sweet and lovesome see,  
God has created purposely for thee;  
For whom with one hand Time the Field of Nature sows,  
And with his other still a bending Harvest mows;  
Thou whose impartial Sceptre injures none,  
The justest Potentate that fills a Throne,  
Supremely just and merciful alone:  
Who standest with Arms extended to embrace  
The Wretches that in thee their utmost refuge place;  
And tamest proud Monarches with an Iron sway,  
Whom soon or late th'imperial Slaves obey:  
What can the fearful sounds we heard intend?  
How should thy formidable Empire end!  
Is jove about to rend the world's high flaming wall  
And crush thy Kingdoms with its hideous fall?  
From what dire cause can thy Despondence spring,  
While we are Terrors, thou shalt be our King.  
Who dares rebellious Arms against thee take?  
Even we who terrify the World, at thy dread Anger shake.   

IX  
This said the Fantom with a dismal sound,  
Confirmed by thousand hideous roars around,  
Which from the vaulted Caverns horribly rebound.  
Then silence thrice aloud was cried,  
And the grim Monarch sternly thus replied.  
Aspiring Ministers of Fate!  
High Officers of Death's unbounded State!  
In vain our power with pompous words we grace,  
One mortal all our glories will deface,  
One mortal every moment dares, nay scorns me to my face.  
In Battles still heroically brave,  
But Trumpets can give Courage to a Slave.  
Even Bouteville could intrepid seem,  
While mad Bellona in him raved;  
But William still with insolence extreme,  
Even in his cool and thoughtful hours,  
Has all my Horrors, all my Powers,  
Deliberately braved.   

X.  
Ye Terrors, and ye Hosts of Horrors say,  
For ye were by on Landen's fatal day;  
When Discord by her hellish Serpents stung  
About the deadly Field in frightful postures flung;  
Thro all her thousand Mouths ran roaring with the pain,  
Foamed at them all, and bled at all, and bellowed o'er the plain;  
A day, like the last day, astonishingly dire,  
When the sonorous Trumpet blue  
And Ruin in a flaming Tempest flew,  
And all the world appeared on fire:  
Did aught in William then that argued fear,  
Nay even that argued mortal man appear,  
While for the freedom of the world he fought,  
Was he not William still in voice, look, action, thought?  
Did he not calmly brave the raving French engage,  
And deal Destruction like a God without the help of rage?  
Did he not, say, while ghastfully ye gazed  
While Thunderbolts around him roared, and Lightning round him blazed,  
Did he not providently scow'r the Plain,  
Yet forcibly as Whirlwinds sweep the Main?  
Did he not, driving on, forecast, instruct, dispose, ordain?  
But what? The Hope of Conquest gave  
That Godlike Spirit which could thus appear,  
Cautious and provident as Fear,  
And yet as Fury brave?  
No; when at length, though late, though wondrous late,  
Oppressed by odds of numbers and of Fate,  
His Prudence urged him loudly to retire,  
Did he not still appear the same,  
Retreating greatly in tempestuous flame,  
Which made us Gods the worth we hate admire?  
Have ye forgot? In that stupendous hour  
I charged ye all the Hero to assail,  
And mingling with the storm of Iron Hail  
To press him with your utmost power:  
YE obeyed: Th'event? Hell! How ye all mistake!  
For, seeing him behind his routed Rear  
With such a dauntless look appear,  
The charge ye instantly forsaken.  
Returning, He the Conqueror was, ye swore;  
Yes, Fools, o'er us triumphant he was more;  
TO himself he owed his Conquest, not, like France,  
To the base odds of Numbers, and of Chance:  
Storming I sent you once again;  
Ashamed, enraged, and mad ye flew, and then  
Ye pierced the very souls of all his weaker men:  
Th' undaunted Hero mocked your vain essay,  
Th' undaunted Hero met you half the way.  
For, marching o'er the dying and the dead,  
He▪ while the rest securely fled,  
With the brave chosen few inspired by him made head;  
With such divine assurance toward you road,  
Ye basely from him flew, and trembling cried, A God   

XI.  
Ye Powers who fought to propagate my sway,  
Ye Gods who own Subjection to me, say,  
Did ever he so much deserve our hate?  
Did ever he appear so truly great,  
As in his loss upon that dreadful day?  
Did it not palpably appear,  
That his great Mind was so averse from fear,  
That should the World from off its Axle rush,  
Torn off by jove, on purpose that the Fall,  
Should William's mighty Soul appall,  
jove could not daunt him, he could only crush?  
Why name I Fear? In his undaunted mein,  
Was there the least dejection seen?  
Did he not perfectly disdain  
Of Fortune's malice barely to complain?  
Did he not look, as who should say,  
'Tis true we've lost th' uncertain day,  
But we deserved to win: 'tis Fortune's blame  
That we have lost, then Fortune's be the shame;  
Empire is hers, and Conquest, and Success,  
The greatness of my soul is mine, and that's above distress:  
My very losses, greatly born, my glory shall dilate,  
And show the wondering World a mind that triumphs over Fate.   

XII.  
Thus he insulted over us and ours,  
And with his very looks blasphemed our idle powers:  
Which still each hour he insolently braves;  
Nay, Thousands spirited by him appear  
Hourly victorious over fear,  
Who showed before the minds of Slaves.  
All Europe roused reflects his noble fire,  
Whose wondrous Influence, like the Sun's,  
Thro distant Regions runs,  
And does the World with Martial warmth inspire.  
Of vast Confederate members He, the Soul,  
Unites the mighty parts, and animates the whole.  
While here We, pleased to be contemned, can stay,  
And howl our Triumphs out aloud,  
Our Triumphs o'er a worthless crowd,  
He all the generous world seduces from our sway.  
Ye Terrors who yourselves resistless call,  
One man buoys Europe up against you all:  
Dread Spirits, whom mankind could tremble at before,  
Go frighten Women now, and think of Men no more.   

XIII.  
Thus ended the tempestuous King, and now  
He rowls his formidable Brow  
Into a dreadful scowl,  
While thrice Revenge his restless Subjects howl.  
As when the Northern Tyrant of the Waves  
Upon the Polar Main in black September raves,  
The Billows, vexed to Madness, roar,  
And foaming scourge the gloomy dismal shore,  
While frantic Seas, with frightful fury rolled,  
As they run madder, grow by Frenzy cold;  
Till to prodigious Rocks congealed they stand,  
And render hideous, Zembla's horrid strand:  
So the dire Subjects of the Tyrant Death,  
By the bleak fury of his stormy breath  
Troubled, and into frantic motions cast.  
Fluctuating rolled, and foamed, and roared, and bellowed to the blast;  
Till with excess of rage at last,  
All became fixed against their will;  
All stupidly benumbed and still  
Were doubly ghastful grown,  
And Horror in th' amazing height of all its Pomp was shown.  
Discord, of all the crew the most accursed,  
From her lethargic plight recovered first;  
Grew mad afresh, and with her reeking hands  
From off her snaky Curls she wrung the bloody Bands:  
Then terribly the baleful Host surveyed,  
And to the formidable Monarch said.   

XIV.  
Ruler of Kings, whom this great Court reveres,  
Whom Hell affects, and Earth, and Ocean fears!  
Canst thou to me extend thy dread Despite?  
Because thy Terrors are contemned,  
Must Discord be condemned?  
Shall not the King of all the World do right?  
To serve thee have I not attempted more  
Than ever desperate Fury dared before?  
Has not my Spirit all the Gauls possessed?  
Has it not rolled in every eye, and raged in every breast?  
Have I not loosened Fury from her Chain?  
Who now flies roaring over Land and Main.  
And art thou not thro' me in dreadful progress seen,  
Majestical with horrid Mien,  
Stalking to new Destruction o'er the Plain?  
With a profuser Purple pomp did never Monarch reign.  
What if one Man contemns thy power?  
Is there a day? Is there an hour?  
In which I fail to have recourse  
To all my skill, and all my force,  
That hated Hero to undo?  
Whom I with Treason, or with Rage, eternally pursue.  
Can there be any one amongst us all,  
Whom it concerns, like me, to see him fall?  
The rest he slights, but me he loathes, detests,  
And ventures Life and Crown t'expel me from above  
And in my room designs to six in humane breasts  
Perpetual Concord, and Fraternal Love.  
Soon should he feel the vengeance of these hands,  
But heavens severe Commands,  
And Fates immutable Decree withstands.  
But yet suppose this mortal Dart,  
Were even this moment plunging in his Heart?  
Believe (I know him well) All-conquering Death!  
He would insult thee with his latest breath.  
True: We should triumph o'er his mortal part;  
Rare Conquest for our Universal King!  
A Conquest which would Dust to thy subjection bring,  
While his aspiring Soul to Heaven its flight would wing.   

XV.  
O couldst thou make that towering Soul descend,  
Could but thy Terrors force that Godlike soul to bend;  
Whose influence rouses a degenerate Age,  
Warms it to just Revenge and martial Rage;  
And with exalted thoughts even Kings inspires,  
And to magnanimous Acts the wondering Nations fires;  
Which now for twenty rolling years has chose,  
Still to be restless for the world's repose:  
And would its body for Mankind devove,  
To stand the Victim of offended jove;  
If you this wondrous soul could move,  
It might a Triumph prove  
Deserving of the loudest boast  
Of thy great self, and thy victorious Host.  
But to dismay that dauntless Mind,  
We must no vulgar method find:  
For shouldst thou to his Face draw near,  
And in thy most amazing shape appear,  
Unterrifyed he would thy Front survey,  
Nay unconcerned perhaps, and gay;  
He knows his Soul is set above thy sway,  
And that secures him from ignoble Fear.  
Fear often makes immortal souls vain Homage to thee pay:  
But William's looks from so sublime a sphere,  
That while his Virtues there with Glory shine,  
It can look down with scorn  
On Life, on Fortune, and on Regal State,  
But there are qualities so truly great,  
As can even Heaven adorn.  
Wisdom and Virtue are divine  
He those inestimable knows;  
To terrify him then, assault him even in those,  
Those of his Queen are his, that lovely Queen,  
Whom such Perfections grace,  
That her high Virtues, and her heavenly Mein,  
Might make it be presumed,  
His Godlike Genius had that shape assumed,  
T' assist him in his Royal place.  
Attack but her, endanger her, and then  
This Demi-God will shake like common men.  
These Spirits than will his great mind control,  
These Terrors with their plagues will pierce his Soul,  
Grief will prevail, and anxious Care,  
And baleful Horror and Despair;  
Fear will be seen Triumphant in his eye.  
His noble, his undaunted heart,  
Will faint, will sink, will die.  
With apprehension of thy Dart;  
And all whom that great Heart with Spirit can supply,  
Sinking with him will own our awful powers,  
And then the Conquered World is ours.   

XVI.  
O did you all that Queen's perfections know,  
Had you approached her all like me,  
She would appear as Dangerous a Foe,  
As worthy your Immortal Hate as Herald  
A Queen, the wonder of an envious Age,  
Whom, that I may your potent rage  
To her Destruction raise,  
Thus with malicious justness let me praise.  
If William can contemn frail breath  
For Everlasting Fame,  
She lives as undismayed, Victorious Death,  
As if she never heard thy Name.  
As one who climbs th' Aetherial cliff  
Of Atlas or of Teneriff,  
Secure in so sublime a Sphere,  
Below him sees the Waves insult the shore,  
Below him sees the Clouds their fury pour,  
Nay and below him hears th' Almighty Thunderer roar,  
While all around him's always calm, and all above him's always clear.  
So on the loudest, fiercest storms of Fate;  
Which threaten both her Life and State,  
This Queen looks down from the prodigious height  
Of her exalted soul,  
Below her hears the Thundering roar, and sees the lofty Billows roll.   

XVII.  
And as not only Tempests never beat  
Those Mountain tops, but neither cold nor heat,  
Afflict (detested place!) glad Nature there;  
But Water, Earth, and temperate Air,  
In my despite eternally agree,  
Combined in triple league to put a stop to me;  
And odoriserous breizes entertain  
Perpetual Spring upon the Balmy Plain;  
So on Maria's lofty Mien,  
As no rude passions in her mind have place,  
No sign of Fear, or Grief, or Rage was ever seen:  
Maria keeps up easy state,  
In spite of me still gaily great,  
And cheerfully serene.  
And, as these Spirits still are beaten back,  
As oft as William they attack,  
Maria in their progress they decline,  
And, as they pass, respect her form divine:  
And Dangers, which the Hero ne'er could fright,  
The Heroine still opposes with delight.  
When Lewis thundered on her Southern shore,  
And made Great Britain tremble at the roar;  
When thro' it all the Loyal Blood ran cold,  
And all my British Sons grew warm and bold,  
While William on the Boyne was seen,  
Victorious with a thoughtful Mien;  
His charming Queen sustained her sinking Isle,  
Sustained her sinking Britain with a smile;  
His charming Queen could gaily wise appear,  
And all things like avenging Heaven dispose,  
For the confusion of her gallic Foes  
Without perplexity or fear.  
Her very Looks my British Offspring gained,  
Her very Looks their Rage restrained;  
Struck them with irresistible delight.  
My British Offspring for a while turned loyal at that sight;  
That sight my fury could so fast assuage  
Even mine, whose Essence is all Rage,  
That e'er I had the power to quit my station,  
And fly for Preservation,  
I grew (in vain infernal spite withstood)  
Senselessly satisfied, stupidly good,  
And feared Annihilation.   

XVIII.  
Not the first Woman feared us less than she,  
Before the mortal Taste  
Of th' interdicted Tree,  
Made thee great Master of the Vassal Ball,  
High Independent Lord of all,  
And Ocean, Land and Air thy mighty waste.  
From Gild and every Weakness clear,  
From Dread of Danger free,  
She lives as if her high desert exempted her from thee:  
Nay more, so fast her Virtues rise,  
Aspiring to their native Skies,  
That I could almost fear,  
That as one Woman by her Crime,  
Involved succeeding Ages in her Fall,  
And to thy boundless sway subjected all;  
So the immortal Graces of her Mind,  
Growing so fast, should rise in time  
To that sublime Degree,  
As to restore all human kind  
To Immortality.   

XIX.  
Something divine adorns her Mind and Mien;  
Mankind extols the King, the King admires the Queen:  
The Queen whom Heaven has formed so truly great,  
To keep the King's aspiring Mind within the reach of Fate.  
That hour in which you pierce Maria's Heart,  
William and Europe tremble at thy Dart:  
That Blow will his undaunted Genius shake,  
That will perhaps his matchless Spirit break;  
That is th' extremest trial we can make.  
If then he sinks not, jove sustains his mind  
And he is certainly designed,  
To vindicate the Freedom of Mankind;  
The great experiment then quickly try,  
And let this good, this great Maria die;  
Take what she has of thine, and let her Soul  
Desert her Lover for the Starry Pole.  
She said, and straight the universal cry  
Was, Let this good, this great Maria die.  
Trembling I wakened with the mortal fright;  
And all the ghastly shapes dissolved to gloomy Night.   
FINIS.