ALBION's Blessing.  
A POEM PANEGYRICAL On His Sacred MAJESTY, King WILLIAM the III. AND On His Happy Return, AND THE PUBLISHING THE Late Glorious PEACE.  
Written by Mr. D'VRFEY.  
Hic dies vere mihi festus atras  
Extimet Curas, ego nec tumultum,  
Nec mori per vim metuam tenente Caesare Terras.  — Hor. lib. 3. 
London: Printed by W. Onley, for Robert Battersby, at Staple-Inn, near the Bars in Holbourn; and Thomas Cater, at Bernard's Inn, in Holbourn. MDCXCVIII.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Arnold joost (i. e. justus) van Keppell, Earl of ALBEMARLE, Viscount BURY, Barron ASHFORD, of ASHFORD, Master of the Robes to His Sacred Majesty, And one of the MAJOR-GENERALS of the KING's ARMIES.  
This Poem Panegyrical is with all Duty and Humility most humbly Dedicated,  
By His most Humble and Obedient Servant, T. D'URFEY.   

ADVERTISEMENTS.  
IN Pacem Angliae Restauratam. Per johannem Phillips, de Interiore Templo.  
A Poem occasioned by the General Peace. By I. W. Gent.  
Both Printed for Rob. Battersby, at Staple-Inn, near the Bars, in Holbourn. 1698.   

A NEW POEM, ON THE PUBLISHING THE Late Glorious PEACE, AND On the Happy Return Of His Sacred MAJESTY, King WILLIAM the III.  

'TIS done, and now Great Britain's Genius wakes,  
And from her Brain her late long Slumber shakes;  
The Name of PEACE has her numbed Spirits raised:  
Peace, by the Harrassed Nations courted so and praised,  
Is now, with more than wondrous Art and Care,  
Extracted by the Chemistry of WAR:  
Thus did Great WILLIAM all our Ills redress;  
Caesar Apollo, Caesar Hercules,  
Whose Glory as each Year still mounts it higher,  
In us to greater Duty should inspire;  
The Murmuring Crowd should hate Sedition now,  
And, hushed, to his Prevailing Merit bow;  
Whilst generous Shame their Loyalty constrains,  
Spite of the factious Madness of their Brains:  
Royal Physician sent by Heaven to Cure,  
With Sovereign Virtue, England's Calenture,  
And force Rebellion's Feverish Ill to cease,  
The Nation's Epidemical Disease:  
Who could observe the Glory which our Isle  
Gained by his still-repeated Pain and Toil,  
That saw him yearly hasten to the War,  
And every Hour the common Danger share,  
Without Divine Reflections, such as these?  
This did the Godlike Monarch for our PEACE,  
Thus like a Saviour give his precious Blood,  
A willing Offerng to procure our Good:  
Yet to loved Britain, bearing due regard,  
The Sword in Martial Hand aloft was reared,  
And War or Peace for both alike prepared.  
Peace, as it with the Kingdom's Glory stands;  
War if affronted with unjust Demands;  
Not Ours alone, but Europe's Cause he Tried,  
And since, convenient, generously Complied:  
Laurels abroad, and Thirst to overcome,  
For Quiet changed, and Olive-wreaths at Home,  
Form his Content, he Smiles, and deigns to please  
To stoop to the Variety of Peace.  
Long he preserved us Safe, with Pains and Cares,  
And nobly Earned the Royal Crowns he wears;  
So truly England's Empire does Inherit,  
Right is the youngest Offspring of his Merit:  
And who can grudge the Vines for him should grow,  
That saved the fruitful Vineyard from the Foe?   

As when bright Phoebus the Horizon leaves,  
Prostrate on Earth, the trembling Persian grieves;  
Possessed with Fear his God should ne'er return,  
To Cheer, with joyful Beams, the Weeping Morn;  
So shook our Loyal Hearts when Caesar went,  
So were we clouded all with Discontent:  
Then, then methought, each Planet dimly shone,  
But now, with Joy, its brightest Ray puts on;  
With willing Haste into its Sphere does come,  
To Light the Great, the happy Monarch home;  
And dressed in Blazes of new dazzling Light,  
Adorns the Splendour of that welcome Night.  
As those above, the Sons of Art below  
Their choicest Skill, and duteous Labour show;  
The martial Cannons loud and thundering Noise,  
First shakes the Earth, and then assaults the Skies;  
The whizzing Rockets bursting in the Air,  
Dim Cinthia's Train more glittering and more fair;  
Great Mulciber his Revels does Proclaim,  
Exalted high on Pyramids of Fame;  
To Honour Caesar's Triumph all Conspire,  
And dart his Fame through Heaven and Earth in artificial Fire.   

Each Heart with joyful Ardour also burns,  
Since, Crowned with Palm, the Godlike Prince returns;  
Safe he Returns with Glory to his own,  
And all our Doubts, and all our Fears are gone:  
Now Sings the labouring Peasant at the Plough,  
Now pleased his fertile Glebe does Till and Sow,  
Fearless of Harm from an Invading-Foe.  
Caesar, like Mighty jove, Exerts his Name,  
Equally Great abroad, as here his Fame;  
His Army terrible, his Navy great,  
And blushing Victory still seems to wait,  
Where'er he goes, as preordained by Fate.   

Declare, thou 
* The Czar of Muscovy.  Royal Traveller, that from  
A Region so remote dost leave thy Home;  
Victorious Arms, and verdant Laurels there,  
To see the noble Plant grow with more Splendour here:  
If aught, could thee from th' conquering Greatness bring,  
But the Renown of so Adored a King;  
Thou saw'st, and with just Admiration too,  
Our martial Castles vie the Thunder-blow,  
And on the Sea, a glorious City flow;  
Strong Forts Impregnable, not made to Yield,  
As when of old the Hands of Gods did Build,  
Float on the rolling Billows, and make Sport  
With each opposing Surge; a Monarch's Court  
Is every Vessel, and in every Room  
A Sultan well might think himself at Home;  
Whilst the proud Sails swell with the Winds that blow,  
And Woods of English Oak upon the Ocean grow;  
Empress Britannia, foremost Booms along,  
A lofty Theme fit for the Lawreat's Song,  
Who th' Motto gave, 
* Mr. Dryden, who seeing a Scetch of her, gave this Motto, Post fulmina primum.  and best can treat of Kings,  
And Write in mighty Numbers mighty Things;  
The Phoenix, London, and the Vanguard bold,  
The Sandwich famed for Bravery of old;  
Almighty Neptune, and Great Ossory,  
The beauteous Duchess, Mistress of the Sea,  
The Dreadnought, and the Happy Restauration,  
The Resolution bound to Right the Nation;  
And next as good as e'er did Sails Unfurl,  
A Crown's Restorer, Loyal Albemarle:  
These saw the Royal Stranger, with Delight,  
Saw their vast Power, and wondered at the Sight;  
Then as our Naval Glory he surveyed,  
Thought his long Toil and Travel well repaid;  
And as famed Sheba, from the Southern Clime,  
Journeying to prove what had been famed Sublime,  
Returned inspired with Wisdom she had won,  
From that blessed Monarch, and t' Instruct began  
Dull Ignorants, that parched beneath the Sun;  
So through the North, as far as fleecy Snow  
Hides the vast Hills, and ruffling Tempests blow,  
Where thy i'll Train, o'er Lakes and frozen Isles,  
Hunt Pards and Bears, then Cloth 'em with their Spoils:  
Imperial Czar, be thou a second Fame,  
To blaze our Albion's Power, and Mighty William's Name,  
The Subject-Heroes of his Martial Train,  
Led on by him to Deathless Honour gain:  
Valour grows firm when Caesar does appear,  
Cowards themselves grow Stout in spite of Fear;  
When e'er he Shines still fresh each Laurel grows,  
But where he's Absent, oft our Fame we lose;  
His Soul-infusing Genius Guards our Coast,  
But on the Main, for want of him, 'tis Lost.   

Oh! Albion, Guardian of the Universe,  
Whose Fame, the Songs of Angels might disperse,  
And Bards divine, where Wit is most extreme,  
Gain Groves of Laurel from the Mighty Theme.  
Thou lovely Park, where Herds of Kings may dwell,  
Paled in with Sea, and be Invincible,  
Which the Eternal seemed his own to Fence,  
Untired with the Creating Excellence,  
Before the courser Mold had its Decree,  
To form the common Herb, or Flower, or Tree:  
How wilt thou Fall; into what low Disgrace?  
How wilt thou Sink degeneratly Base,  
If Cowardice Infect thy Marine Race?  
When equal Fleets on Neptune's Green appear,  
And Britain's recreant Sons shrink back for Fear;  
Who would not think the End of all things near,  
When Mammon's shining Daughter too was by,  
For whom they destined are to Live and Die?  
Who seemed to say, See here your glittering Gains,  
Come on, Attaque, and Take me for your Pains;  
Propitious Gales have brought me to your View,  
Fate makes this Present as your Monarch's Due;  
I am a Treasure is reserved for you;  
With such a Beauty uninjoyed to part,  
Shame to our Nation, must be want of Heart.   

Oh! from thy Tomb, Great Ossory arise,  
And with thy awful Shadow blast their Eyes;  
Haunt him in Dreams, and may his Face appear  
So Pale, the rest may Blush to see his Fear;  
And Charmed with conscious Shame, in future Fight  
Do Albion and its Injured Offspring Right;  
But let his brave Opposer find Regard,  
His Conduct Praise, with Fame his Worth Reward;  
Smile on him as a generous Enemy,  
And let the others Shame his Glory be,  
Who through the Main and watching Fleets made way,  
And brought his Master safe the shining Prey.   

Nobly, Great Lewis! bravely hast thou Reigned,  
And against Europe, a long War maintained;  
So safe in Counsels, in thy Chiefs so blest,  
Injustice seemed like Right by thy Success;  
No Cause could thy ambitious Will protract,  
Whatever thou wouldst Order they would Act;  
Mighty thy Soul, tho' driven to last Distress,  
When Ruin had succeeded want of Peace,  
Yet Grief seemed Joy, and Despair looked like Ease;  
A Look from thee thy Subjects Hearts could Fire,  
Who well performed their Charge, and thy Desire,  
Whilst black Destruction glaring in our View,  
Seemed to make Nostredam's Predictions true,  
Till the blessed Genius, that takes Care of Kings,  
Shading both Empires underneath its Wings,  
Inspired Great Nassaw with a generous Will,  
To stop fermenting Rage and future Ill;  
He Stemmed the Torrent, Fight, Peace obtained,  
And made a Potent Foe, a Glorious Friend.   

In all Degrees of frail Humanity,  
And vicious Nature, must great Errors be;  
But Sense in the distress of Thought is lost,  
To know that stubborn Albion breeds the most:  
The Quality of every strange Offence,  
Justly so much enrages Providence,  
That Sacred Mercy, after Crimes so base,  
Seems Imposition upon heavenly Grace;  
T' observe what Jars, the Bane of all Content,  
Amongst themselves, her impious Son's Foment,  
Who now, tho' beyond Expectation Blest,  
Can yet, through strong Perverseness, take no Rest;  
Want Power to know and utter what they Ail,  
And Plague themselves to invent Cause to Rail:  
Discord that springs from anxious Doubts and Fear,  
Is the unwelcome Harmony we hear;  
And harsh provoking Jars 'twixt Friend and Friend,  
Brings each successive Day to its sad End:  
Cursed Bigott'ry the Play did first begin,  
Till Revolution changed the Ill-wrought Scene,  
To bring us all a happy Freedom in;  
Now Pride, the Humour of each Grumbler here,  
Proves like the Nature of the Clime and Air;  
For as th' Inconstant Wether instantly  
Can change from Hot to Cold, from Moist to Dry;  
So they from Rebels can turn Loyal Men,  
Set up a King, and boldly prove his Right,  
Zealously for him Vote, and for him Fight,  
And at the least Disgust can Rebels turn again.   

Reflect in time, ye Sons of Discontent,  
Suppress your Spleen, and, ere too late, Repent;  
Tho' Royal Mercy now does Mildred appear,  
Stern Justice, if you tempt, will be severe:  
Be Blind no more, through Fame's Perspective see  
Albion's unparalleled Felicity,  
Fixed in her present Monarch's Bravery;  
In whose Auspicious and Illustrious Reign,  
Our long-lost Genius does return again:  
The Hero's of past Ages present seem,  
Edward, and Mighty Henry live in him;  
Henry and William, fated are the same,  
There's a Prophetic Power even in the Name,  
Which does to all Misteriously show,  
The Latter like the First should Triumph too,  
Whose Glory's greater, by the Peace he brings,  
Than Fame could give our most Victorious Kings.   

Oh! that the Darling of the Sacred Nine,  
To blaze his Name, could make my Verse Divine;  
Adored Nassaw! But oh! to Praise is vain,  
'T would Tyre best Pens, and Crack the soundest Brain;  
Th' extreme of Art, adorned with nicest Wit,  
His mighty Character has never Writ,  
Do all they can they must leave something yet;  
Call him deliverer, let 
* The Church.  Eusebia kneel,  
And show the Wounds she did so lately feel;  
The bleeding Breast his Sovereign Balm did heal;  
And then in Prayer her grateful Homage show,  
Alas! 'tis still a Sacrifice too low;  
Or style him Pious, Generous, Valiant, Wise,  
Who beyond Virgil or great Pindar flies,  
Will reach his Fame no more than Molehills do the Skies.  
Strict Moral Virtue does his Breast control,  
And there Reigns in him a true Kingly Soul,  
Not swayed by Avarice, or Luxury,  
Tyrannic Lust, nor wretched Bigott'ry,  
But firm to Honour, true to his great Trust,  
And to the meanest of his Subjects Just;  
So ready in the dangerous Hunt of War,  
As if he took more Pleasure in't than Care;  
His Royal Heart, mixed with the common File,  
Nor wears the Wreath unless he shares the Toil;  
But to retrieve the Glory of our Nation,  
Still bushes forward on each brave Occasion,  
And his successful Valour proves, without Predestination.   

Your joyful Thanks then, Loyal Britain's, pay;  
With Shouts and Welcomes, meet him on the way;  
And now the Hero comes with Blessings crowned,  
The Soul of Peace, as well as War, renowned;  
As in Creation, when the Eternal's Hand,  
Finished the Elements, the Sea and Land:  
The Six Days mighty Labour being o'repassed,  
Sabbath was ordered as a Day of Rest;  
So wearied with good Works, maturely Great,  
May he in happy Albion fix his Seat;  
And if such Virtue can decline to Fate,  
Grant, gracious Heaven, it way be very late.   
FIFIS.