Whitehall: OR, THE COURT OF ENGLAND: A POEM. By Mr. Charles Hopkins.  
DUBLIN: Printed by Andrew Crook, Printer to the King's Most Excellent Majesty, for William Norman in Dames-Street, Stationer and Book-binder to His Grace, james late Duke of Ormonde, M. DC. XCVIII.   

To Her Grace THE DUCHESS OF ORMONDE.  
Madam,  
THAT Your Grace has been pleased to speak favourably of what I have already Writ, is Encouragement sufficient for a Poet to Boast of to the World, and to Embolden him to Dedicate to Your Grace. But I have more particular, both Obligations and Excuses, Your Illustrious Consorts Family having been the constant Patrons of ours; which being now depressed by the late Wars, and the chief Pillar of it fallen, must depend for Support on the first Founders.  
Thus the Thanks for past Favours, are only Petitions for more, as Men pay off old Debts in hopes to run deeper in for new. I dare not hope the ensuing Essay can merit Your Grace's approbation, let it (if possible) please others, if it meets with Your Pardon, it will better satisfy the Ambition, of  
Your Grace's Most devoted most Humble Servant, Charles Hopkins.   

Whitehall; OR, THE Court of England: A POEM.  

ABove that Bridge, which lofty Turret's Crown,  
Joining two Cities; of itself a Town,  
As far as fair Augusta's Buildings reach,  
Bend like a Bow, along a peaceful beach.  
Her guilded Spires the Royal Palace show,  
Towering to Clouds, and fixed in Floods below.  
Her Silver Thames washes her sacred sides,  
And pays her Prince her Tributary Tides:  
Thither all Nations of the Earth resort,  
Not only England's now, but Europe's Court.  
Blest in the Warriors, which its Walls contain,  
Blest most in William's Residence and Reign.  
Where in his Royal Robes and Regal State,  
He meditates and dictates Europe's fate.  
His Heroes, and His Nobles standing round,  
Better by them, than His Gold Circle, Crowned.  
O! could I represent that glorious show,  
You whose great Deeds form Poets, tell me how.  
But lest my Muse (which much I fear) should faint,  
What Dryden will not Write, let Dauly Paint.  
Haste then, and spread abroad thy Canvas sheet,  
Wide as the full blown Sails, that wing our Fleet:  
Paint William first, on an Imperial Throne,  
Large share of Earth, and all the Seas His own.  
O'er Land and Ocean, let His Realms extend,  
And like His Fame, His Empire never end.  
Give Him that look, which Monarches ought to have:  
Give Him that awful look which Nature gave.  
Make His great Spirit sparkle in His Eyes,  
And in each glance the Royal Genius rise.  
Mix Majesty with Mildness, while he shows  
Dear to His Friends, and dreadful to His Foes.  
Seat him surrounded by the British Peers,  
And let them seem His strength, as He is theirs.  
No Poet here dares sing the noble Tribe,  
Which you can draw, better than he describe:  
You can plant each in his peculiar place,  
Give each the noblest Features in their Face;  
Each have their Charms, and all some certain Grace.   

Let England's Chancellor the foremost stand,  
That is his due, whose Laws support the Land.  
Give the good Shrewsbury the second Seat,  
In Trust, in Secrecy and Council great.  
Great as the best, will the great ORMONDE seem,  
But in the Field thou must delineate him:  
Born with auspicious Stars, and happy Fate,  
But more in Merit than in Fortune great.  
On higher things he bends his nobler aim,  
And in fierce Wars, has sought and purchased Fame.  
Here could my grateful willing Muse have sung,  
Sweet as Cham flows, where first her Harp was strung.  
Here Summerset, should she thy praise Proclaim,  
And give thee, what thou giv'st our Cambridge, Fame.  
A manly Beauty is in Devonshire seen,  
And something noble shines through Dorsets mien.  
But here great Artist, is thy Skill confined,  
Thou canst not Paint his nobler Muse and Mind.  
Next let young Burlington receive his place,  
Adorned with every Beauty, every Grace.  
Happy in Fortune, Person, and in Parts,  
Himself not wanting them, promoting Arts.  
With him let Kingston be for ever joined,  
Alike in Quality, alike in Mind;  
For Court or Camp, for Love or Glory fit,  
Possessing both, both patronising Wit.  
Hither let Montague the Treasures bring,  
Which while he offers, let his Muses Sing:  
The Patron of the rest, so justly grown,  
Who served so well, a Nation with his own.  
Draw Russell yonder, ordered to maintain  
The Power, and Honour of the British Main.  
Wrap him in curling Smoke, and circling Flames;  
Yet unconcerned, as on his Sovereign's Thameses.  
While his loud Thunder rattles through the deep,  
Make Seas attention give, and silence keep.  
Then as he coasts the Mauritanian Shores,  
Paint pail the Faces of th' astonished Moor's.  
Whence England gives surrounding Nations Law,  
And from the centre keeps the World in awe.  
No more let Poets name inconstant Seas,  
For Neptune knows his Sovereign, and obeys  
Fled from that fatal Field, the watery Plain,  
No Foe dares venture there our Force again.  
Fierce Gallia Challenges to Belgian Fields,  
But still their chosen Plain small Harvest yields.  
The Warlike Cuts, the welcome tidings brings,  
The true brave Servant of the best of Kings.  
Cuts whose known worth no Herald need Proclaim  
His Wounds; and his own Verse can speak his Fame.  
The dreadful News, move William with delight,  
Gladly He hears, and gladly hastes to Fight:  
Leaving His faithful Substitutes behind,  
He trusts Himself to His own Seas and Wind.  
The Royal Fleet a Thousand Heroes grace,  
And Mars in Triumph rides o'er Neptune's Face.  
Now out of view of Land, they Blow the Main,  
And in some rolling Tides make Land again.  
Now sight of hostile Tents their valour warms,  
And each encourages his Mate to Arms.  
Fancy can scarce so swift and eager run,  
Their Lines are drawn, and the Camp work is done,  
The Word is given, and Battle is begun.   

Description of a Battle.  
They who have seen an Ocean lash its shore,  
When Billows tumble, and begin to roar:  
When from all Quarters, Clouds and Tempests fly,  
And from despairing Sailors hide the Sky.  
Such as have seen those Elements at War,  
May guests, what well-disputed Battles are.  
Hark! 'tis at hand, Drums beat and Trumpets sound,  
The Horsemen mount, the mounted Horses bound,  
The Soldiers leap transported from the ground.  
When such harmonious sounds invite to Arms,  
'Tis sure, that valiant men feel secret Charms.  
Such William's is, when from His foaming Horse,  
He views the Foe, rejoicing at their force.  
Never so full of Spirit and delight,  
Never so pleased as when prepared to fight.  
Paint Him then yonder spurring from afar,  
Giving the charge, guiding the raging War.  
Paint to the Field, Party on Party sent,  
Himself not waiting for the vast event.  
Now mingled in the War, engage the whole,  
And of His Martial Troops make Him the Soul.  
Now from all parts, Death and Destruction fly,  
The cries of grappling Squadrons rend the Sky,  
Mars rages, and the rolling War runs high.  
Here Horses rare at Horses, Chest to Chest,  
There desperate men encounters Breast to Breast.  
Here trampled under foot fallen Soldiers groan,  
For help they call, but with unpityed moan,  
For every one now minds himself alone.  
The Cannons roar, and flaming Balls fly round,  
Men fall and die, and hardly feel the wound:  
Stones, from the ground that nourished them, are tossed,  
And all the fashion of the Field is lost.  
Mortars shoot flaming Meteors through the Air,  
And such as have not seen them fly, would fear  
The Stars dissolved, and the last Judgement near.  
Death through the broken Battle makes a Lane,  
And horror and confusion fill the Plain.  
Horses in troops without their riders run,  
Wild, as were those of old that drew the Sun:  
Madly they drag their reins, and champ their Bit,  
And bear down all before them whom they meet.  
Sol's Off-spring's, and their Master's fate's the same,  
All lost like him, in Thunder, Smoak and Flame.  
As Seamen fear, yet struggle with a Storm,  
The Soldiers start at what themselves perform.  
Paint then a fear on every Face; and make  
Even WILLIAM fear,— but fear for ORMONDE's sake.  
ORMONDE, who spurred amidst the thundering War,  
But to his Sovereign's sorrow spurred too far:  
Dismounted, make him in his falling great,  
Wounded, half dying, yet despiseing Fate.  
Make WILLIAM view him with excess of grief,  
And strive, but strive in vain to send relief;  
Till Heaven inspires his very Foes, to save  
A Life, as strangely fortunate as brave.  
Who for that Life may to more praise aspire,  
Than if the day had been their own entire.  
Proud of their Prize, more furious than before,  
Make them press on, make England's fury more:  
Make shattered Squadrons rally on the Plain,  
And make enraged battalions charge again.  
Again make Horses beat the suffering ground,  
And toss with restless Hoofs the dust around.  
Again the Rider couch his ready Lance▪  
And spurring them to warmth, and foam, advance,  
Foam, which your Pencil need not owe to chance.  
Make sheets of flame from smoking Culverins fly,  
And Clouds of mounting smoke obscure the Sky.  
Now paint beneath the dying and the dead,  
And deluges of Blood in Battle shed,  
overflowing Flanders in her Water's stead.  
And now, let Clouds like Sable Curtains fall,  
Protecting those that live, and hideing all.  
Cast, the black vail of night above the Slain,  
Covering the purple horror of the plain,  
And now, with solid darkness shut the Scene.  
As thunder makes the Skies serene and clear,  
As Tempests serve to purify the Air.  
On Rain, as Sunshine, Calms on Storms, attend,  
Peace is War's necessary certain end.   

Description of the Goddess of Peace, and Her Palace.  

Pardon the Muse, if here she cannot hold,  
The sight of her own Goddess makes her bold.  
She comes; o'er Fields of standing Corn she walks,  
Not crushed the tender Ears, nor bent the stalks.  
Her march attended with a numerous Train,  
Yet with such Discipline that none complain.  
Grass springs where ere she goes, the flowery Mead  
Receives new Flowers, where she vouchsafes to tread.  
Her blooming Beauties teeming Earth displays,  
The Lover's Myrtle, and the Poet's Bays.  
From every touch of her a perfume flows,  
The lovely Hyacinth, the blushing Rose,  
And spreading Jessamin fresh sweets disclose.  
Thick Palaces, as she approaches rise,  
And Royal piles amaze beholders eyes;  
Built on a sudden, they the sight confound,  
And seem to start as from Enchanted ground.  
None; this or that, can her apartment call,  
For she promiscuously resides in all.  
At home in every one, and all she keeps  
Silent, but splendider than that of sleeps.  
Her spacious Halls with useless Arms, are hung  
With Arrows broken, and with Bows unstrung:  
No murmurs through her numerous Train are heard,  
She knows no danger, and her Court no Guard.  
Secure as shades, as Skies unclouded bright,  
As active, yet as noiseless as the light.  
No Widows here, their Husband's deaths deplore,  
None hears the Drum, or thundering Cannons roar,  
Only Love-sighs, which serve to lull her more.  
Plenty, her best loved Favourite duly waits,  
And Pleasure enters at her Palace Gates:  
Roses and Myrtles mingled, make her bed,  
And heaps of Flowers support her sacred head.  
Inspired by her, the Muse around her sings,  
And Cupids fan her with expanded wings:  
No grief or anxious cares, her peace molest,  
She folds her Arms above her quiet Breast,  
Delightful are her Dreams, and soft her rest.  
All at her rise their adoration pay,  
The Persians worship less the springing day.  
Sweet is her temper, easy is her mien,  
Not the least frown in all her aspect seen,  
But gracious as our late lamented Queen.  
Nor are her blessings to her Court confined,  
But flow through Nobles to the Labouring kind.  
All they can wish her own Domestics share,  
Bestowing still, yet has she still to spare.  
The grateful Soil, the jocund Peasants Blow,  
And with a certainty of Reaping, Sow:  
Not now, as heretofore with fears perplexed,  
Tilling these Fields, and Armies in the next.  
Now Spring comes on—  
And night and day in equal measures run,  
And mounting Larks salute the morning Sun.  
Then ripening Fruits the load'ned Trees adorn,  
And laughing Fields are Crowned with lofty Corn.  
The Summer so accustomed to alarms,  
Wonders, she hears no more the sound of Arms.  
No Trumpets echo through the spacious Plain,  
Nor Earthborn Brethren by themselves are slain.  
The Sun shines freely through the flowery Field,  
And suffers no reflection from the Shield.  
Men to the date of Nature draw their breath,  
For nothing now but Sickness causes death.  
Secure the Merchant's trade abroad for gain,  
And Sailors unmolested sweep the Main.  
Unrowling waves steal softly to the shore,  
They know their Sovereign, and they fear to roar.  
The conscious Winds within their caverns keep,  
Like them the Seas are hushed, and seem asleep,  
And Halcyon peace brood's o'er the boundless deep.   

How are these Blessings thus dispensed, and given  
To us from WILLIAM, and to him from Heaven.  
Delight in blood, let other Hero's bo●st,  
Our ease and safety please our Monarch most:  
For that he fought, for that was all his care,  
He places all his Pomp and Glory there.  
Hail! peace of all things in confusion hurled,  
Hail! thou restorer of the Christian World:  
Thou to the World art heavens chief Blessing given,  
And thou hast rendered back the World to Heaven.  
Thus in old times, at our blessed Saviour's Birth,  
An universal calm was known on Earth:  
God to his Son, did the first Gift assign,  
And let's the second Miracle be thine.  
How shall we thank thee for thy Royal toil,  
Thou strength and glory of the British Isle?  
What Trophies shall thy grateful Subjects raise?  
And what ambitious Poets sing thy praise?  
Thy greatness surely is the Stars design,  
Thy hands our noblest Palaces refine,  
On all our Metals, all the stamp is thine.  
Draw his Triumphant entry, Dauly, draw  
Him, and his Allies free—  
And all the rest of the whole world in awe.  
But see, all peaceable our Hero comes,  
No sound of Trumpet, nor alarm of Drums:  
Long kept from rest, by no inglorious Foes,  
He goes to take what he has brought, repose.  
His softer Triumph than prepare to grace,  
Prepare a train fit to attend on Peace:  
Choose them from all that breath the British air,  
And like the Goddess whom they wait on, fair.  
Make beauteous GRAFTON, with the first advance,  
Charming at every step, with every glance;  
Sweet as her temper, paint her heavenly Face,  
Draw her but like, you give your piece a grace:  
Blend for her all the Beauties ere you knew,  
For so his Venus famed Appelles drew.  
But hold: to make her most divinely fair,  
Consult herself, you'll find all Beauty there.  
Whom shall we think on now? There's scarce beside  
Any, that should be seen with her, but HIDE.  
HIDE, who like her has Beauties without blame;  
HIDE, who like her is every Poet's Theme.  
HIDE, by all eyes admired, all hearts adored,  
Courteous to all, kind only to her Lord.  
HIDE, who so many powerful charms commands,  
As will not shame the piece where GRAFTON stands.  
And now, to make thy lasting fame renowned,  
Let all be with Illustrious ORMONDE Crowned▪  
Sum all in her that's fair, and good and great,  
Place her in Beauties, and in Virtues Seat.  
Print sweetness in her Eyes, at once and awe,  
And make her looks give Languishing and Law.  
O! if my Muse to her wished height and climb,  
Sweet as her Subject, as her Theme, sublime.  
The noble ORMONDE should engross her praise,  
Great ORMONDE's name should sanctify her lays.  
Her's and her most Illustrious Hero's Blood,  
Take pleasure still, like Heaven in doing good.  
ORMONDE, to whom fair Lots on Earth are given;  
ORMONDE, who has her Seat reserved in Heaven.   

Stop here; though others may attract the Eye,  
They will but seem as shades, while these are by.  
And now you've finished so renowned a piece,  
Boast safely; challenge either Rome, or Greece.    
FINIS.