GLORIA.  
A POEM, In Honour of PIOUS MAJESTY, Occasioned by the Safe, Happy, and Much-wished for Return OF OUR DREAD SOVEREIGN LORD King William.  
By, Mr. HOPKINS.  Perituro Ingenio; Gloria Perennis. 
LONDON, Printed for H. Newman, at the Grass-Hopper in the Poultry. 1700.   

TO HIS GRACE JAMES Duke of ORMOND, etc.  
May it please Your Grace,  
THE Dedicating Poet has but one only Plea, whereby to Vindicate his Presumption against the various Censures of the World; and that I justly Claim, while I Address your Grace.  
The Acknowledging Favours received, can never be imputed to me as a Crime, since the very losest Sense of Gratitude obliges all to pay it as a Duty.  
A Duty it must be confessed in those, whose Merits and whose Services seem to Engage them; but in me, it were the utmost Baseness not to return my humblest Thanks; in me, who have been in a singular manner greatly favoured by your Grace, to whom, I have not yet had the Honour to be Personally known.  
But indeed, whom is it your Grace inclines not to oblige? Your Goodness stoops as universally to the Wants of Mankind, as your Greatness soars above them. And unbyass'd by the Customary Opinion of the World, Your Grace is so far from believing a Man undeserving, because unfortunate, that his very Indigence in a great measure entitles him to your Protection. Virtue is often Ragged, tho' 'tis the true Nobility; yet so well, so justly your Grace distinguishes between Man and Man, that while I acknowledge your Grace's Favour to me, in that Acknowledgement I boast a seeming Merit.  
This is your Grace's Character, and I'll be hold to say your Grace draws thence as true Nobility, as from your Illustrious Birth: Or, to run higher still, from your yet more Illustrious Actions. Your Grace's Virtues can be shown by no Comparison but of themselves: They stand a full created Orb of real Grandeur, and poised by their own centring parts, there needs no Pen, no Pillar to be raised to prop them. Could Poetry display your Grace, Great as you are, and generously Good, and truly Noble; tho' your transcendent Excellencies are universally acknowledged and admired; and it grows thence impossible I should be thought to dare attempt mean Flattery; yet 'tis not for me to undertake so great a Draught, for me, whose very Name stands with an Infamous Brand, as long as Letters live, accursed in Verse.  
Hence I grow still more sensible of my presumptuous Acknowledgements, and fear my very Gratitude may render me the more Ingrateful.  
But t● whom should the Fame of Royal Nassaw ●e most dear, but to your Grace▪ for whose Glorious Interests ●one has ventured more; and ind●ed, ●one had more to venture.  
I shall only now beg leave to assure your Grace, you are not, you cannot be, more faithfully your King's, than I am  
Your Grace's most Obliged, and most Devoted Humble Servant. J. HOPKINS.   

TO THE MUSE.  
A PINDARIC.  

I.  
SING Muse, the Man, Muse, praise the Godlike Man!  
And bid him welcome over;  
Welcome him Muse to his own Albion Shore:  
The lofty Trumpet of whose Fame,  
First blew thy daring Fancy to a Flame:  
Soon as thy downy Flight began,  
Roused Thee to stretch thy unexperienced Wing.  
To Mount, to Soar, and Sing  
Triumphant Peace, the Conqueror and the King.   

II.  
Not now in quest what Hero thou shalt raise,  
Praise Nassaw, Muse, Nassaw claims all thy Praise.  
Mount, mount, and beat the Sky of Fame,  
Bear on thy leaded Wings the weighty Name.  
Up to the utmost Limits fly,  
The utmost Limits of the Muse's Sky,  
Through the Aerial Regions of the Mind,  
And leave dull Judgement, gravely slow, behind.   

III.  
How can thy trackless Course ●n Verse be ta●●●●t,  
How in Judicious Method brought.  
Notions unformed, and Clo●●s of misty T●●ught!  
Where lightning Fancy, quick in Flashes breaks,  
And paints the guilded way with gay discoloured streaks.   

iv  
Strike, strike my Muse, bold, strike the lofty Stars,  
Once Mortal Heroes in Illustrious Wars;  
There the great Name of NASSAW bear,  
Exalted high, above all others far,  
Mount the transcendantictor,  
And fix, for ever fix it there.   

V  
Thence thy unshady Wings extend,  
And thy strong Course to thy own Phoebus bend:  
Within the Lust'rous Chariot of the Sun,  
The Goddess Gloria's Seat behold,  
Where sparkling Jewels deck the polished Gold.  
Clap, clap thy Wings at her Immortal Throne;  
Whose Regal Globe, unfixed, turns ever round,  
On which nor est for Gloria's Feet is found.   

VI  
Lose, in a Garment of Celestial Air,  
Behold, behold, she hovers there;  
With Wings of Adamant she flies;  
Her Face divinely bright,  
Quick, tremulous Rays stream from her glowing Eyes,  
And dazzle Phoebus' Sight.   

VII.  
In her Right Hand she hears a Starry Crown,  
Whose weight bends even her Arm, the Arm of Gloria down.  
This Prize to Nassaw, She shall thence transfer;  
Nassaw has purchased that by winning her.  
Her other Hand a Golden Trumpet bears,  
Which sets Heroic Souls on Flame,  
And gives the Signal to the Trump of Fame.  
Perched on her Head an Eagle fierce appears,  
Which, whensoe'er the Noble Signal's given,  
Shakes her strong Wings, and Soaring, Strikes at Heaven.   

VIII.  
Hark! hark! the lofty Charge She sounds,  
And from her Sacred Stand,  
Lo! How the glowing Goddess bounds,  
Stretching to thee, Dread Muse! her loaded Hand.  
Hark! Hark the Trumpets Voice- Receive  
This Crown, she sounds, and to my Nassaw give.  
Descend my Muse, thou Gloria be obeyed.  
The Crown is Nassaw's, tho' not gives, but paid.    

To THE KING.  

WElcome, thrice welcome to thy happy Shore,  
Albion, made happy by thy coming o'er.  
Welcome again, while at thy safe Return  
Thy People smile, who did thy Absence mourn.  
Scarce from continued Welcomes can we cease,  
Welcome— as when at first thou brought'st us glorious Peace.  

Blessed be the smiling Surges of the Sea,  
Which through their cleaving Bosom yield their way;  
The Conscious Floods the Ocean's Lord obey.   
Thy bosomed Sails young sportive Zephirs bear,  
And court thy waving Streamers in the Air.  
The tuneful Air does to their Music yield,  
And the Waves dance along the watery Field.  
Thy swelling Canvas seems the Winds to blame,  
Swollen not with Breezes, but the Breath of Fame.  
Officious Winds! restrain your useless Gales,  
Immortal Glory fills her N●ss●●'●Sail●  

Before thy Ship, Smooth spreads the Liquid Plain,  
Down dost thou glide, down thy descending Main,  
The happ● Emblem of thy prosperous Reign.   
The Vessel thus does with the Ocean's flow;  
So dost thou Rule us, condescending so;  
With easy Powers thy Beaks through Waters sweep,  
Thou cleav'st our Bosoms, as they cleave the Deep.  
Short is thy Passage from the Belgian Port,  
Short tho' it be, yet it appears not short.  
Behind thy Ship the conscious Ocean's roar,  
Dash their big rolling Waves—  
And urge their Monarch to his Albion shore.  
Whilst from Batavia thy swift Vessel flies,  
As Belgia lessens, shall Brittania rise.  
Belgia and Britain claim alike their Lord,  
Both dost thou Sway, and art in both adored.  
Great is the love thy Belgia does express,  
Great tho' it be, yet is not Brittain's less.  
May thy blessed Reign still thus auspicious prove,  
Still live they Rivals in their Loyal Love.  
Roll on ye Tides, ye swelling Surges roll,  
Reviving Albion shall receive her Soul.  

Now heave the watery Mountains of the Main,  
And seem to feel, but with the Lover's pain,  
The pressing weight of Empire they sustain.   
Thus, when the Ark was o'er the Oceans hurled.  
The Oceans groaned beneath the rond'rous World.  
The massy State of the whole World they bore,  
Of the whole World which they had drourned before.  
When the Almighty his Creation made,  
The vast Design was on the Waters laid.  
On Mother Deep the forming Godhead lay,  
And from her gloomy Womb sprung the Light, active day.  
Thus risen the World by the Creative Will,  
And as at first 'twas formed, 'tis Governed still.  
Nassaw, to Thee this secret Charge is given,  
To Thee, the Darling Substitute of Heaven.  
Like Justice Self, thou dost Heaven's Aims pursue,  
Weild'st the strong Sword, and hold'st the Balance too.  
Thou, the vowed Foe to the Almighty's Foes,  
Giv'st Bliss to Europe, to the World Repose.  
Kingdoms, once Rivals, through their Fears agree,  
Who offers Wrong, proclaims the War with Thee.  
Thus their old Crowns the Heads of Monarches wear,  
Possessed of Empire, not through Force, but fear.  
Princes to Thee their Purple Honours own;  
From Thee, the Source of Majesty they flow.  
Sheathing their Swords, their Sceptres they may use,  
But wielding those, they must their Seepters lose.  
Thus, thus, behold the Glorious Nassaw stands,  
Monarches, and Thrones, and Kingdoms he Commands,  
Three on his Regal Head.—  
But Universal Empire in his Hands.  
Thus Reigned Augustus, thus his Sway was hurled,  
Thus Ruling Rome; he over-ruld she World.  
Repine not Albion, let no Breath complain,  
Jove does not ever on Olympus ●e●g●●.  
Where Nassaw goes, his Fame, thy Safety call;  
His Tread must poise the partial pendent Ball;  
The Lord of Britain Reigns the Lord of all.  
As well we might at the Sun's Course repine,  
The Sun, which round the Universe must shine.  
Like his, diffusive is our Nassaw's Light,  
Present, 'tis Day, but when he leaves us, Night.  
Like his, have Nassaw's mighty Labours proved,  
He ripens Fruits, when from our view removed.  
Great! Good! and Just! What Pillars shall I caise?  
Verse, dying Verse supports not Nassaw's Praise.    

The Invocation.  
Whom shall I urge, whose happier Muse to sing,  
Welcomes returned to our returning King?  
Shall Dorset, Cutts, shall Montague be Named,  
For Numbers Nobly as for Honours famed?  
Hail, great Triumvirate of sacred Wit!  
Great is your Fame, who have so greatly writ:  
The noblest ends of Greatness you pursue,  
The best of Poets, best of Patrons too.  
What tuneful Muse, tho' soaring can rehearse  
Which sweetest flows, your Bounty, or your Verse?  

Both flow from Nature, unconstrained and free;  
Praise you your Nassaw, be adored by me;  
Parnassw Heads shall be reputed three.   
On lasting Pyramids his Name be raised,  
Praise Godlike Nassaw, if he can be praised.  

Weakly my Muse attempts in vain to rise,  
Blasted by Fate, grovelling, and low she lies,  
Claps oft her sickly Wings— but never, never flies.   
For Nobler Ends than fancied Praise you shine,  
Not to be reached by any Muse—  
At distance to be seen, revered by mine.  
Shall Congreve rise? successful, high in Fame;  
Congreve has gained, and he deferves a Name.  
Unenvied rise, exert thy utmost skill,  
And grow, tho' now the greatest, greater still.  
In vain I court, as I admired in vain,  
With Lover's Transport, yet with Lover's Pain.  
Even Nassaw's Fame, while I invoke, you flee,  
Yet sure my Verse ne'er imured aught— but hi●.  
Let conscious Criminals for Crimes submit,  
I should not guiltless bend—,  
Were you yourself Immortal as your Wit.  
Rise Congreve, rise with thy unequalled Charms,  
And sing the Man, the Godlike Man, and Arms,  
Quit the false Promp, the shadowed Scene displays,  
And make not Heroes, but the Hero praise.  

Draw him, whose Glories Fancy's Beams outshine,  
The Hero, Great, Illustrious and like thine  
The Hero, worthy of a Muse Divine.   
Spread our Immortal Nassaw's Actions far,  
As Famed in Verse, as Nassaw's self in War.  
Oft strikes thy Muse bright Fame's Gaerulean Skies,  
Yet art thou rising still, and still to rise.  
Sill may you rise, still 〈◊〉 sublimely Soar,  
Your Fame so much, till I can't wish it more.  
My Muse mounts too be●●●ted thus she sings;  
As Wrens Tower high, born on the Eagles' Wings.  
Pitched for the Flight, bear Sir, aspiring bear  
The Glorious Nassaw through the fiery Air.  
Whilst on this Theme thy glowing thought shall dwell,  
Excel— if possible, thyself excel.  
Lose then thy powers, thy struggling Genius lose,  
The noblest Hero claims the noblest Muse.   

Instructions to a Painter.  
Before Thee there the ready Painter stands,  
Inspire his Fancy, and inspire his Hands.  

Thou Nassaw's Glories to the Artist show,  
So shall he paint, that all the Draught may know,  
Nassaw, who seems Immortal, shall be so   
Paint him Triumphant o'er the peaceful Ball,  
And at his Feet let Europe's Sceptres fall.  
Paint him Instructing Heroes in the Field,  
Paint him at once War's Thunderbolt and Sheild.  
Paint him unmoved in Dangers and in Blood,  
Yet paint him Mild, and mercifully good.  
Behind this Mars let fierce Bellona stand,  
But paint Astraea smiling in his Hand.  
To him be every mortal Virtue given,  
Paint him the conqueror of the Earth—  
Paint too the pious Hero Conquering Heaven  
Beneath his Throne, let the lust Pencil draw  
That ill famed Chief, who kept the World in a we.  
Fix on the Ground Macedo's weeping Eyes,  
But fix the loftier Nassaws on the Skies  
A future World this Monarch holds in view,  
By pious force he shall that World subdue.  
Abroad, he leading, we our Foes overcome,  
And o'er ourselves grow Conquerors at home.  
Whilst our own Will our Passions shall restrain,  
He gives us each an Empire where to Reign.  
What Pen, what Pencil strikes the vast Extent?  
The Godhead can't be shadowed out by Poetry or Paint.  
FINIS.