AN EPISTLE TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES EARL of DORSET and MIDDLESEX, Lord Chamberlain OF HIS Majesty's Household.  

LICENCED  
Sept. 26. J. Fraser.    printer's or publisher's device 
LONDON, Printed for Francis Saunders, at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange, 1690.   

AN EPISTLE TO MY Lord Chamberlain.  

WHat? shall the King the Nation's Genius raise,  
And make us Rival our great Edward's Days;  
Yet not one Muse, worthy a Conq'ror's Name,  
Attend his Triumphs, and Record his Fame?  
Oh, Dorset! You alone this Fault can mend,  
The Muse's Darling, Confident, and Friend!  
The Poets are your Charge, and, if unfit,  
You should be fined to furnish abler Wit;  
Obliged to quit your Ease, and draw again,  
To paint the Greatest Hero, the Best Pen.   

A Hero, who thus early does outshine  
The Ancient Honours of his Glorious Line;  
And, soaring more sublimely to Renown,  
The Memory of their pious Triumphs drown:  
Whose Actions are delivered over to Fame,  
As Types, and Figures of His greater Name.   

When Fate some mighty Genius has designed,  
For the Relief, and Wonder of Mankind,  
Nature takes Time to answer the Intent,  
And climbs, by slow Degrees, the steep Ascent:  
She toils, and labours with the growing Weight,  
And watches carefully the Steps of Fate;  
Till all the Seeds of Providence unite,  
To set the Hero in a happy Light;  
Then, in a lucky and propitious Hour,  
Exerts her Force, and calls forth all her Power.   

In Nassaw's Race she made this long Essay;  
Heroes and Patriots prepared the Way,  
And promised, in their Dawn, this brighter Day:  
A Public Spirit distinguished all the Line,  
Successive Virtues in each Branch did shine,  
Till this last Glory risen, and Crowned the Great Design.   

Blessed be his Name! and peaceful lie his Grave,  
Who durst his Native Soil, lost Holland, save!  
But William's Genius takes a wider Scope,  
And gives the injured, in All Kingdoms, Hope:  
Born to subdue insulting Tyrants Rage,  
The Ornament, and Terror, of the Age;  
The Refuge, where afflicted Nations find  
Relief from those Oppressors of Mankind,  
Whom Laws restrain not, and no Oaths can bind.  
Him their deliverer Europe does confess,  
All Tongues extol, and all Religions bless;  
The Po, the Danube, Boetis, and the Rhine,  
United in his Praise their Wonder join:  
While, in the Public Cause, he takes the Field,  
And sheltered Nations fight behind his Shield.   

His Foes themselves dare not Applause refuse;  
And shall such Actions want a faithful Muse?  
Poets have this to boast; Without their Aid,  
The freshest Laurels, nipped by Malice, Fade,  
And Virtue to Oblivion is betrayed:  
The proudest Honours have a narrow Date,  
Unless they vindicate their Names from Fate.   

But who is equal to sustain the Part;  
D— n has Numbers, but he wants a Heart;  
Enjoined a Penance (which is too severe  
For playing once the Fool) to Persevere.  
Others, who knew the Trade, have laid it down;  
And, looking round, I find you stand alone.  
How, Sir! can you, or any English Muse,  
Our country's Fame, our Monarch's Arms, refuse?   

'Tis not my Want of Gratitude, but Skill,  
Makes me decline what I can ne'er fulfil:  
I cannot sing of Conquests, as I ought,  
And my Breath fails to swell a lofty Note.  
I know my Compass, and my Muse's Size,  
She loves to Sport and Play, but dares not Rise;  
Idly affects, in this Familiar Way,  
In easy Numbers loosely to convey,  
What Mutual Friendship would at Distance say.   

Poets assume another Tone and Voice,  
When Victory's their Theme, and Arms their Choice;  
To follow Heroes, in the Chase of Fame,  
Asks Force, and Heat, and Fancy, winged with Flame.  
What Words can paint the Royal Warrior's Face?  
What Colours can the Figure boldly raise?  
When, covered over with comely Dust and Smoke,  
He pierced the Foe, and thickest Squadrons broke?  
His bleeding Arm, still painful with the Sore,  
Which, in his People's Cause, the Pious Father bore:  
Whom, clearing through the Troops a Glorious Way,  
Not the united Force of France, and Hell, could stay.   

Oh, Dorset! I am raised! I'm all on fire!  
And, if my Strength could answer my Desire,  
In speaking Paint this Figure should be seen  
Like Jove his Grandeur, and like Mars his Mien;  
And Gods descending should adorn the Scene.   

See, See! Upon the Bank of Boyne he stands,  
By his own View adjusting his Commands,  
Calm and serene the Armed Coast surveys,  
And, in cool Thoughts, the  Chances weighs:  
Then, fired with Fame, and eager of Renown,  
Resolves to end the War, and fix the Throne.  
From Wing to Wing the Squadrons bending stand;  
And close their Ranks to meet their King's Command;  
The Drums and Trumpets sleep, the sprightly Noise  
Of neighing Steeds, and Cannons louder Voice,  
Suspended in Attention, banish far  
All Hostile Sounds, and hush the Din of War:  
The silent Troops stretch forth an eager Look,  
Listening with Joy, while thus their Gen'ral spoke.   

* Come, Fellow-Soldiers, Fellow me once more,  
And fix the Fate of Europe on that Shore;  
Your Courage only waits from me the Word,  
But England's Happiness commands my Sword:  
In Her Defence I every Part will bear,  
The Soldier's Danger, and the Prince's Care,  
And envy any Arm an equal Share.  
Set all that's dear to Men before your Sight,  
For Laws, Religion, Liberty, we fight;  
To save your Wives from Rape, your Towns from Flame,  
Redeem your Country sold, and vindicate her Name:  
At whose Request and timely Call I risen,  
To tempt my Fate, and all my Hopes expose;  
Struggled with adverse Storms, and Winter-Seas,  
That in my Labours you might find your Ease.  
Let other Monarches dictate from afar,  
And write the empty Triumphs of their War,  
In lazy Palaces supinely Rust;  
My Sword shall justify my People's Trust.  
For which— But I your Victory delay;  
Come on, I, and my Genius lead the way.   

He said. New Life and Joy ran through the Host,  
And sense of Danger in their Wonder lost;  
Precipitate they plunge into the Flood,  
In vain the Waves, the Banks, the Men, withstood.  
The KING leads on, the KING does all inflame,  
The KING— and carries Millions in the Name.   

As when the swelling Ocean bursts his Bounds,  
And, foaming, overwhelms the neighbouring Grounds,  
The roaring Deluge, rushing headlong on,  
Sweeps Cities in its Course, and bears whole Forests down  
So on the Foe the firm Battalions pressed,  
And he, like the Tenth Wave, drove on the rest;  
Fierce, Gallant, Young, he shot through every Place;  
Urging their Flight, and hurrying on the Chase,  
He hung upon their Rear, or lightened in their Face.   

Stop! stop! brave Prince! Alloy that Generous Flame  
Enough is given to England, and to Fame  
Remember, Sir, you in the Centre stand,  
Europe's divided interests you command,  
All their Designs uniting in your hand:  
Down from your Throne descends the Golden Chain,  
Which does the Fabric of our World sustain;  
That once dissolved by any Fatal Stroke,  
The Scheme of all our Happiness is broke▪   

Stop! stop! brave Prince! Fleets may repair again,  
And routed Armies rally on the Plain;  
But Ages are required to raise so Great a Man!  
Hear, how the Waves of French Ambition roar,  
Disdaining Bounds, and breaking on the Shore,  
Ordained by you to curb their wild-destructive Power,  
That Strength removed; Again, Again, they flow,  
Lay Europe waste, nor Laws, nor Limits know.   

Stop! stop! brave Prince!— what does your Muse, Sir. faint?  
Proceed, Pursue his Conquests— Faith, I can't:  
My Spirits shrink, and will no longer bear;  
Rapture and Fury carried me thus far  
Transported and Amazed.  
That Rage once spent, I can no more sustain  
Your Flights, your Energies, and Tragic Strain,  
But fall back to my Natural Pace again;  
In humble Verse provoking you to Rhyme,  
I wish there were more Dorsets at this Time.   

Oh! if in France this Hero had been born;  
What Glittering Tinsel would His Acts adorn!  
There 'tis Immortal Fame, and High Renown,  
To Steal a Country, and to Buy a Town:  
Their Triumphs are o'er Kings and Kingdoms sold,  
And Captive Virtue led in Chains of Gold.  
If Courage could, like Courts, be kept in Pay,  
What Sums would Lovis give, That France might say,  
That Victory followed where He led the Way?  
He all his Conquests would for this refound,  
And take th' Equivalent, a Glorious Wound.  
Then, what Advice, to spread his real Fame,  
Would pass between Versailles and No'tredame?  
Their Plays, their Songs, would dwell upon his Wound,  
And Operas repeat no other Sound;  
Boyne would for Ages be the Painter's I heam,  
The Goblin's Labour, and the Poet's Dream;  
The wounded Arm would furnish all their Rooms,  
And bleed for ever Scarlet in the Looms:  
Boileau would plume with this his Artful Pen.  
And can your Muse be silent? Think again.   

Spare your Advice; And, since you have begun,  
Finish your own Design, the Work is done.   

Done! Nothing's Done: Not the Dead Colours laid,  
And the most Glorious Scenes stand undisplayed.  
A Thousand Generous Actions close the Rear;  
A Thousand Virtues, still behind, stand crowding to appear   

The QUEEN herself, the charming QUEEN should grace  
The Noble Piece, and, in an Artful Place,  
Soften War's Horror with her lovely Face.  
Who can omit the QUEEN'S auspicious Smile,  
The Pride of the Fair Sex, the Goddess of our Isle?  
Who can forget, what all admired of late,  
Her Fears for Him, her Prudence for the State?  
Dissembling Cares, she smoothed her Looks with Grace,  
Doubts in her Heart, and Pleasure in her Face.  
As Danger did approach, her Spirits risen,  
And, putting on the King, dismayed his Foes.  
Now, all in Joy, she gilds the cheerful Court,  
In every Glance descending Angels sport.  
As on the Hills of Cynthus, or the Meads  
Of cool Eurotas, when Diana leads  
The Chorus of her Nymphs, who there advance  
A Thousand shining Maids, and form the Dance:  
The stately Goddess, with a graceful Pride,  
Sweet and Majestic, does the Figure guide;  
Treading in just and easy Measures round  
(The silver Arrows on her Shoulder sound)  
She walks above them All. Such is the Scene  
Of the Bright Circle, and the Brighter QUEEN.   

These Subjects do, my Lord, your Skill command,  
These none may touch with an Unhallowed Hand:  
Tender the Strokes must be, and nicely writ,  
Disguised Encomiums must be hid in Wit,  
Which Modesty, like theirs, will e'er admit;  
Who made no other Steps to such a Throne,  
But to Deserve, and to Receive, the Crown.    

THE Life of Alexander the Great, written in Latin by Quintus Curtius, translated into English by several Hands, and now Dedicated to the QUEEN. By N. Tate.