AN Epistolary POEM TO N. TATE, Esquire: AND Poet Laureate to his Majesty: Occasioned by the taking of NAMUR. By Mr. PITTIS'.  
— aut mihi carmen  
Quale meo Codro concedite, proxima Phoebi  
Versibus ille facit, aut si non possumus omnes,  
Hic arguto sacra pendebit fistula Pinu.  Virg. Ecl. VII. 
LONDON, Printed for R. Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane. MDXCXVI.   

THE PREFACE.  
I Should have thought it unnecessary to have troubled the Reader with an account of a Paper of Verses, which I fear he will but too soon give his judgement of; had I not perceived myself liable to be censured for two faults (amongst the many other) which People are but too ready to take for granted. The first which I am like to be taxed with, is speaking too much of my Hero: The second, speaking too much of myself. Both are so unpardonable and apt to give offence, that I am unwilling either amongst the Religious to be taken for a Libertine, or amongst the Profane (I mean the Poets) for one that is arrogant or presumputous. Therefore when I call upon Heaven to take care of its Defender, it is not to be received in so strict a Sense, as if Heaven could not Subsist without him, but that he fights its Battles, and defends its Cause, which is no more than our very Prayers say of him. As for the last crime I am like to be arraigned for (viz.) my imitation of Virgil's Fortunati ambo siquid mea carmina possunt; my meaning is so far from the vanity which the Critics falsely ascribe to the Original, that it is Thus, if my poor endeavours can add any thing to the perpetuation of their Fame, the remembrance of 'em shall be Eternal. Now as I take this to be the sense of this Prince of Poets, I know no reason why I have not the privilege of a Subject to quote him. For his meaning cannot be otherwise, if we observe what cautious modesty runs through his whole Writings, and how industriously he avoids the mentioning of himself, even when he has so many opportunities of doing it to his own advantage. Nor are we to suppose that he who in his Eclogues, says, Me quoque vatem— dicunt pastors, sed non ego credulus illis, should in his AEneids run into such high Raptures, and Excursions about himself, as to say, Nisus and Euryalus were happy, because such an excellent Poet as himself had the recital of their Story. As it is absurd to believe these things of our Author; so I hope the Reader (especially the judicious) will acquit the copyst: As for the conduct of the Poem, since I can't excuse the faults it abounds with, I shall say but little about it. My intention at first was to have spoken more particularly of the brave Assailants, especially those of our own Nation; but that design requiring more time than I have to lay out on Poetry, and more pains than I can be at present persuaded to take, I laid it aside. Being contented with the mentioning of his Grace the Duke of Ormond, whom I think myself obliged to name in a double respect, both as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and as one whose extraordinary Quality and performances in the Siege deserved the next place to His Majesty and his Highness the Elector of Bavaria. Others extremely signalised themselves, and I hope some Abler Pen will do them Justice: All that I have to say is— ab uno— disce omnes. As for my taking notice of Mr. C—'s Ode, I have this to say for myself, that as every Man is Master of his own Sentiments, so he may vent 'em when they are agreeable to truth and good-manners. And I can't see why Mr. C— should take it amiss, that he is not counted the best pindaric Writer, when he has so large a share of Reputation in Pastoral. A stander-by often see's things a Gamester himself does not perceive, and I may tell him his faults, when perhaps I am so fond of myself as not to discern my own. I am so far from using a Gentleman of his Character ungenteely, that though I can't say of his Ode, as Mr. Norris said of Mr. Lock's Humane Understanding, (viz.) that he would not after all its faults part with it for a Vatican; yet I can't but tell the World I have an extraordinary value for it. I can't see why the same liberty may not be taken with a Gentleman of Will's, as those Gentlemen took with Dr. Blackmore, and that they who would have christened a certain Poem Arthur of Bradly, should have their own examined by the Friends of Prince Arthur. If I have misinterpreted any of his Beauties, I beg his pardon, but if I have found out his faults I think I may have the liberty to show them. Dr. Sherlock says, he that writes, lies down, which (if I may be the Reveverend Deans Expositor) is, every one that comes en passant, may make him exercise his faculty of feeling; and if a Man finds out Bays Similes at any time, I see no reason why they should not lie under Bays Correction. I have nothing more than to beg my Friend Mr. Tate's pardon for publishing an Epistle designed only for his perusal, and for making use of his name no better, when I had so fair a field to have wrought in.   

AN Epistolary POEM: Occasioned by the taking of NAMUR.  

SINCE every Pen and every Tongue employ  
Their forward Zeal, to speak their forward Joy:  
And by their quick Productions, early show.  
How much they pay, though not how much they owe;  
Why is thy Sacred Pencil laid aside,  
No lays made choice of, and no numbers tried?  
O Tate, if ever glorious Acts infuse  
A warmth to Poets, or create a Muse:  
If Bards inspired of Laurelled Heroes Dream,  
And Wars in triumph ended be their Theme,  
These these, thy labours, and thy numbers claim,  
The task of wonder, and the toil of Fame.   

Lo! C—'s Dairy-Muse forgets her charge,  
Tricks up herself, and roams about at large,  
And thinks in Flights and Raptures to excel  
Because she tuned the lowly reed so well!  
As at some Wake, where Joan or Nell appear,  
And represent the Queen in Sundays Gear,  
With hobbling steps the Rabble Rout advance,  
And trample round, and form a kind of Dance:  
Susan amidst the rest, with awkward Mien  
Capers, and shows her feet, and will be seen,  
Thinks what she does, deserves the most esteem,  
Because she makes good Cheese, and skim's the better Cream.  
On Pindar's Wings she takes her airy Course,  
But Pindar's judgement's wanting to his Force.  
Up to the head of Fame She boldly flies,  
(And 
† Fama malum- virg. Aen.  Fames a mischief, or the Poet lies)   

O Youth take heed, let Virgill's hallowed Page  
Escape thy fury, and avoid thy rage,  
With holy dread approach the Reverend Bard,  
Nor play with Wit, when Sense should be preferred,  
A fine digression, and with Judgement wrote,  
Is more esteemed a Beauty than a faued,  
But when a Muse impatient of delay,  
Leaps o'er the bounds, and frolics all the way,  
Forces through oppositions self, and climbs  
With all the tinkling chime of Packhorse Rhimes;  
We damn the Muse, and justly blame her skill,  
Who leaves good beaten ways, and chooses ill,  
And sweats and drudges upward with her load,  
When She might go beneath, and keep the Road.  
But above all (for he that Verse endites  
Should know his Sense and meaning as he writes)  
Thy Verse should speak Thee Loyal, not compare  
The Siege of Namure to the Giant's War:  
Nor make Mars tumble from the Empyreal-skie.  
Those whom their 
† ovid.  Author never brought so high:  
Thy Power unseen, and boundless force restrain,  
Nor make those Rebels who deserve to Reign.  
Other's have wrote, and with dissembled pains,  
Racked all their little Magazine of Brains:  
Squeezed hard for Tropes and Figures, to express  
Their satisfaction in the King's success  
And like some Muster-Master's Scrow'l, have taught  
The Reader all the names of those that fought:  
Ranged all their Heroes up in Rank and File,  
And with Dutch bulky names provoked his smile.  
For who can hold his laughter, or refuse  
A smile, when Peter B— prints Jones his News,  
And hands about his limping Rhimes, and shows  
What Yard's Gazett had told before in Prose.   

Ah! for a while the Mausoleum leave,  
And in thy stead let weeping Angels grieve,  
They'll guard the Structure which thy numbers raised,  
And mourn the Queen, thy Verse so sweetly praised.  
The Queen.— Oh, let her sacred Urn rejoice  
At thy loud Song, and bless thy tuneful voice,  
Which echoing round the mournful Dome, conveys  
Her Subjects joys, and bears her Husband's praise,  
And justly daring, and correctly bold  
Forms Heroes with their kindred Gods enroled,  
Does Cities Stormed, and routed Aamies Sing,  
And once forgets Maria in the King.  
So when the Mantuan Bard with rapture fired,  
Had sung the Boy, the Roman 
† octavia.  Dame admired,  
And with successful and exalted strains,  
Bewailed Marcellus in his last remains,  
Spread blooming Lilies o'er the Regal Hearse,  
And wept the dead still living in his Verse,  
With sudden and unimitable joy,  
Through Lation Seas he brings the War and Troy:  
Forgets his Sorrows, and disowns his Grief,  
As he with wondrous Verse proclaims the wondrous Chief.   

Such be thy task, and daring thy design,  
Thy Muse as graceful as thy Theme divine,  
Thy Numbers beauteous, and thy beauties strong,  
And artful warmth enforce an artful Song.  
Quick turns of thought, should eager foree reveal,  
No word come slow that speaks thy grateful zeal.  
O let thy Muse her timely joy declare!  
The laurelled King should be the laurelled Poet's care.   

And see him still the glorious Task essay!  
Through groves of Pikes enlarge the doubtful way!  
Now winged with speed to Subjects aid repair,  
Himself their Guardian Angel, and himself a War.  
Through floods and steep ascents the chase pursue!  
Hang on the Rear and keep the Foe in view,  
Whilst Europe sheltered by the Sword he draws  
Adores the Monarch and applauds the Cause.  
Guard him ye sacred Powers, let Angels give  
That help to him, which they from him receive.  
All Heaven is interest'd to preserve his Throne,  
Defending his the Gods defend their own.  
Vain would their Altars and their Incense rise,  
No costly clouds of Smoke ascend their Skies,  
Their Shrines ungifted, and their Temples show,  
Unless he fed the Flames & bribed the Gods below.  
AndThou bright Orb, whose influence yet presides  
O'er thy late charge, and British Counsels guides,  
Behold thy mourning widowed Prince, and see  
Deeds that are past belief, and worthy Thee.  
How grief sits sullen on his brow, and dares  
The Fate of France, and awful silence wears!  
Maria's Image fills his labouring mind,  
And vengeance brood's within, and actions close designed.  
See him alone through gasping Squadrons wield  
His Sword, and bear the War upon his Shield;  
O'er dying Gauls, and mangled Heroes ride:  
The God's, and Fame, and Conquest by his side!  
Maria spreads the Warriors glowing Flame,  
Maria— Thousands fall beneath the Name.  
So when some Lybian Hunter's Spear has slain  
A Lioness in scorched Numidia's Plain.  
And in high Pomp the rugged Trophy bore,  
Which awed and checked the neighbouring flocks before,  
The Partner of her Den expands his Jaws,  
Looks grizly round him, and contracts his Paws,  
Now summons all his Sorrows to the Prize,  
Leaps bounding forth, and grinning as he Flies,  
Then fastening on the bleating flocks, withholds  
The Shepherd's care, and mourns his Consort in the Folds.   

But! oh what matchless Heroe's that, who's arms  
Reflect such dreadful Rays, and horrid Charms?  
Fierce manly beauty through the Warrior reigns,  
And Austria's Worth's collected in his Veins.  
View him distinctly Muse, and boldly trace  
Those features, whence their beams such awful grace.  
Near the Nassovian's side, with artful force  
He reins his Steed, and eggs him to the Course.  
Which Champs and Foams, and joys amidst the slain,  
And bears aloof the towering hopes of Spain. 
Virg. AE●. the XI.   
If Europe amongst her numerous Sons had boar  
But two such Heroes, and such Warriors more,  
The Spaniards, and Batavian Troops had come  
To gallic Towns, and brought the War from home,  
And France invested by their Arms, had mourned  
Her Fate reversed, and wept her Fortune turned.  
And if thy Sons, O Phoebus, can declare  
Unerring Truths, and thy dread Message bear:  
If at thy Shrines by Thee possessed, they date  
The rize of Empires or the change of State.  
Even these, shall yet compel her to restore  
The thefts she ravished, and she snatched before:  
And Lewis with submissive hands resign  
The Spoils of conquered Kingdoms, and decline.  
And happy both, and if my Verse can raise  
Their Fame, immortal as they'll make my lays, 
Virg. Aen. IX.   
No day shall blot their dear remembrance from  
The list of Time, and Ages yet to come:  
Whilst the Nassovian House itself supplies  
Europe with Heroes, and with Gods the Skies:  
Whilst Austrian Princes as their right obtain  
The Western Empire, and the Crown of Spain.   

From Pindus' top, ye sacred Nine repair,  
Let every Muse her costly Spices bear.  
Scarce all their Incense and their Sweets suffice,  
When on their balmy wings an Ormonds Fame must rise.   

With Kings he Conquers, and with Kings shall share  
A Part of Honour, as he parts the War.  
O Isis, Isis! raise thy drooping head  
At his dear name, and quit thy Oozy bed:  
Thy Patron Conquers, and thy Lord's returned,  
For whom thy Streams withdrew, for whom thy Waters mourned.  
And ye learned Bards, whom sacred Isis owns  
For her loved charge, and justly calls her Sons,  
With speed your Incense, and your gifts prepare,  
And pay your praises where ye paid your prayer.  
Much have ye promised, and have much to pay,  
For the dear blessings of this genial day:  
In which kind Heaven its sacred pledge resigns,  
And gives him back, who finished its designs.  
O Sons of Art, let every language show,  
What every land does speak, and every Nation owe,  
Not barely 
† Mr. Addison and Mr. Talden.  Two amidst the numerous Throng  
Adventure forth, and dare a Noble Song.  
Yon Town, behold it, what Stupendous height  
Demands your wonder, and provokes your sight!  
Beneath, rough mounds and craggy Cliffs surprise,  
Above, strong Forts, and spacious Bulwarks rise,  
Nature herself has fixed th' Eternal Base:  
Art and Vauban defend its upper space.  
Out from its flinty Breast, and rocky side  
A Thousand Engines gape, where thousand Deaths reside,  
And in whose womb the close destructions glow,  
And lie unseen though pointed on the Foe:  
From Brazen mouths, they pour their wondrous Hail,  
Sweep Squadrons off, and graze upon the Vale.  
But these, nor thousands more, nor Art, nor Fate,  
Change Ormond's high Resolves, or Force him to retreat.  
What wondrous Deeds his Youthful Hands perform!  
See him through Fate, through Art and Nature Storm!  
Now raise himself, supported by his Spear!  
And up the Steep Ascent the British Lions bear!  
Then forward with redoubled fury press,  
Make Strength and Danger yield to his success;  
And through the flames the burning Ramparts reach,  
And fix Himself, and Standard in the Breach!  
Sing Jo Triumph, lo the Lilies fail!  
Sing Jo Triumph Ormond's Arms prevail!   

But these (my Friend) are wondrous Acts, and claim  
A nobler Muse, and more distinguished flame:  
The task is Worthy, and the Verse should shine  
With tempting lustre, and with Grace like thine.  
A Dorsetts Judgement, and a Dryden's Rage  
Inform, and Eternize the sacred Page,  
Strong nervous Sense in every line appear,  
And Beauty glad the Sight, and Fancy charm the Ear:  
Till what is justly and succinctly wrote,  
Approves the Hero, and the Poet's Thought.   

Oh! if my languid numbers might provoke  
Some lasting piece, and court some finished stroke;  
Or make Thee write what I confusedly feel,  
And try the task my Muse performs so ill!  
Thrice happy I, though with the scribbling rest,  
Exposed to every driuling Coxcomb's jest:  
Martyred on Pies, when every Fopling fills  
His senseless gut, and only reads at meals;  
O Tate, with speed begin th' adventurous Song,  
To Thee alone the sacred rites belong.   

Whilst I again to Chemic flames retire,  
And quit feigned warmth, for true substantial fire:  
Seek Herbs and Plants, and every healing juice,  
And learn their mixture as I learn their use.  
Tyson thy aid, direct my daring course,  
For Nature stoops to thy resistless force,  
Unveils her beauties, and reveals her grace  
To thy discerning Eyes which every secret trace  
O guide me, through the bold pursuit; impart  
Thy healing virtues, and thy wondrous Art,  
As I through World's unknown thy gifts explore,  
Resolved to trifle with a Muse no more.   
FINIS.