A POEM Occasioned by the Happy Discovery of the Horrid and Barbarous Conspiracy to Assassinate his most Sacred Majesty, and to encourage an Invasion from France.  

NOW Blessings on you all, ye Powers above,  
Ye flaming Ministers of mighty Love;  
You whose untainted Loyalty withstood  
The fiercest efforts of th' old Plotting Brood;  
Whose Host embatled under Michael's Care,  
Drove from Heavens fluid Plains the first rebellious War.  
Once more your guarding Influence we own,  
So oft, and now so critically shown.  
And oh! inspire my Song, your Charge I sing,  
Your darling Charge, to shield a Pious King.  
Say then how partial Heaven hath been of late,  
In showering Blessings on our sinking State?  
Did Treachery e'er so justly claim its aid,  
Since that, by which both Devils and Hell were made?   

Scarce oftener to the chosen Seed ye went,  
With such kind merciful Commissions sent,  
They found the Father more in Chastisement.  
Midst Aegypt's Plagues raised by the powerful Rod,  
And all the great Artillery of God;  
Goshen enjoyed its light and health, was free  
From the dire Plagues, but mourned in Slavery.   

More blessed our Isle, which fruitful Peace hath chose  
The safe Retirement of her long repose:  
Alarmed by distant dangers only, she  
Sits safe i'th' Consecrated Circle of her Sea.   

Through Deserts wast great Joshua's Journey lay,  
Ye marched i'th' Front, and made unnatural day;  
A second Darkness between Aegypt's Host  
And his ye spread, in which all tracks were lost.   

Oft for Great William you perform the same,  
And guard him through the dangerous Path● of Fame;  
Where few dare follow, and where none can aid,  
But you, that are of liquid texture made,  
As Air invulnerable.  
And scarcely You could the swift Globe divert,  
So truly levelled at his noble Heart:  
For well ye knew with what impetuous force  
The missive Death moves in its rapid course;  
Since when it drove you to a forced retreat,  
And in God's Cause ye endured a short defeat;  
But ye did ward it, and the tender Blow  
Made the nice Miracle much greater show;  
The Azure silk a nobler colour found,  
The deep rich Purple of the Royal Wound.  
Unarmed that day, like Truth, the Monarch stood,  
His Army pale, He red with Rage and Blood,  
Quick through his Troops, as their own Fears, he passed,  
And turned those Fears to generous Rage at last.   

Ye left not oftener your increasing Theme  
Of Hallelujahs, even to secure Him,  
Who much for Valour, much for Troubles famed,  
Long o'er the Jews, a murmuring People reigned;  
Though doubly he th' Almighty's Impress wore,  
Good after his own Heart, and next to him in Power.  
Nor great those dangers which that Prince did run,  
Since all Saul's Plots however nicely spun,  
Scaped not the watchful Friendship of the Son:  
That noble Son, who scorned a Ruffians name,  
For his Sire's Crown, or his own future claim.  
Yet ne'er did Treachery in Saul's Breast appear,  
Till Heaven had left it and all Hell was there:  
But not even then would he by Proxy kill,  
He boldly dared to act what he durst will;  
No meaner hand the pointed Javelin threw,  
Than that which Saul himself at Gilboa slew.   

Horrid indeed and new, that great intent,  
Which once against our Senate-House was meant;  
Had not You timely interposed your aid,  
What a wide Golgotha had then been made!  
There Stones, Skulls, Rafters, mangled Limbs, would form  
The dire ingredients of th' unnatural storm.  
Royal and Noble blood had mingled there,  
And fallen a dismal shower through the dark wounded Air.   

But then our Island feared no foreign Chain,  
From rising France, or from declining Spain.  
Now Hell improved hath raised our danger higher,  
Freedom with its Derender must expire.  
Freedom! by all the Sweets of thy dear Name,  
By all thy Charms, stronger than those of Fame,  
Or Beauty, hear me swear; I'd choose to live  
Obscure, but blest with thy Prerogative,  
Rather than suffer the grand Monarch's Fate,  
And to become so Guilty, and so Great.  
Like Hannibal, he on our Coast appears,  
And who his Faith less than the Punic fears?  
In whose Cause e'er the Conquest he had won,  
The Tyrant had enslaved us in his own.   

Degenerate Offspring of a Nation free,  
Tenacious of its ancient Liberty!  
That could that noble Privilege betray,  
Though the vast Bribe both Indies were to pay.  
When impious Corah did of old rebel,  
Alive the Wretch translated was to Hell;  
And Corah's be their Fate,  
And reeking in a murdered Monarch's gore,  
Can meet their Brother Cutthroats on our shore.  
If her own Sons, poor Albion thus expose,  
What would she not have felt from foreign Foes?  
Who can describe their Miseries, that at once  
Must suffer under Jesuits and Dragoons?  
Those would our Conscience, these our Bodies sway,  
And even to sigh, would be to disobey.  
The toiling Slave must all his gains disburse  
To the Priest's tricks, or barbarous Soldiers force.  
If any could from wretched Albion fly,  
No Kingdom could afford him Liberty,  
All Europe must submit to the hard Slavery.  
Mild was the Oppression in the Conquering Reigns,  
Of Romans, Saxons, Normans, or the Danes.  
Few Arts they knew destructive of Mankind,  
By Rome, and France, and Hell of late refined.  
What Blood had stained and swelled the blushing Thames,  
Reflecting gloomily Augusta's Flames.  
The bribed Artillery too fierce Balls had sent,  
And glowing to assist the raging Element.  
Thus had the great Emporium of our Isle,  
Flamed for its Lord, a mighty Funeral Pile.  
What Plague, and Fire, in two years had not done,  
Had been performed now in two days alone.  
Slow Desolation, and a lingering Fate  
Had surely seized the distant parts, though late.  
Rapes, Plunders, Contributions, than had been  
Throughout the unhappy Isle, one dismal Scene.  
So 'tis with Men in an acute Disease,  
Whom tokened Plagues, or fiery Fevers seize;  
Quick as their trembling Pulse, or panting Breath,  
Are the approaches then of sudden Death.  
But when Fate forms a tedious Blockade,  
It's Hectic steps are by Consumptions made:  
The fleshy Outworks by degrees consume,  
And Skeletons receive the Conquerour's doom.   

Say next, what dread on your dim Foreheads sat,  
When ye beheld so near th' impending Fate.  
In slow flat Notes ye mournful Anthems sung,  
Harmonious Grief dwelled on each trembling tongue.  
Did ye not fear, as Angels can, for Him,  
Whom Tyrants dread more than their Subjects them?  
For him, who knows no fear, but whose Defence  
In War is Valour, in Peace Innocence;  
For him, whose shining Sword with constant Pains,  
Cuts through the Gordian Knots of servile Chains:  
Who's Great, to be more Good in Victory,  
He Wounds to heal, and Conquers to set free.  
Doubly his hand prevails, when armed in War,  
In Peace, when lifted up in pious Prayer.  
So Moses from the Hill both Hosts surveyed  
With the same warmth great Joshua fought, he prayed;  
Fresh Courage from his Arm each Soldier took,  
Faintness his Limbs, and Fear his heart forsook;  
The Powers that in those Chiefs divided lay,  
United in our King, secure the glorious day.  
So Just, so Good, so Brave, to him alone  
All such shall be compared, himself to none.  
This know the Kings, whose truest Characters  
Will be our generous Hero's in reverse.   

Let then Blasphemous Epithets Proclaim,  
The mighty Monarches loud, but blasted, Fame;  
The Gallic Muses Trophies raise in vain,  
False is th' Applause, their Numbers all profane.  
The subject will require true Poetry,  
Where all the nauseous Praise must Fiction be.  
Extorted Gold th' Oppressor's Power doth raise,  
That purchases his Conquests, and their Praise;  
Let breathing stone express the looks divine,  
And Persian Fires around the Marble shine:  
If open War and noble dangers call,  
Cold as his Statue fits the Original;  
By other hands he gains mean Victories,  
And only dares in Person Tyrannize.  
Whilst Mighty William in a juster Cause,  
His Conquering Sword with nobler Anger draws;  
And dares the utmost Malice of his Foes,  
In the wide Field his Rightful Claim t' oppose.   
FINIS.   

Published by Elizabeth Whitlock near Stationers-Hall, 1696.