A POEM UPON His Majeyst's Happy Return FROM IRELAND.  

WElcome Victorious Prince, once more  
From conquered Ireland, to the British shore.  
How soon has thy Illustrious Name  
eclipsed the vaunting Caesar's famed?  
For thou art only He  
That went, and viewed, and overcame.  
Fresh Laurels here attend  
The Nations sovereign, and the Nation's Friend,  
Rewafted once again,  
endangered England from her fears to free.  
The wary Schombergh fought by Rule and Art,  
And cautiously spun out the time;  
But when heroic WILLIAM came to act his Part,  
Success seemed only lodged in Him;  
And all Pretence of Right,  
From the beloved of heaven took speedy flight.  
One would have thought,  
That Richard would have Henry fought:  
He that so oft had given out  
What he would do in person, more than Castor stout.  
But his amazing Guilt  
Before decided, did the Issue dread;  
And to preserve Anointed Head,  
In Consternation from the Danger fled.  
Danger, That Princely WILLIAM seemed to Court,  
And She by chance approached;  
But having once in View  
Th' undaunted Awe that sat upon his Brow,  
Danger itself with-drew, and only touched  
The Daring Venturer, Heav'ns kind power to show.  
Then say no more,  
That Fortune rules the World, or that Her power  
To Royal Thrones extends:  
She has no share  
In the Success of doubtful War;  
Nor is it on Her frowns  
That the Repose of Rule depends.  
Long, though her Champions in her weak Defence,  
'Gainst heaven have brandished Human Eloquence;  
They need not Imp their Icarus wings  
From soaring Flight to fall  
Upon the Rocks of Learned Ignorance.  
Trace but Heav'nsConduct, they shall find,  
It was not Chance,  
Or any Change that Fortune sends,  
That hastened James's sudden fall,  
Or Potent WILLIAM did advance,  
To sovereign State, and Dignity of Kings.  
Let 'em to fresh Remembrance call,  
How oft with Shields of Angels covered over,  
In dismal Fight he stood  
' midst Peals of Thunder, and in showers of Blood.  
How but of late  
The hasty Bullets lost their Sulphur'd Heat,  
And tamely tumbled at his Horses Feet.  
How disappointed Treachery combined  
By Pious Plots, and Holy Undermines  
Of those that take, never swallow Oaths,  
To ruin all his Great Designs,  
And blast the Labours of his pondering Mind:  
But disappointed still, to show  
They moil in vain, that muse his Overthrow.  
Hard Case howe'er, to be betrayed at home  
By the black Tools of FRANCE and ROME,  
While he was forced abroad, the Stygian bogs to cleanse,  
And free the Passage to assist his Friends:  
As if 'twere still the noblest Hero's Fate,  
That they must visit Hell  
Before they can be Great.   

All these Reflections might convince  
Th' unthinking Jacobites unruly Sense,  
That still the great unfinished Work goes on;  
Not to Perfection to be brought,  
But by the Princely WILLIAM's Hand alone,  
Th' Imperial Eagle his long wished for Leisure waits,  
And all the late afflicted States,  
And wronged Princes sand to him for Aid,  
To wreck their just Revenge  
On him that on their fair Dominions preyed.  
All this the gallic Diomed  
That has so long his Horses fed  
With Human Blood, and Orphans Bread,  
With Terror does behold,  
And throws about his ill-got Gold  
To tempt unwary Fools.  
Affrighted Lewis dreads the Storm  
To see the Mettl'd English Arm,  
And maugre all his feigned Ironies,  
Quits distant Conquests and unites his Force.  
Thus the alarmed Blood doth change it's Course,  
And to the Heart, when once distempered, flies.  
And now, what can we less portend  
But that those laurels, fresh and green,  
Planted by our victorious Monarchs Hand,  
In his Auspicious Reign will grow  
To Cedar height, and bear  
New Trophies every Year?  
His laurels are not common; yet if such  
Scorn the Celestial Thunders touch,  
When prepared for his Brow;  
We must not then allow,  
That France's Thunder more than Heav'ns can do.  
May then each Year of his long Reign,  
Still be crowned,  
With successses far and near;  
And every day be still renowned  
With some splendid Act of Glory,  
To enlarge our Monarchs Story;  
For Years, the chiefest in Renown,  
Live by the Princes famed, and not their own.    

London, Printed for Richard Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-Lane, 1690.