A POEM Humbly Addressed to the RIGHT HONOURABLE THE Earl of Portland, etc.  
On his Lordships Return from his Embassy in France.  
Maecenas optimus, atque  
Cocceius, missi magnis de rebus uterque  
Legari, aversos soliti componere amicos.  Hor●●. Serm. 
By Mr Oldmixon.  
LONDON, Printed for Rich. Parker, at the Unicorn under the Piazza of the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, and Peter Buck, at the Sign of the Temple, at the Middle-Temple-Gate in Fleetstreet. 1688.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE Earl of Portland, etc.  
On his Lordships Return from his Embassy in France.  
My Lord,  

Maecenas, Mighty in the Arts of Peace,  
Brought Rest to Rome, and you to Britain's Ease.  
Like his, your Counsels saved the Nation's blood,  
Like his, the Rivals of your Lord Subdued.  
Both made their foes accept the terms they scorned,  
Went forth for Peace, and Both with Peace returned.  
Thus Welcome to your Master's arms you come,  
Thus Welcome to his Realms, as he to Rome.   

What man but you, who know the secret Springs  
Of Prince's Counsels, and the hearts of Kings,  
So soon could tame so turbulent a Mind,  
And calm a Soul as Boisterous as the Wind?  
Make Lewis, spite of his Ambition, yield,  
And boasting Victory, forsake the Field,  
To court the Prince his Envy once abused,  
And sue for Peace, which he before refused.  
You stopped his Glory in its full Career,  
And made him dread the Prospect of the War.  
Your Master's Conduct, and his Might declared,  
Which France with Terror and Amazement heard.  
She thought no more of Universal Sway,  
Of making Empires yield, and Kings obey;  
But trembling for the Countries she possessed,  
She gladly gave up part, to save the rest.  
This who Expected, that had heard her boast,  
How much their freedom should their Champion's Cost?  
Yet all believed her Vast Compliance true,  
Who knew the Treaty was referred to you.  
With William you were taught th' Important arts,  
To win the Mild, and quell the Proudst hearts;  
Bred in his Court, which Fame declared afar,  
The Seat of Wisdom, and the School of War  
In whom but you could every State confide,  
To teach France Justice, and correct her Pride  
And whom but you, my Lord, could William trust,  
To make her pleased with those that made her Just?  
You, who before our Monarch fixed his Choice,  
Had been distinguished by the Public Voice,  
To spread the Nations Glory, and declare,  
We shine in Peace, as we prevail in War.  
And when among our Rivals you appeared,  
They learned to love the people whom they feared.  
The Pomp and Presence of your Entry showed,  
Such Hero's were not formed to be subdued.  
With Rapture on the Glorious Train they gazed,  
And scarce were more delighted than amazed.  
So much they Joy to find their dangers cease,  
You seemed to triumph where you carried Peace.   

And now, methinks, your Chariot I behold,  
Rich in bright Paintings, and the Wheels in Gold;  
Eight afric Steeds that draw the gay Machine,  
With decent Pride resist the Silver Rein.  
In glittering Chariots next your Friends advance,  
Next England's youth, and then the Pomp of France.  
The Heads of Counsels, and the Chiefs of War,  
Attend your coming, and its Lustre share.  
They show their utmost Gallantry in vain,  
And look but mean behind so fine a Train;  
For those whose Honour made 'em Servants there,  
Like Masters of the Camp and State appear;  
Mounted on Steeds that neigh against the bit,  
And decked with Orange Plumes, comtemn the  white.  
Nor had our Britain's quite forgot the days,  
Which ancient Story speaks with so much praise,  
When thro' the Streets of Gaul their Father's road,  
And our fifth Harry led 'em like a God;  
When Conquest waited on his Sword, and Death  
Or Life depended on the Victor's breath;  
When France of nothing but Obedience spoke,  
And Swore Eternal homage to our Yoke.  
This Mighty thought our blooming Hero's warmed,  
And their young Courage with bold Prospects Charmed.  
This fired their Eyes, and made our Rivals fear  
Another Harry might again come there.  
But soon their vain and distant terrors cease,  
For those they feared, were those that brought 'em Peace.  
Forgive the Muse's flight, ye Sons of War,  
Whose Arms have stretched the  Empire far.  
So much to our great Ancestors is due,  
Which we may Pay 'em without wronging you.  
This little Tribute to their Shades allow,  
They sleep, alas! and cannot Conquer now.   

But see! The Grand Procession moves along,  
And stops th' Impetuous Sallies of my Song.  
See France, Renowned throughout the World for Show,  
Confesses she's outdone in Splendour now.  
See, how the Vulgar to their houses cling,  
Hark, how the streets with Portland's Welcome Ring.  
Hark, from the Crowd repeated shouts rebound,  
The Steeds Instructed beat the trembling Ground,  
And every heart grows Cheerful at the sound.  
They bless the Monarch, whom they once blasphemed,  
Their Late unjust and fatal rage Condemned.  
Scarce their own Lewis now is more adored,  
So well the Friend can represent his Lord.  
Great thoughts of him by you, my Lord, they frame,  
And on their rude Insults reflect with shame:  
Abused by those who served their cause with Lies,  
They see their malice, and our foes despise.  
A Rout, which at your Presence fled away,  
As Fogs are scattered by the rising Day.  
They murmured horrid Treason, and withdrew,  
To holes and wild's, to curse their Cause and you.  
You, by whose Vigilance and Restless Toil,  
Our sovereign Reigns in Safety o'er our Isle.  
His foes, that were too wicked to be friends,  
Can only mutter like inveterate Fiends.  
Pests of the world, from every Realm exiled,  
They live to want the Peace they would have spoiled.  
Like Jews to every Region they're a curse,  
But to themselves, and him, they serve a worse.  
Here let my Muse forbear these Sons of Night,  
That serve like Shades to give her Picture Light.   

For now my Fancy is I feel perplexed,  
To draw the shining Scene which follows next.  
To paint you Led by Princes to Versailles,  
There to secure our Friendship to the Gauls.  
And straight before their Master you appear,  
Who in Sublimest State expects you there.  
His Sons, the Prop and Safety of his Crown,  
With their young Queens, stand waiting round the Throne.  
A Crowd of Demigods on either hand,  
All born to Rule, or destined to Command.  
Their Beauty's next in radiant Circles shine,  
And but our own no forms are more divine.  
High on his Seat, like Jove, the Monarch sits,  
Who only when Nassau is named submits.  
Then moving, with a dreadful grace descends,  
To meet with Smiles the man that made 'em friends,  
Swears from this hour the Nations Rage shall cease,  
And cries with William, Let the World have Peace.  
Since the blessed World, at whose command the Light  
Broke forth, and Nature loosed the bonds of Night,  
Since Peace and Pardon were proclaimed from Heaven,  
No sweeter voice was heard, nor blessing given.  
With Ecstasy the Royal Audience hear  
The Kings by you their plighted Friendship swear.  
Nassau's the subject of their high discourse;  
His Justice, Wisdom, and his matchless Force,  
Are all their talk, and every tongue displays  
Its utmost Eloquence to speak his praise.  
Lewis himself at length with pleasure hears  
Those wonders told which he no longer fears.   

This awful Scene of Majesty gives way  
To one, though not as Stately, yet as Gay.  
The Heirs of Empire next your Message hear,  
And in his Favourite our Great Lord revere.  
Their beauteous Princesses your coming wait,  
And wish your business had been more than state.  
Their Eyes betray how much their Hearts adore  
Our Prince, and wish his Friendship something more.  
So soon Great actions will the Greatest move,  
And what begets their Wonder kindle Love.   

This done, the Princes at prodigious cost,  
Strive who shall honour and divert you most.  
But Conde's and Chantilly's Charms Invite,  
To see the Muses, and their Son's delight.  
Conde, (who early had our Victor seen  
Make his Sire yield, who ne'er would yield till then)  
Learned at Seneffe the Hero to esteem,  
And shows by you his vast respect for him.   

In those blessed Paths by ancient Bourbons trod,  
Those Groves, the Temple of the Muse's God,  
Which have so oft with Conde's Triumphs rung,  
By Sarazin and Gallant Voiture sung.  
Hadst thou, O Prior, tried thy tuneful Lays,  
And sung thy Master's, and his Portland's Praise,  
Thy Lyre as Sounding, and thy Voice as sweet,  
The Theme sublimer, and thy Art as great,  
The God had made their names to thine submit,  
And France been taught Subjection too in Wit.   
FINIS.