A Congratulatory POEM To the Right Honourable the Earl of ALBEMARLE, Captain of His Majesty's First Troop of Guards.  
By E. SETTLE.  Praemia Virtutis dat Gloria. 
LONDON: Printed in the Year, 1699.   

A Congratulatory POEM.  

HAil CAESAR's Dear Hephestion; Hail to all  
Those Golden Showers that on Crowned VIRTUE fall.  
Hail to those HONOUR'S, Fate does here dispense;  
The Grati'tude of Indebted Providence.  
True MERIT to the Royal Smiles of Kings  
No empty, no precarious Title brings.  
HE holds by Claim and Right, His equal Due,  
The Smiles of HEAVEN, and heavens Vicegerent too.   

What tho NASSAU (War's finished Circle run)  
By that Great Arm the Work of Fate has done;  
Patron of EMPIRES, Europe's Guardian Lord,  
To the tired Universe has Rest restored;  
Given the World Peace; whilst now no longer spread  
The Branching Laurels for the Conqueror's Head?  

Shall the Great ALBEMARLE less Glorious shine,  
Because Bellona, with a Beam Divine,  
Does now no more His Radiant Temples twine?   
No, though His Martial eagle's tower no more,  
Such GLORY shall even teach his Doves to soar;  
His Post of Honour with that Grandeur filled,  
His very Olive-Wreaths His Brow shall gild.  
Peace, and Inglorious Ease, perhaps may shade  
Ignobler Worth; and poorer Brightness fade.  
Your Lustre a more Lasting Shine must hold:  
'Tis Brass that cankers; there's no Rust in Gold.   

Hold then the Albion Thunder in that Hand:  
Beneath the JOVE let the Young MARS command.  
To peaceful Fields lead forth His glittering Arms,  
With all that Port, and all those Graceful Charms.  
And if again some Foreign Cloud once more  
Shall ruffle to new Storms our Halcyon Shore:  
When War, the Martial Britain's well-played Game,  
Shall call her Heroes to new Fields of Fame;  

Then ALBEMARLE, (an Arm so Early tried)  
A Leading CHIEF, by the Great WILLIAM's Side,  
Shall plume in Full-blown Glory's noblest Pride.   
With all His Native Heat, His Inborn Fire,  
Warmed in that Cause, shall t'all those Heights aspire,  
That fix Great Names above the Power to die.  
The HERO found'st His own proud Immortality.  
But how can my poor Muse attempt to sing  
The Glorious Harvest such Ripe Hopes shall bring?  
It is enough, Great ALBEMARLE all over,  
He'll be HIMSELF— The World can ask no more.   

Let not mistaken Vulgar Ignorance  
(Blind-sighted all) at ALBEMARLE's Advance,  
To see Exalted Worth thus nobly rise,  
Attend his Triumphs with Malignant Eyes;  
As if these Blessings his kind Stars shoured down  
From the too fond Profuseness of a Crown.  

No; the Great CAESAR, that decked Brow to raise,  
First poised the Scales, before he wove the Bays:  
His Smiles to ALBEMARLE not Gives, but Pays.   
For that Rewarded Head this Chaplet found,  
Albion's the Hand, but 'twas Astraea crowned.   

Well he remembers that Rich WORTH he nursed:  
VALOUR he cherishes, but tried it first.  
Early he led him forth to HONOVR's Race,  
Early he showed him Death's and Danger's Face:  
All Fronted, like the Eaglet to the Sun,  
When loosed at Blood the glorious Hunter run.  

Thus tried he saw Him on the Belgic Plain:  
In all the Virtues, in His Bosom reign,  
Saw Godlike COURAGE lead th'Angelical Train.   
A Posting Mercury more swift ne'er rod  
To bear the Mandates of an Angry God,  
Wings on his Feet, and Duty in his Eyes,  
Then ALBEMARLE with WILLIAM's Vengeance flies.  
War was His first-loved Mistress, His first Aim;  
Eager He pushed, and Young to th'Lists He came.  
Through His fired Veins did the warm Hero rise;  
Glowed in His Cheeks, and sparkled in His Eyes.  
Even with a Strength unequal to His Will,  
When wanting Years His Wishes to fulfil,  
Oft would He murmur at the Lazy Sun,  
And bid the tedious Charioteer drive on.  
Tired with His Youth, in Nature's Face He flew:  
Cursed her slow Architect; and envious grew,  
At that quick Blood in our first Parent ran,  
Who at a Word created, stepped out, MAN.  
Let fainter Virtue, from a Chiller Root,  
Bear only a slow Later Autumn Fruit:  
Such Riper Veins more forward Harvests bring:  
GLORY was here the First Fruits of His Spring.  
His Truth, Trust, Honour, all together tried,  
The very Inland of His Heart descried;  
He saw His Virtues whole Discovered Mine,  
Such fair Deserts, the vast Rich Treasure shine.  

And if the Grateful Crown, in a Return  
To such known MERITS, does that Brow adorn,  
So near the Royal Heart the Darling Amu'let worn;   
His own the Jewel, all true sparkling Mould,  
Kind WILLIAM only sets the GEM in Gold.   

What, though, perhaps Court-spight (Pride's natural Defect of Reason, English Frailty all!)  
To see, by the Indulgent Smiles of Power,  
From some Rich Foreign Bed, some Lovely Flower,  
Translated to the Royal Garden, spread  
Its fragrant Sweets, and raise its Beauteous Head;  
Too oft with a cold Look, and murmuring Thought,  
Views the fair Plant with blooming Glories fraught—  
The Mounting ALBEMARLE (His Rise more kind,)  
Sets forth, and Leaves the Rival Crowd behind:  
Throws out the Lagging Racers of the Chase;  
So plumes in Fame, outstrips with such a Grace;  
That here even Smiling Envy, to admire  
Such Trophies, joins the Universal Choir:  
Without one Hissing Snake, one single Sting,  
Does, pleased and charmed, His Io Paeans sing.   


Nor does such Radiant Greatness only bear  
So fair a Light, in His own Higher Sphere;  
In the Court- Galaxy that Leading Star.   
From that Rich Soil does all that Goodness flow;  
That as He Shines Above, He Warms Below.  
To His Command thus his Great Entry makes,  
Whilst not so much a Martial Charge He takes;  
But even a Nursery of Arms: So dear  
The cherished Sons of Mars, His Care so near;  
Already has His kind Protecting Smile  
Fattened their Glebe, and all enriched their Soil.  
As if Resolved, by such Endearing Charms,  
Not to Led only, but Inspire their Arms;  
Not Hands but Hearts his own: So warm a Sway,  
Like the Promethean Fire, would even give Souls to Clay.  
That Animating Goodness in their Head,  
Where shall not such Commanding HONOUR Led?  
Whilst this all powerful Influence sits above,  
Life of their Arms, shall His Great Genius move:  
So the High Spheres their vast tuned Measures go,  
Whilst Seasons, Days, and Years, Dance after 'em below.   

The Helm of Glory in such Steering Hands,  
'tis thus the Truly-Noble Chief commands:  
He Marches his Battalions to the Field,  
In War their Leading Fire, in Peace their Shield.  
'Twas thus of Old, did the Celestial Hand,  
Guide his Loved Israel to the Promised Land.  
One while, in a kind Cloud's refreshing Shade,  
He Health and Shelter, even in Deserts, made.  
Another, did his brighter Beams display;  
In his own Native, and more Heavenly Ray,  
Above 'em like a Fiery Pillar rod:  
Their Light, or umbrage; and in both a GOD.   

But were His Shining Trophies infinite;  
Not their whole Blaze one Spark of Pride can light.  

His Wreaths not Noblier won, but worn as well:  
Never such Height was so accessible.  
Glory His Breast can Fill, but never Swell.   
No Greatness so familiar; and so free  
No Temple to the Humblest Votary.  
Here the Bend Knees that open Ear obtain;  
Desert ne'er Pleads, nor Justice Sues in vain.  
That Genuine Sweetness, all that Smiling Air—  
Sure, the whole Grace's Throne is founded There.   

Here, Muse, His Praise like thy Parnassus' frame:  
On two Twin Mounts of Greatness build His Fame:  
VIRTUES to lead a Court, as well as Camp;  
And teach 'em HONOUR of the Noblest Stamp.   
FINIS.