A CONGRATULATORY POEM To His Highness THE PRINCE of ORANGE, Upon His ARRIVAL At LONDON.  

HAIL happy Troynovant's Triumphant Walls,  
Hark how thy Princely Guardian Genius calls.  
Fair Albion rouse thy Head, and mourn no more,  
Great NASSAW thy Palladium shall restore.   


Yes, Mighty Prince, our Fear and Danger's fled,  
Error and Ignorance by Thee struck dead,  
No more th' old Chaos o'er our World shall spread.   
Thy Word bids there be Light, and straight a Ray  
All Heavenly bright, calls forth a Newborn Day.  
By Thee our new Commanded Glories shine:  
That great Creation Work is only Thine.  
So when on Man th'All-smiling Power looks down,  
And does, with unexpected Blessings, crown;  
Delighted and amazed Mortality  
With bended Knee, and with uplifted Eye,  
Owns the bright Providence from whence they flowed;  
Each Smile a Bliss, and in each Bliss the God.   

Methinks I heard the Belgic Lion roar,  
Landed in Triumph on the British Shoar;  
Strength in his Paw, and Terror in his Brows,  
To bid his Three Dull Couching Brothers Rouse:  
Off from their Necks their Long-bourne Fetters shake,  
From their Lethargic  Philters wake.  
Yes, Great Bohemian Race, thy Banner's spread,  
And th' English Arms by Mighty NASSAW led,  
Break the long Leagues with Mahomet and Hell;  
And the World's Ravager, Europe's Monster quell.  
Ambition's Alldevouring Rapine crush,  
And into Peace his Dragoon Bonner's hush:  
T'eternal Night his conjured Devils hist,  
ORANGE the haunted World's great Exorcist.  
Great TRVTH's Foundation set once more upright,  
And wash the Sanguined Fleur-de-Lisses white.  

Go on, Bold PRINCE, and in that Cause Divine,  
That Holy War, a brighter Hero shine,  
Than Boloign's GODFREY crowned at Palestine.   
Thus to Great BRITAIN her lost Right restore,  
Installed proud Europe's Arbiter once more.   

Now England's Champion to thy just Applause,  
To wreathe Thee Chaplets worthy of thy Cause,  
Triumphal Arches, Pyramids,— Alas!  
Too mean Records are Monuments of Brass.  
Thy Victory stands crowned with such Success,  
That even our Unborn Heirs thy Name shall bless.  
Temples themselves thy Monuments shall turn,  
And thy rich Sweets even with our Incense burn:  
So fragrant, so perfumed, thy hallowed Praise,  
Ligh't by heavens bright'st Altar Coal shall blaze.  
The very Wind, that drove the World around  
Cranmer and Ridley's Dust, thy Deeds shall sound.  
Even the old Martyr's Blood shall Tribute bring,  
And 'midst their Cries to Heaven, thy Trophies sing.  
For thou'st the Channel damned, and that Rich Gore  
Shall now bedew the sprinkled Globe no more.   

That Conqueror, whose soaring Eagles flew  
So high, that but to Look, was to Subdue,  
Must Veil his Bays to thine. For Oh! Behold  
The SACRED VOLUME on thy Crest Enrolled.  
And whilst thy Standart does those Arms supply,  
No Wonder that thy Victories outfly  
The Roman Julius, or the Macedon Youth:  
So weak is Mortal Power, t'Immortal Truth.   

But as Record makes the Renown more High,  
Nobly to use, than gain a Victory:  
There there's thy loudest Trump, whose Echoing Sound  
Shall even to both the distant Poles rebound.  
No sooty Spark of black Ambition's Fire,  
Thou dost to Glory, not to Thrones aspire.  
Safe the Great JAMES, heavens dear Vicegerent, stands  
In thy Victorious, but Protecting Hands.  
No Forty Eights abhorred detested Shame:  
But a bright Page of pure unsullied Fame.  
Caesar may still live Blest: No ravished Gem,  
To rifle or deface the Diadem.  
And if a humane Step his erring Foot has trod,  
Thou'dst but refine the Man, to reinstate the God.   

Yet British Mother Church, 'tis now thy Day,  
The Golden Hour that brings thy Game in Play.  
Now show the Difference, in their Veins there runs,  
Betwixt thy Trueborn, and thy Hagar Sons.   
FINIS.