LONDON, Printed for Richard Baldwin in the Old-Bailey. 1690.   

On the Ever to be Lamented Death of the Most MAGNANIMOUS and ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE, CHARLES LEOPOLD DUKE of LORRAINE, General of the Imperial Army; Who Died suddenly, April the Eighth 1690  

Hark! hark! What dismal Noise is this I hear?  
What mournful Clangor is't doth pierce my Ear?  
Fame, who had all her Trumpets taught to sounded  
Her General's Praise, with which the Air around  
The spacious Globe so often did rebound;  
Who'd learned the Joyful Echoes to repeat  
The Mighty Victories of Lorraine the Great,  
And had instructed every Charming Grove  
To sing his Conquests, 'steadof softer Love;  
Had gathered all her Breath, loud to proclaim  
The approaching Triumphs of the next Campaine:  
IS if Thunderstruck! at once her Pipes are mute,  
The merry Hautbois, and shrill-throated Flute,  
The Stately Kettle, and Reviving Drum,  
The Harmonious Trumpet, All, at once, are Dumb!  
Dumb! to those Notes which Martial Heat did stir,  
And all their Levets changed to mournful Murr:  
Astonished Hero's drop their sinking Arms,  
And Europe staggers at the dread Alarms.  
The Glorious LORRAINE, Theme of all their Praise!  
The Glorious LORRAINE, who to Life could raise  
A Sinking Empire; To Fresh Youth restore  
The Roman Eagle, almost spent before;  
The Glorious LORRAINE did her Strength renew,  
Warmed with His Heat, She to fresh Victories flew;  
Eclipsed the Turkish Moon by Her high Flight,  
And with her Sable Plumes obscured her Borrowed Light.  
Armed with His Courage, She whole Regions tore  
From the Proud Sultan; forced him to restore  
Her Ravaged Cities to her Ancient Sway:  
Made trembling Bashaws her Great Chief obey,  
As if New Conquests grew with every Day.  
The Glorious LORRAINE taught th' Imperial Arms  
To baffle Fate; Before him flew whole Swarms  
Of Haughty Infidels, who opposed in vain  
That Arm which sowed whole Countries with their Slain.  
But who th' Immortal Laurel shall transfer  
From Budas Walls, to grace His Sepulchre?  
Buda! That single Word sums all Renown;  
A Matchless Bashaw, and a Matchless Town;  
Rise, Mighty Waller, Right the Hero here,  
The Theme's too Great for my poor Muse to bear.  
He that Great LORRAINE's Victories would rehearse,  
Must fill vast Volumes, not confine t' a Verse;  
At's Conquering Feet the prostrate Viziers fall,  
Their Gasping Empire dreads the General.  
Vanquished Seraskiers with their Legions run;  
Like Caesar, where he come, the Day he won.   

Here we must rest, whilst thou, my Muse, dost tell  
His Swords Exploits 'gainsta greater Infidel.  
Leave the proud Banks of Danow's famous Stream,  
Loaden with Trophies of the General's Fame;  
And to the Fertile Rhine let's now advance,  
And view the Panic Fear he brought on France;  
That worse Turk, Tyrannic Monster, who  
Conscious, of plotting Europe's Overthrow,  
'Twas now high time, his Injured Neighbours call,  
To come t' Account with their Great General:  
Lorraine he stole 'gainst all pretence of Law,  
And Ravaged Orange from the Brave Nassaw,  
Encroacht on Spain, endeavoured to tear  
The Imperial Laurel, on his Brows to wear  
Augustus' Power, and with Sword and Fire  
Beyond his Bounds to stretch his Lewd Desire;  
Till he had Planted utter Desolation,  
And made his Neighbours like his Abject Nation:  
The Glorious LORRAIN's chose to Check his Pride,  
And force the Monster in his Cave to hid:  
His well-taught Troops disdain the Monsieurs Arms.  
Monsieur, who Trembles at the Great Alarms:  
Monsieur, who ne'er durst meet this Prince in Field,  
Poisons, and Pistols more than's Sword have killed;  
Inglorious Arts! Scorned by the Great and Brave,  
They seek not Man's Destruction, but to Save.  
In three Month's time Monsieur had felt so much  
The Courage of th' Allies, 'twas time to touch  
On some Design might spoil the Next Campaine,  
And lay the dreaded General of Almain:  
The Fortune of his Sword he justly Fears,  
And the Large Reckoning for old Arrears:  
'Tis done! The Mighty HERO that had Broken  
The Insulting Power of the Turkish Yoke,  
Made the more Barbarous Frenchman Fear his Sword,  
Which daily Reaped more Laurels for its Lord.  
The Empire's Hope, the Darling of the League,  
Is fallen; not by Arms, but by Intrigue!  
Where were ye all ye Powers that attended  
On Virtuous Men, and are the HERO's Friend?  
Can no Kind Genius Rescue from his Fate  
The mighty Conqueror, and prolong his Date?  
But as Great Allexander, fell before,  
Loaden with Triumphs! So, whom We deplore:  
Whose Fate, not th' Empire, but all Europe Mourn;  
And shall on France the Treacherous Fact Return.   

You most Illustrious Hero's which survive  
The Valiant LORRAINE, keep still alive  
His Unmatched Courage, Conduct, Constancy,  
And bear his Name up to Posterity.   

May th' August Emperor, a New General found,  
Matching the Bravery of his Arm, and Mind:  
And the Leagued Princes such success Acquire  
As bears Proportion with their Just Desire.  
May You French Lilies with Your Laurels twine,  
And Victory with all Your Armies Join,  
Till humbled Lewis found his Treasons Vain;  
And LORRAIN's Fortune to outlive LORRAINE.  
Neare twice Ten years, betrusted with Commands  
In Warlike Ships, in midst of Armed Bands  
On all occasions he his Country served,  
And from the Post of danger never swerved;  
Always a Victor, and by Heaven's decree  
Preserved till this his final destiny.  
'Twas neare th' Americ strand when twice 12 days  
The Glorious Sun had guilded with his Rays  
Fair Maia's bosom. In the Frigate Rose  
Ploughing the Ocean to seek out his foes,  
And save his Convoy-Fleet, anon appears  
A Lusty French Ship, after her he stears.  
Twenty odd Guns on either side hauled out  
Seamen and Soldiers full four hundred stout.  
The Rose a Fifth Rate, not full thirty Guns,  
Sixscore brave Lads, burden 3 hundred Tuns.  
And when in Call demands, whence your ship, hoy?  
The Frenchman cried, me tell you by and by  
Strike to the King of France then forthwith cried  
Not, not, Monsieur, we'll first well bang your hide,  
Cried Valiant George, nor shall it ere be told  
To England's King his Ship so cheap I sold.  
Scarce said, when thundering Echoes pierce the sky  
From English Mariners, who French defy.  
Shrill Trumpets, and loud Drums do now Invite  
The dull and timorous to a bloody Fight:  
Than thundering Cannons mixed with Fire and smoke  
Sand ponderous balls, piercing well-seasoned Oak,  
Which in their passage to the briny deeps  
Numbers of souls lull in Eternal sleeps,  
From the Main-topps and quarter-Decks like hail  
In showers of Lead, each other now assail:  
Now might you see the Rigging cut in twain  
And nimble fingers splicing it again.  
Ten thousand splinters from all quarters fly,  
The sails hard Bullets pierce then pass to th' sky:  
Some sponge the Guns, others dire powder bear,  
Loading with chain-shot is another's care:  
All bent to kill, or take, or burn, or both,  
No Room is left for Cowardice or sloth.  
The Curled Ensigns now are cut in twain,  
Straight, daring Sailors put them up again.  
And now th'affrighted fishes from the Deep  
Their Scaly heads advancing up, do peep,  
Above the waves, displeased at such distresses,  
Amazed, return to their unknown recesses;  
Mean while the Combatants with clamours fill  
Heavens cieled Arch in crying out, kill, kill.  
Than dying groans, with shouts commixed are heard,  
And from the scoopers flowing blood appeared.  
Thus for some time the success doubtful was,  
When from the Maintop (o! woe and alas!)  
Some Common hand a Cursed ball did sand,  
Which brought the Noble George unto his end:  
Fixed in his Breast, out goes his fleeting Soul,  
Whilst in his heartsblood, his pale Corpse doth Rowl:  
Yet e'er he went to the Elysium shade,  
To his next Friends breathing his last he said,  
God bless you all, I die, I'me ill all over,  
You're in a good Cause, play the Men therefore.  
Stout Wiggoner the Ships chief Master fell,  
With sundry more of whom if I should tell,  
Too large would be the Theme, let it content  
I'th' Be●● of honour, they their dear lives spent.  
Here should I end, salt tears bids stay my Pen,  
But Common Justice prompts me on again,  
To speak of Valiant Condon, and his Merits,  
Since he the Captains place duly Inherits.  
The sword straight he advancing, doth cry out,  
Brave Lads fight on, we'll have the other bout.  
Your late Commander's dead (brave George) 'tis true,  
My life against the Foe I'll spend with you;  
Do but your parts, we'll make the Monsieur run,  
Or Rost his hide, ere it be set of Sun.  
Fresh Courage now revives in every breast,  
Scorning to think of life or Interest:  
Neare one hour more they thumped the Frenchman's hide,  
Such sort of treatment he could not abide.  
His First, and Second in our view did fall,  
His Ports were made as wide as door in Hall;  
His Main-yard shot, his Men like Pigeons fell,  
From the Maintop; In death's Embraces devil  
Some hundreds more: for in our view we seen  
From bloody decks they their dead Men did draw.  
But that the Poet may not Merit blame,  
For he (as well as others) hath some shame.  
It must not be forgot how Valiant 
* Capt. Ben. Clark of Wappin in the Europian of London, a Mast-Ship.  Clark  
With his ten Guns did prove a gallant spark,  
And though desired forth with to fall astern,  
And safe from blows himself no more concern  
In Bloody Combat, scorned to be dismayed,  
Hawl up the Mainsail to his Men he said,  
And from the quarter-Deck waving on high  
His glittering sword the Frenchman did defy:  
Come if you dare (he cried) we're ready for ye,  
We'll bang your Jacket, or I should be sorry.  
Stand by your Guns, it never shall be told  
To my disgrace in England— New— or old  
I feared a Frenchman, or would e'er permit  
My Captain to be wronged I seeing it:  
Fire on his quarter, you will ●ach him now,  
Place that great Gun exact against his Bough,  
Ply well your small shot, let's do all we can,  
What is the lest, is not the worst of man.  
Thus giving, and receiving on it goes,  
Till the poor Monsieur threshed with heavy blows  
Found he'd'de too much on't, straight about he wheels,  
Finding his hands not half so good as heels.   
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed and sold by most Booksellers of London and Westminster.