PEACE TRIUMPHANT. OR, A Congratulatory Poem. To Celebrate the Unspeakable Benefits and Blessings of Peace, together with some Grateful Reflections upon King William the III. His Excellent Majesty's first coming to the Crown, as a happy Instrument in the Hand of Divine Providence, to Settle the Affairs of the Nation, and with the Hazard of his own Life to deliver us from near Approaching Ruin.  
Written by Tho. Cheeseman, A. M. And formerly of Pemb. Coll. Oxon. Preacher of the Gospel now in East-Ilsly, Bark-shire.  

GIve me a Quill, snatched from the Golden Wing  
Of some bright Seraphim, that I may Sing  
Loud Praises to the God of Israel,  
Who doth in Heavens Starry Palace dwell:  
Let the whole World his glorious Works declare,  
And all adore his Majesty with fear.  
The Seas proud Roaring Waves are in his Hand,  
He chains them up with Fetters made of Sand:  
The Sun that great resplendent King of Day,  
Compared with him, is but a lump of Clay;  
Yea if a thousand Suns in one could join  
His dazzling brightness would them all outshine.  
Hail, Lightning, Thunder, Winds that fiercely blow,  
At his commanding Word both come and go;  
The Nations of the Earth are in his Eyes  
But as a poor despised swarm of Flies.  
Their murmuring Tumults he can quickly still,  
And crush the stoutest that shall cross his Will:  
If he but hid his Face, the People mourn,  
But when he Smiles, their Comforts all return:  
The raging Storms of War are over blown,  
And Peace appears Triumphant in her Throne:  
Her Head with Olive-boughs is fairly crowned,  
Chaste Turtles flutter all about her round:  
Her Garments made of Rain-bows to behold,  
With greater Lustre shine than Cloth of Gold;  
Her Breath perfumes the Air, where e'er she comes,  
Like costly Spices, or Arabian Gums;  
Her Eyes resemble Stars, that still dispense,  
Heart-chearing Beams, and precious influence;  
Her Lips with Balsam and rich Nectar flow,  
Under her Feet sweet blushing Roses grow,  
And painted Violets lift up their Heads,  
As newly starting from their fragrant Beds:  
Mirth, Joy and Gladness wait upon this Queen,  
And youthful Pleasure clothed all in Green;  
An Adamantine Chain is in her Hand,  
Binding the Hearts of Men at her Command:  
Her charming Beauty sweetly does entice,  
Her smile alone creates a Paradise.  
Where ere she looks abroad or turns her Face,  
Wrath and Contention fly away apace:  
Weapons no more with purple Blood are stained,  
Heart-conquering Love the Victory has gained;  
No quarrels now, but harmless, free from Crime,  
Such as may happen in the Summertime;  
When murmuring Streams of Water seem to chide,  
To find our Fields dressed up with too much Pride,  
Or Flowers contend which shall the sweetest smell,  
Or Birds in Music, which can most excel:  
Music that Lulls the stubborn Winds asleep,  
And gently strokes them till they silence keep.  
The Stratagems of War are changed quite  
Into Devices used for Delight,  
To cheat the Feathered Fowl, or Scalely Fish,  
Which furnish Riot with some costly Dish:  
And look what Skill the best Commanders show,  
Ordering their Men, when they to Battle go;  
The same must Cooks now use with greater Care,  
Setting each Mess in Order to prepare  
A Dinner for nice Gallants at some Feast,  
So as to please the fancy of each Guest.  
No Trumpets sound, no hollow rattling Drum,  
Is heard to strike the neighbouring Echoes dumb:  
Nor thundering Canons groan, that so much Death  
Should be accomplished by their fatal Breath;  
Bright Swords to Ploughshares turned, can only wound  
By making Furrows in the fruitful Ground.  
Armour hangs Rusty, by the naked Walls,  
None for his idle Pike or Musket calls:  
But rather take such Instruments in Hand  
As serve to cut the Corn, or Till the Land:  
No Warlike Troops the Traveller molest,  
But Shepherds in the Shade lie down to rest  
Their weary Limbs, and there in Safety sleep,  
Or when they Watch their bleating Flocks of Sheep  
They sound their Oaten-Pipes, and loudly sing,  
Till winding Valleys with their Echo ring:  
The Tradesman in his Shop may live at Ease,  
And Ships securely Sail upon the Seas;  
No sad Alarm, or disturbing Noise  
Of Warlike Arms, shall spoil the Scholar's Joys;  
But in pursuit of Learning may go on,  
Till he can climb the Top of Helicon.  
Orpheus, they say, in Music had such Skill,  
That he could Tame fierce Tigers at his Will;  
The Hound would Court the Hare, and Lions play  
With tender Lambs, forgetful of their Prey:  
This witty Fiction does to us declare,  
What Miracles by Peace performed are;  
By which the hardest Hearts are mollified,  
Wrath reconciled, and Malice laid aside,  
Oh! that these Halcyon Days might always last,  
And no black Cloud our Sun should overcast:  
Let all grow Wise before it be too Late,  
And prise Gods Mercies at a higher Rate;  
Let Dovelike Meekness and Compassion Reign,  
And tenderhearted Charity restrain  
Bitter revengeful Thoughts, let every one  
Weep for his Brother's Faults, and mend his own.  
Let Moderation sad Divisions heal,  
And cool the Heat of our mistaken Zeal;  
Let none in Oil and Butter steep his Words,  
While spite within is sharper than drawn Swords;  
Rather let us in weighty Truths Unite;  
And not for painted Ceremonies Fight;  
Let none be lifted up with swelling Pride,  
As if he thought in Sol's bright Coach to Ride;  
Forgetful of the dark and silent Grave  
Where he e'er long a Bed of Dust must have.  
Let none his Soul for short-lived Pleasures sell,  
Such as may cost him endless Pains in Hell;  
Let Riot no more turn Men in to Swine,  
Or Envy at his Neighbours Good repine:  
Nor let the Covetous Worldling any more  
That Death may prove him Rich, choose to live Poor,  
Let all Repent of such provoking Crimes,  
'Tis Reformation that must mend the Times.  
So shall the Earth bring forth a large Increase,  
And give us Plenty to maintain our Peace;  
Both Hill and Vale, shall laugh with store of Corn,  
And pleasant Fruits our loaded Trees adorn;  
While People all with Health and Safety blessed;  
In the soft Bosom of sweet Concord rest:  
The Name of Peace makes Music, all Rejoice,  
And welcome that with one consenting Voice.  
Loud Bells proclaim their Joy from Steeples high,  
And Flaming Bonfires kiss the Starry Sky:  
While Conduits flowing with rich sparkling Wine,  
Of public Gladness give a costly Sign.  
But as when Morning, not yet fully dressed,  
Peeps from her Rosy Chamber in the East,  
Those glistering Pearls of Dew that hang upon  
The Blades of Grass, are melted soon and gone;  
Though for a time they make a goodly show,  
'Tis thus with all our Comforts here below:  
The best Estate on Earth is like a Flower,  
That flourishes and fadeth in an Hour:  
Then let not present Joys too much entice,  
Or make us fond to build upon the Ice;  
Nor may such cheating Shadows us allure,  
As if they were for ever to endure:  
But let us set our Hearts on things above,  
A Treasure there is worth our dearest Love;  
Where Christ, the King of Saints, in Glory Reigns,  
And for his Church Eternal Rest remains.  
Amidst both Foreign and Domestic Foes,  
Who can but wonder at our safe Repose?  
That sounding Trumpets should no more awake  
Bloodthirsty War, his Sword in hand to take;  
But lovely Concord with heart-winning Charms,  
Doth Silence every where the noise of Arms.  
Next unto God, I boldly may conclude,  
We own the Tribute of our Gratitude,  
For this Transcendent Gift, to Him alone,  
Whom Providence has placed in the Throne.  
Were I a Poet whose rich Fancy stood  
Up to the Chin in the Castalian Flood;  
Great Caesar! had I now an hundred Tongues,  
A Throat of Brass, and Adamantine Lungs,  
Yet could I not your Virtues all rehearse,  
Much less contain them in this narrow Verse.  
Your hatred of Profaneness, flaming Zeal  
For true Religion; nor may I conceal  
Your Military Skill, and Courage bold,  
Venturing through showers of Bullets to uphold  
The Cause of God; your choice Fidelity,  
Temperance, Justice, and sweet Clemency:  
Those rare Perfections which divided shine  
In other Men, and make them half Divine,  
In the fair Temple of your Royal Breast,  
They all concentre, and take up their rest.  
That prudent Monarch in whose Nuptial Bed,  
The White Rose grew united to the Red;  
Or his Progenitors, which did advance  
Victorious Ensigns in the Heart of France,  
Never such Honour, nor such Glory wan,  
As you in managing this War have done.  
England oppressed with a load of Grief,  
Not knowing where to find the least Relief,  
Was like a Ship without a Pilot driven  
By angry Winds and Waves; she cried to Heaven  
And Earth for Succour, at a Time of Need,  
You heard the cry, and pitying her with speed;  
You but came over, and you over-came  
Whole Armies with the Terror of your Name;  
You freed this Nation in a happy Hour,  
From Popish Slavery, and lawless Power.  
Our great Physician, Wise and Fortunate,  
To heal the Bleeding Wounds of Church and State.  
Most of those Conquerors which have such glory,  
Both in the Roman and the Grecian Story,  
Did but for Gold, or vain Ambition Fight,  
But your just Arms do still maintain the Right  
Of poor oppressed People, and the Blood  
You shed, is but the Price of public Good.  
What Wonders have been wrought by Sea and Land  
From time to time by the Almighty's Hand,  
Your Sacred Person to Defend and Save,  
From going down to an untimely Grave?  
To strike at Heaven's Darling is but lost  
Labour, Your Foes have found it to their cost:  
The Lord of Hosts, great King, will be your Friend,  
While you his Church, and Gospel-Truth Defend;  
The Golden Shield of His Protecting Grace,  
Will be your strongest Guard in every place.  
Under the Wings of Mercy you shall dwell,  
Secure from all the Plots of Rome and Hell:  
Success shall never fail, then may your Hand  
Exceed the Work performed in Ireland,  
Upon that Day when Boyn's fair Silver Flood,  
Did blush for shame, as stained with so much Blood;  
Your Valour then gave such a fatal Blow  
To self-exalting France, as brought her low:  
Nor does your Matchless Bounty come behind  
The high Heroic Courage of your Mind;  
Those Banished one's in France by you restored,  
How will they bless and magnify the Lord,  
For prospering your just Arms! What Floods of Tears  
Have been dried up by you? what vexing Cares  
And heavy loads of Life-consuming Grief,  
Your Charitable Hand bringing Relief,  
Has taken off from many, and so turned  
The sad Complaints of those that long had mourned,  
Into Triumphant Songs of joyful Praise,  
Above the Stars this shall your Honour raise?  
But must I strive in vain to count those Flowers,  
That paint the pleasant Springs perfumed Bowers;  
Or tell the Fish that swim in Crystal Floods,  
Or all the Leaves that grow in shady Woods;  
That were an easier Task, than in this place  
To reckon all your Works of Princely Grace:  
You are the only Phoenix of this Age,  
All other Princes coming on the Stage  
Of Action, matched with you, but Ciphers are,  
You the great Figure both in Peace and War.  
Happy the Royal Womb that brought you forth;  
Happy the Country where you had your Birth:  
You to that People bring a greater Joy,  
And more Defence, than Hector did to Troy.  
Carthage no more of Hannibal shall boast,  
Nor Italy of Marius, though the Host  
Of Fierce Invading Cymbrians slain by him,  
Made Neighbouring Fields, with Streams of Blood to Swim:  
Nor may bold Scipio with you compare,  
Whom Virgil calls the Thunderbolt of War.  
These must give place to you, your Praises still  
The Silver Trumpet of loud Fame shall fill.  
Without a bleeding Heart none can declare  
What were the late Calamities of War;  
Allecto Periwiged with hissing Snakes,  
And her Two Sisters from the Stygian Lakes,  
Coming abroad, might Dance for Joy to see  
Their Rage exceeded by French Cruelty.  
When Towns in their own Ruins buried lay,  
And Wealthy Provinces became a Prey  
To proud, oppressing Lewis, whose desire  
Was to fill all with Storms of Blood and Fire;  
Pale-visaged Death might as in Triumph Ride;  
Those which the Sword did spare, by Famine died;  
Both Young and Old went to the Grave as fast  
As Leaves in Autumn from the Trees are cast:  
But Your great Wisdom doth sweet Peace restore,  
And call back Plenty banished before.  
Instead of Battles, Banquets may abound,  
Instead of Trumpets, Harp and Viol. sound,  
Instead of mournful Cries, soft Music may  
Charm listening Ears, and drive sad Care away.  
Tyrant's have dreadful Desolations made,  
While they their Neighbours by strong force invade;  
All Law and Civil Justice, treading down,  
But You have gotten a Resplendent Crown  
By doing Good, and acts of Grace Divine,  
Which make you like the Sun itself to shine.  
WILLIAM the First by Arms his Throne did gain,  
But You the Third, as King of Hearts shall Reign:  
He by the Dint of Sword his Right did prove,  
You Conquer by the Potent Charms of Love.  
Sworn Enemies of Piety and Peace,  
They needs must be whose Heads can never cease  
To hatch black Treason, and his Death conspire,  
Whose Worth none can Express, all must Admire.  
Atlas, as learned Poets used to fain,  
Did the whole Weight of Heavens Frame sustain,  
Thus as a Golden Pillar You now stand  
Bearing up all our Hopes throughout the Land:  
If Hellish Malice should procure your Fall,  
'Twould soon make way for England's Funeral.  
The Sky ploughed up shall yield large Crops of Corn,  
And glistering Stars this dunghill Earth adorn:  
Proteus his scalely Flocks shall all resort  
To Flowery Meadows, there to play and sport.  
Moist Streams of Water shall to Fire turn,  
And the salt Sea like Aetna's Furnace burn.  
All Nature's Statutes shall be changed quite,  
The Night shall turn to Day, and Day to Night,  
Sooner than your Renowned Works shall be  
Lost or Forgotten by Posterity.  
Your Royal Name shall make our Annals swell,  
And in our thankful Minds for ever dwell.  
Let then the King of Heaven on you pour  
The choicest Blessings in a Fruitful Shower,  
That Children yet unborn may Celebrate  
The Day when first you wore the Crown in State:  
Let all Success and Happiness attend  
Your Peaceful Reign, and Prospered to   
THE END.   

LONDON: Printed for Tho. Parkhurst, at the Bible and Three Crowns, in Cheapside, 1697.