While still she chid the coming spring, She wish'd the victor's glory less. 'Tis chang'd; 'tis gone: sad Britain now Happy, if toils may break his woe, In martial din she drowns her sighs, Go, mighty prince, let France be taught, How constant minds by grief are tried; How great the land, that wept and fought, When William led, and Mary died. Fierce in the battle make it known, Belgia indulg'd her open grief, While yet her master was not near; With sullen pride refus'd relief, And sat obdurate in despair. As waters from their sluices, flow'd Unbounded sorrow from her eyes: To earth her bended front she bow'd, And sent her wailings to the skies. But when her anxious lord return'd, That freedom which all sorrows claim, If her regrets should waken thine. To cure thy woe, she shows thy fame; Lest the great mourner should forget, That all the race, whence Orange came, Made Virtue triumph over Fate. William his country's cause could fight, And with his blood her freedom seal: Maurice and Henry guard that right, For which their pious parents fell. How heroes rise, how patriots set, Thy father's bloom and death may tell: Excelling others these were great: Thou, greater still, must these excel. The last fair instance thou must give, Thy virtue, whose resistless force For Britain's sake, for Belgia's, live: Vanquish again; though she be gone, Whose garland crown'd the victor's hair; And reign, though she has left the throne, Who made thy glory worth thy care. Fair Britain never yet before Breath'd to her king a useless pray'r: Fond Belgia never did implore, While William turn'd averse his ear. But should the weeping hero now Her face with thousand beauties blest, Her mind with thousand virtues stor'd, Her power with boundless joy confest, Her person only not ador'd: Yet ought his sorrow to be check'd; She was instructed to command, But oh! 'twas little, that her life Beyond where matter moves, or place From Mary's glory, angels trace Wise Fate, which does its Heav'n decree Alone to thy renown 'tis giv'n, Unbounded through all worlds to go: While she, great saint, rejoices Heav'n; And thou sustain'st the orb below. IN IMITATION OF ANACREON. LET 'em censure: what care I? Bid the warbling Nine retire: And lose the nymph, to gain the bays. |