TO David Polhill Esq, PART I

And must the Hero that redeem'd our Land Here in the Front of Vice and Scandal stand? The Man of Wondrous Soul, that Scorn'd his Ease Tempting the Winters and the faithless Seas, And paid an Annual Tribute of his Life To guard his England from the Irish Knife And crush the French Dragoon? Must WILLIAM's Name That brightest Star that gilds the Wings of Fame, WILLIAM the Brave, the Pious, and the Just Adorn these gloomy Scenes of Tyranny and Lust?

POLHILL, my Blood's a Fire, my Spirits flame; Vengeance and Darkness on the Poets Name: Why smoak the Skies not? Why no Thunders roll? Nor kindling Lightnings blast his guilty Soul? Audacious Wretch! to stab a Monarch's Fame, And fire his Subjects with a Rebel-Flame, To call the Painter to his Black Designs To draw our Guardian's Face in Hellish Lines: Painter beware! the Monarch can be shown Under no Shape but Angels or his own, GABRIEL or WILLIAM on the Brittish Throne.

Oh! could my Thoughts but grasp the vast Design, And Words with Infinite Ideas joyn, I'de rouse Apelles from his Iron Sleep, And bid him trace the Warriour o're the Deep: Trace him Apelles, o're the Belgian Plain, Fierce, how he climbs the Mountains of the Slain Scattering Just Vengeance thro' the Red Campaign. Then dash the Canvas with a flying Stroke Till it be lost in Clouds of Fire and Smoak, And say, 'Twas thus the Conqueror thro' the Squadrons broke. Mark him again emerging from the Cloud Far from his Troops; there like a Rock he stood His Countries Single Barrier in a Sea of Blood. Calmly he leaves the Pleasures of a Throne, And his MARIA Weeping; whilst alone He wards the Fate of Nations, and provokes his own: But Heav'n secures its Champion; o're the Field Paint hov'ring Angels; tho' they fly conceal'd, Each intercepts a Death, and wears it on his Shield.

Now, noble Pencil; lead him to our Isle, Mark how the Skies with Joyful Lustre smile, Then imitate the Glory; on the Strand Spread half the Nation longing till he Land. Wash off the Blood, and take a peaceful Teint, All Red the Warriour, White the Ruler paint, Abroad a Hero, and at Home a Saint. Throne him on high upon a shining Seat, Lust and Prophaneness dying at his Feet, While round his Head the Lawrel and the Olive meet, The Crowns of War and Peace; and may they blow With Flow'ry Blessings ever on his Brow. At his right Hand pile all the English Laws In Sacred Volumes; thence the Monarch draws His Wise and Just Commands— Rise ye Old Sages of the Brittish Isle, On the fair Tablet cast a reverend Smile And bless the Peice; these Statutes are your own, That sway the Cottage, and direct the Throne; People and Prince are one in WILLIAM's Name, Their Joys, their Dangers, and their Laws the same. Let Liberty and Right with Plumes display'd Clap their glad Wings around their Guardian's Head, Religion o're the rest her Starry Pinions spread. Religion guards him; round the Imperial Queen, Place waiting Vertues, each of Heav'nly Mien; Learn their bright Air, and paint it from his Eyes, The Just, the Bold, the Temperate, and the Wise Dwell in his Looks: Majestick, but Serene; Sweet, with no Fondness; Cheerful, but not Vain: Bright without Terror; Great, without Disdain. His Soul inspires us what his Lips command, And spreads his brave Example thro' the Land, Not so the former Reigns;— Bend down his Ear to each afflicted Cry, Let Beams of Grace dart gently from his Eye; But the bright Treasures of his Sacred Breast Are too Divine, too Vast to be exprest, Colours must fail where Words and Numbers faint, And leave the Hero's Heart for Thought alone to paint.