Advice to a painter being a satyr upon the French King, Admiral Tourvill, Irish camp at Havre de Grace, murmuring, Jacobites &c.

ADVICE TO A PAINTER, &c.

IT Monumental Piles to Ages stand, Raised by the Painter, and the Poets Hand; Kind Pencil lend me thy assisting Part, For that great Theme, deserves thy Noblest Art.

Draw then, in all thy boldest Rhetorick, At least, if Forms can Talk, and Shadows speak; Draw in their Flags of Blood, Wars Crimson Robe, Two Rival Champions for the watry Globe.

A swelling Main beneath the Thunderers rise, The Ocean for the Stage, and Trident for the Prize: The Sovereignty o' th' Seas, great great the Stake; Th' Ambition long; but short the Tryal make. So short, so swift, the vast Decision done; In one great Day, the finish'd Period run.

Here paint that Happy, that Triumphant Shore, That, with such Champions blest, can fear no more. No Foreign Insult, no Invading Power; Those threatning Storms can now no longer lour. The Feeble Cloud, and vanisht Vapour flies; For their kind Thunder has serened our Skies.

Imperial Albion, now securely sleep, Fenced in thy watry Walls, and Guardian Deep: Raign the proud Sovereign of thy Rightful Sea. Thy Sons have taught thy Neptune to obey.

O Glory never in thy Active Race, Were bolder Hunters, or a fairer Chace.

Methinks I saw 'em waiting for the Alarm; No Bridal Longings ever glow'd more warm: Courage so all Impatience, all Desire, As if their Souls and Cannon breath'd one Fire: So wisht they, and so fought. A Victory Push'd on so bravely bold, and crown'd so high; Whose spreading Fame shall so unbounded run, Wide as the floating Plain, in which 'twas won: Far as the utmost travelling Wave ere roll'd; The Globes remotest Shore shall hear it told.

In that Great Day, how fragrant, how perfum'd, All lovely Fair, the British Roses bloom'd! But Oh, in that great Day, how faint, how dead, The Fleur-de-Lisses, hung their drooping Head? Pale as the Fears, their flying Tourville wore, And shaking like their frighted Gallick Shore▪

Yes, proud Britania, thy Renown Proclaim; Hug thy Great Sons of War, and Heirs of Fame.

Inspired by that bold Genius of their Cause, To thy Immortal William's just Applause; Boast that one single Day, can now do more, Than thy long 30 sleeping Years before.

Illustrious Russel, in thy charming praise, To thy Renown, what Altars must we raise? What must we owe thee in this Glorious Day?— What England owes thee, England's Lord shall pay.

But Oh, the fair Remains of that Great Name; The sleeping Carter's ever waking Fame! Here, Painter, ere thy too bold Pencil fix, Remember that thy softest Colours mix: The loveliest British Rose, that Sword ere cropt, All fragrant Sweet, tho th' o're-blown Leaves are dropt: Here let thy Pencil make a Mournful Draught; Thou draw'st a Lawrel on a Cypress Graft.

Now, Painter, could we his true Worth behold, Drawn in his loveliest Characters of Gold;

Paint him, adorn'd with Courage, so Sublime, Like Superstition, heightned to a Crime. Think how, when the too Fatal Bolt had lopt His Limbless Trunk, and the brave Carter dropt; His untoucht Heart still sound, his Soul too great, Scorning the common (and too poor) Retreat, Of sculking to the Hould, his Wounds to hide; The bloody Deck saw his too Manly Pride: Where both his Wounds and Foes, at once defy'd, Still his Commanding Seat the Hero fill'd; His brandisht Sword even his last Grasp yet held: Majestick Bravery, too hardy bold, Around him still his fiery Deaths he doal'd; Whilst his last gasp th' unfinisht Vengeance breath'd, And all his Iron Legacies bequeath'd.

So have I seen, when at a Country Stake, The Angry Bull dos his horn'd Crescent shake; Some true got English Breed, too forward prest, The briskest, keenest Gamester of the Lift,

All goar'd and mangl'd, yet unconquer'd; though All over Wounds, up to his foaming Foe, With his torn Limbs, and dragging Entrails flies, Hangs at the bellowing Roarers Throat, and Dies.

In the same List, enroll'd with the great Dead; Sleep, Noble Hastings, in fair Honours Bed; Honour, that shall so keep thy Name alive, As even thy crumbling Marble to survive.

But Oh, thou too hard-fated Glory! Why So rough thy Paths to Immortality? Thy Sons, for Deathless Names, so hard must pay, To live to Morrow, they must die to Day. Now Painter, when this pleasing Scene thou'st drawn, The smiling Britain in her Joys fair dawn: Mix thy next Oyl with Gall, and try thy chance, In a more Gloomy Draught, the sullen France: And if thou darest ingage thy Arts whole strength, To the Great Life, draw Lewis at full length.

Here thy best Skill, Great Artist, wouldst thou shew, Paint like the once bold Michael Angelo, Who on Sham Cross his brawny Hireling stretcht; When his last Master-stroke of Art he reacht; One Hand the Pencil-held, and Poynyard too; And made a Murder, when a God he drew: To Romes St. Peters, the proud Relick given, The price of Hell, made Consecrate to Heaven.

Thus let great Lewis to thy Pencil sit; To make thee all his liveliest Features hit, Let Perjury, Murder, Massacre, all stand, T' inspire thy Fancy, and inform thy Hand. The Gorge of hungry Death, and yawning Graves, Horrour, and Ruine, his Obedient Slaves. Not one of all his Attributes forget. Lastly, to make the piece yet more compleat, Rage, Fury, and Despair, the finishing stroke, So Paint his Eyes, as if his Tongue thus spoke.

My Royal Navy lost! Lost, did I say? The Toyl of Ages ruin'd in a Day! A greater Labour (yes, by all my Fears,) Then my slow Mothers thrice seven teeming Years: When the despairing Impotence of a Crown, Crucht up by Scarlet Cap, and Purple Gown; And Pregnant Dam, her high-vein'd Birth t' inspire, With Alexander's Soul, from Ammon Sire; A fated Brow for Empire to Adorn, For the Worlds Grasp, was the Great Lewis Born.

And yet thus fated, and thus born; are these My Hopes of fetter'd Lands, and shackled Seas! This Earnest for my mounting Glories given; The Worlds Great Lord, no kinder Friends in Heaven: Not all my Cloystered Maudlin La Valeers Kind Pray'rs, nor my fair Maintenons soft Tears; Cou'd all these move, nor Winds, nor Seas, nor Sky, No Eloquence to soften Destiny!

If Deaf to these, your aiding Powers deny'd, Not one kind Star to Battle on my Side;— But why do I descend to lose a Prayer? By all th' Ingratitude of Heaven, I swear; Your smiles to Lewis but your Duty pay: I claim by Merit; and demand, not pray. Have I, to Mother Church a Son so true, In my Ignatian Zeale, resolv'd t' out-do The Great Nine Charles his bloody Barthol'mew? Two Hundred Thousand starving Exiles Groans; With all my Charnel Piles of Heretick Bones; Stakes, Dungeons, Gibbets, Graves; no Death untry'd, All these my Fames eternal Pyramid: To Immortality such steps so trod; No wonder, deified the Jacobites God.

But for my hard hard Fate, my dismal Loss; Why do I thus upbraid the unkind Cross? Upon the more Ungrateful Crescent all My louder Murmurs, heavier Curse, should fall.

What, though the Christian Powers were all so poor; Have I from Mahomet deserv'd no more? For all my Vowes, t' his Mufti and Divan, My plighted Faith this Idol'd Alcoran; Had the great Prophet in his Heaven of Love, Amongst his large-ey'd Montespaigns above, Not one kind Star, to lend a Friendly Glance To his most Christian Mussulman of France. By all th' immortal Honours I have got, By Facing Dangers beyond Canon Shot: The Trophies which my undrawn Sword has swept▪ In Fields, where Danger awful distance kept: And all the Brazen Leaves I've fill'd in Story, With my Recorded Scarless Marks of Glory: And if there be a sound more loud, by all My blazing Glories, Spire, Wormes, Frankendall: Those Desolation Piles, so vastly great, That Horrours self even trembles to repeat. By these, and Lewis's Name, that all Divine; Preserv'd and sweetned in Eternal Brine:

Brine from whole Millions of sad Widows Eyes, And Thousand Thousand tuneful Orphans cries. Have I for this (success no greater) drein'd So many empty'd Veins, in Blood so raign'd: For this, th' effeminate Britannia lull'd, With Thirty long Lethargick Summers dull'd: Loose all her Nerves, and lazie her Desires, Her Martial quencht, to light her Wanton Fires. Her old Fifth Henry, and Third Edward's Dust, All her forgotten Heroes Memories husht; In Lust, and Ease, and Luxury worn down, Taught by the Great Example of a Crown. Oh, our vast Influence, when we could Sing, Her pension'd Senate, and her Hireling King. Her Royal Judah's Lyon, tamed so far, Transform'd to our assisting Issachar. Two Princely Brothers of most soft Renown, The One that wore, and th' Other sway'd the Crown; True supple Spanish Breed, so abject poor, To lick that Foot once spurn'd 'em out of Door.

Oh, that long Reign, when by French Syren lured, Britains Crown'd-Head by Gallick Charms secured, We bought Alliance, Forces, Timber, Stores, Whilst in a poor Exchange we barter'd W—s. Thus truckt for Universal Empire, thus, Like Whittington, bought Greatness for a Puss: Sent forth our Armies, plum'd our Flour-de-lysses, Whilst santring R—fed his Ducks and Misses.

Had those dear blessed Days continued on, Oh to what height had our Ambition flown. How had we given th' whole shackled Europe Law; But all, all dash'd by that loath'd Name, NASSAV: Nassau, our Curses everlasting Theme, That haunting Forme that waked our Golden Dream; That worse than flaming Sword to all our Bliss, The fatal Bar t' our towring Paradise.

Damnation seize those Hireling Miscreant Tools! Hen-hearted Cut-Throats, dull relenting Fools!

Curse on their undispatching Hands! So crost! So Heav'nly a Design, so baulk'd, so lost! Eight Hundred Thousand Livres wisely pay'd, Yet by Vile Conscience, the great Blow betray'd. Had that blow struck, How had we sent him Post, Sent to shake Hands with sleeping Lorrain's Ghost? A Blow enough t' have rung so loud in Story, Great Lewis highest, vastest, boundless Master-piece of Glory. S'death! Do his Guardian Gods so take his part, Not all our plotting Hells can reach his Heart! William our Vengeance less than Lorrain feel! Or kill our Poysons surer than our Steel.

Next, honest Painter, for some small Adorner To thy great Landskip, in some odd by-Corner, Draw those big Sons of Hope, the dear sweet Face Of the great Jac'bite Camp, at Hav're de Grace. Delineate first, a hungry starvling Pow'r, Lean Kine, more keen fat England to devour, All waiting for the great Embarquing Hour;

That Mungril French, and Bogland Army draw, The Spirit of Brown-George, and Vsquebaugh; Resolv'd to give the conquer'd Britain Law. J—s, with his dear Twin-Saints, Monsieur and Teague, Join'd in a more than Holy Tripple League. The poor thin Gleanings (such his Harvest yields) Of running Boyne, and scatter'd Agrim Fields: Monsieur and Teague, a Union most Divine, Hands in this mighty Work too fit to joine. Souls, which one animating warmth inspires, True Sparks of J—s's own bold Promethean Fires. Poor Credulous J—s, both on, and off a Throne; Still, in all States, by Flatterers undone. By Romish Sycophants dismounted first, And even, beyond thy fall, by the same Vermin Curst▪ Flatter'd (for who so blind, as they that wink?) So lewdly, grosly flatter'd, as to think, So wondrous fair, thy Restoration lay; So easie thy Access, so pav'd thy Way;

The British Necks (husht all their yielding Swords) Prepared for Irish Masters, and French Lords. Oh Rome, to what wild Lunatick Extreams Thy Ignes fatui, thy deluding Beames, Can guide thy Zealots Visionary Dreames! Dreams. of that Prodigy, as ev'n t' excel. Their Transubstantiation Miracle.

So over Credulous J—s, as if design'd To stand a lasting Riddle to Mankind, Whether thy Faith in Man, or Heav'n, shall be, Oth' two the more Recorded Bigottry.

Here, Painter, draw their Leader in their Head, Their Royal Hero,—Hero, was't I said? Yes, thy Prerogative I'le nere dispute; Pencils may Heroes write, where Pens stand mute. Draw him a Hero then in Natures spight, His Mrs. War, and Danger his Delight. If possible, put Vigour in his Arm; What though thou flatterst, make the piece look warm.

Paint all the Fire, but let no Chill be shown; The modest Lewis's Frailty, and his own. Thus Capapee, impatient let him stand, Big with the Blessings of the promis'd Land. That Milk and Honey-Tide, by Front so bold Of his Oraculous Jacobites foretold.

Here, Painter, shift the Scene; and from the height Of towring Hopes, ev'n beyond Eagle flight, Paint the defeated labouring Sons of Earth, In the hard Pangs of their new Mountain Birth. Here in a Panick Fright, a chilling Damp, And Wolfe-land Howl, run thro' the rising Camp; Whilst a Contagious Grin their Faces wear, The only Native Irish Poyson, Fear. Nay, the sad J—s himself here blasted stands, With Eyes erected, and uplifted Hands. Here, Painter, let him from the frighted Shore, In the great Lewis Burning Sun deplore, His own dear Phaetons now can drive no more:

Whilst in the Transports of new Desperation, By that all blazing Fires Illumination, He Reads his more than second Abdication. Here, Painter, draw him with a tristfull Look, As if (at once by Man and Heaven forsook,) Resolv'd to bid the frowning World adieu, No longer three cold-scented Crowns pursue: Nor tire out Providence, on its deaf Side; But 'twixt his Prayers and Hounds his life Divide: His darling Hounds, an easier Chace to run, Some little harmless flying Animal down; Than with his full-mouth'd Hunting Blood-hounds fly At three bold Stubborn Kingdoms Liberty.

Now, Painter, thy exalted Fancy raise, To one rich Thought, in the Great Tourvil's Praise: Paint him a true French Heroe, both ways Great, Furious in Fight, and furious his Retreat; With his first On-set his whole Courage Fir'd, Rapid he came, more rapid he Retir'd:

Whilst his eclipsing Sun, his shame to Shrow'd, Sculks to the Shore, for a poor borrow'd Cloud.

Here, Painter, when thy finishing Touch has made This melancholly Peice of Night and Shade; No Blacks too deep, the Figure to express, A running Admirals too proper Dress: When the last Sanguine Line thy Pencil drew, Could'st thou but Paint his Gloomy Inside too; Oh, the dark sullen Peice, how 'twould talk Great, Would breath out Curses loud as his Defeat! More hot his Rage, than his own Barfleur Fires, Whilst thus his little Friends in Heaven he tires:

Oh, the curst Stars that influenc'd this Day, Ye false, false Lights, that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Mankind Betray; Eternal Pitch your blotted Orbs confound, In your whole Painted Roof, and spangled Round', Not one Spark left, one borrow'd twinkle Shine, Your Sun that lights you, rowl as dark as mine.

But why, believing Fool, so cozen'd? These My English Friends, the Fairy Promises; Snared and Deluded to this Fatal loss, Was ever Sham so great, or Cheat so gross? Fortune, and all her Flatteries, Jilts and Whores! My hopes all lost, nay worse, my Lewidores! Those leading Trumps to our safe Martial Dance, Th' infallible Artillery of France: Whose sure unerring Blow nere miss'd till now; The Moulten Calves that have made Europe Bow But faild at last in our Old Battry, GOLD! What Towns, Forts, Castles, nay whole Kingdoms Sold; Those Danaes of the World, have felt the Powers Of our descending Jove's Triumphant Showers? If truckling Worlds the Golden Lewis Meet, Is th' only Pistole-Proof an English Fleet?

But why do I descend to curse that Cause, That rather Merits all my best Applause? The English firm unstaggering Truth, too brave, To sell their Faiths, or Country to enslave:

To raise my juster Curse a strain more high, 'Gainst the true Cause made beaten Tourvil fly, Curse not their Honour, but our Infamy! Be that low-Spirited Ambition Damn'd, Down his own Throat his melting bribes be ramm'd, Who at so poor a Game can meanly Fly, To Trade for Laurels, Truck for Victory. Weak Pillar to an everlasting Name, That makes the Basis of its Glory, Shame: Shame, of that hideous Stamp, a Brand so hard, When Crown'd-Heads stoop, vile Treason to reward. But whilst in these resenting Thoughts employ'd, To France's all expiring Naval Pride These Funeral Rites do thy sad Griefs performe, Look forwards, Torville, t' a more hideous Storm. Prophetick Fears! methinks my trembling Soul, Hears that engendring British Thunder rowle; The haughty France reduc'd t' a Fright so poor, To dread Invasions, it cou'd threat before:

That single Thought does all our Peace confound: There, there the sickning Pain, and killing Wound.

But let me breathe that frightfull Theme no more, That Voice of Terrour to the Gallick Shore; That at the very sound the whole Divan Of wooden shoes, the musterd Arrierban, Do with that trickling Dew their Cheeks bewray, Their very Blood all Curdles into Whey.

Now, Painter, wafte thy working Fancy o're, And take a Landschape of the English Shore; Here humbly stoop to paint the lively Graces, Of th' ill look'd Tribe, the Jacobite sour Faces: A Tribe so rancord with their Gall and Spleens, And so deform'd with their distorted Grinns; That they appear a perfect Aesop Crew; Nay, and their Souls the greater Riddles too. Who toild their tiresome Liberty to draw, In the dull Raigns of Softness, Peace, and Law; Palates so strange, that with crude Ease opprest, Like Estridges, want Iron to digest:

A Race with that prodigious Night-mare hag'd, Loaded with Freedom, and with Blessings plagu'd; And for an exercising hand, to try Their boasted high-flown Passive Faculty; To Lewis all their whole tun'd pulses Dance, Their very Veins all stumm'd with Lees of France: Religion, Liberty, Truth, Honour; Nothing That's English Glory, but 's their perfect Loathing; All great and good their Hate: and if remains Ought in the World they truly Love, 'tis Chains.

To set 'em forth in their full Pomp enstall'd, Till this Sea-Battle, they were Legion call'd; But since that fatal Day, I must confess, Their shrinking number dwindled somewhat less; From Cape La Hogue, the Thunder roard so high, As put 'em in that Aguish Agony; That by a worse, then fit of a chill Tertian, Some of 'em have been cool'd into Conversion. Their Characters, as various as you please, Of none, or all Religions, all degrees;

From struting Quality to fawning Pimps; From Grandees down to Slaves; from Fiends to Imps. In short their Massey Virtues to Define, They 're Heroes all so stout for Jus Divine; They d' venture hanging all in a right Line.

So, Painter, on this copious pregnant Text, Be those the Beauties that thou copiest Next; These Lineaments thy Pencils Guide: nor doubt To the full Life to draw their Portraits out. For this Sea-fight has Physickt 'em so near, That every Feature of their Face is clear. To draw this sullen Scene, perform thy part: Draw to the Life (if in the power of Art) As from their trembling Lips, these Murmurs broke, And thus the very grumbling Shaddows spoke.

"With what impatient Longings did we burn, "For the French-Fleets approach, and Jame's Return: "A Fleet, that more then Jason's Treasure brought, "A second constellated Argonaut! "

So true, so fixt, his blest Return foretold, "Not Delpho's Oracle ere spoke more bold. "What less than that new Revolution Day! "Not Destiny more firm, so paved his way; "From high to low, all, all with Joy made Drunk, "From trolling Coach and six, to strolling Punk. "The tatterdst Mendicant did th' Omen Bless, "And every Maudlin turned a Prophetess: "Not poor Alsatian, but, from Temple-shore, "'Would snuff up for the Wind to waft him ore. "Nay, not so much as a Non-juring Vicar, "But ore a chirping Bowl of humming Liquor; "He saw Jame's, and a Bishoprick so fair, "He thought there did not need a second Prayer. "So all agape we stood, so all unbar'd "The prospect of our Bliss, so all prepared "For his Congratulation to his Crown, "Th' Hosannahs were all tuned, and Palms cut down. "So plain we saw the Wonders should restore him, "The fiery Pillars that should march before him; "

We so foresaw the Heavn-dropt sweets, should dwell "I' th' Tents of our Returning Israel: "That we prepared the very Baskets, all "For gathering up the Manna that should fall.

"But in the highest sweetest Titillations, "Of all our dearest Darling Expectations; "To have our Signs and Wonders all deceive us; "The Winds and Sea and the whole Elements leave us! "Oh, 'twas that fatal Blow, that severe Bang, "That on the Willows all our Harps must hang. "Our Harps! nay, (mercy Heaven!) we scarce know how "Even to forbear to hang our selves there too. "Than farewell Jacobite; Our Exit calls, "'Tis our last Act, and here our Curtains falls.

"But hold! one parting Epilogue—Adieu "Our last lost Hopes, and all the Heretick Crew. "For ever of our Dagon James bereft, "And not even one poor Stump to help us left! "

Well, Williamites, you have your Triumph made; "And all our Glorie's shrunk into a Shade. "Then for one last Farewell, Oh, could we call "A Mugletonian Tongue, and Curse ye all.

Now, Painter, if thou livest to see that Day, When J—s his last Remains to Fate must pay; If on his Monument thou canst find Room; That is, if sleeping, J—s can find a Tomb: A Favour with his Brother Charles nere found, Poor Charles so Slovenly dropt under ground. Without a Funeral Rite, unhonour'd Shade, By Mid-night Hands, thy huddled Reliques laid. Were all thy Smiles to J—s so poorly paid? Well, thy contented Bones with patience stay, Beneath thy homely Turf thy Ashes lay; So sleep, forgoten Charles, till the great wakening Day.

But if the happier J—s more honour'd Dust, Shall meet with Friends more kind, and Heirs more just;

If some kind Marble Pile shall rise, t' enfold, What once three Law-bound Kingdoms could not hold; On the fair Stone this short Inscription lay, ('Tis all his whole Memorials have to say;)

Twice exild James (Experience dearly Bought) By thy Misfortune first, and last thy Fault.

FINIS.