An essay on poetry; written by the Marquis of Normanby, and the same render'd into Latin by another hand. With several other poems, viz. An epistle to the Lord Chamberlain, on His Majesty's victory in Ireland; by the honourable Mr. Montague. An epistle to the honourable Mr. Montague, on His Majesty's voyage to Holland; by Mr. Stepny. An epistle to Monsieur Boileau; by Mr. Arwaker. A poem on the promotion of several eminent persons in church and state; by Mr. Tate. To which are added the following poems, never before in print, viz. An ode in memory of the late Queen; by a person of quality. A poem on the late horrid conspiracy; by Mr. Stepny

A POEM Occasion'd by the Happy Discovery of the Horrid and Barbarous Conspiracy to Assassinate his most Sacred Majesty, and to incourage an Invasion from France.

NOW Blessings on you all, ye Powers above, Ye flaming Ministers of mighty Love; You whose untainted Loyalty withstood The fiercest efforts of th' old Plotting Brood; Whose Host embatled under Michael's Care, Drove from Heavens fluid Plains the first rebellious War. Once more your guarding Influence we own, So oft, and now so critically shown. And oh! inspire my Song, your Charge I sing, Your darling Charge, to shield a Pious King. Say then how partial Heaven hath been of late, In showring Blessings on our sinking State? Did Treachery e'er so justly claim its aid, Since that, by which both Devils and Hell were made?

Scarce oftner to the chosen Seed ye went, With such kind merciful Commissions sent, They found the Father more in Chastisement. Midst AEgypt's Plagues rais'd by the powerful Rod, And all the great Artillery of God; Goshen enjoy'd its light and health, was free From the dire Plagues, but mourn'd in Slavery.

More blest our Isle, which fruitful Peace hath chose The safe Retirement of her long repose: Alarm'd by distant dangers only, she Sits safe i'th' Consecrated Circle of her Sea.

Through Desarts wast great Ioshua's Journey lay, Ye march't i'th' Front, and made unnatural day; A second Darkness between AEgypt's Host And his ye spread, in which all tracks were lost.

Oft for Great William you perform the same, And guard him through the dangerous Paths of Fame; Where few dare follow, and where none can aid, But you, that are of liquid texture made, As Air invulnerable. And scarcely You could the swift Globe divert, So truly level'd at his noble Heart: For well ye knew with what impetuous force The missive Death moves in its rapid course;

Since when it drove you to a forc'd retreat, And in God's Cause ye endur'd a short defeat; But ye did ward it, and the tender Blow Made the nice Miracle much greater show; The Azure silk a nobler colour found, The deep rich Purple of the Royal Wound. Unarm'd that day, like Truth, the Monarch stood, His Army pale, He red with Rage and Blood, Quick through his Troops, as their own Fears, he past, And turn'd those Fears to generous Rage at last.

Ye left not oftner your encreasing Theme Of Hallelujahs, even to succour Him, Who much for Valour, much for Troubles fam'd, Long o'er the Jews, a murmuring People reign'd; Though doubly he th' Almighty's Impress wore, Good after his own Heart, and next to him in Power. Nor great those dangers which that Prince did run, Since all Saul's Plots however nicely spun, Scap'd not the watchful Friendship of the Son: That noble Son, who scorn'd a Ruffians name, For his Sire's Crown, or his own future claim. Yet ne'er did Treachery in Saul's Breast appear, Till Heaven had left it and all Hell was there: But not even then would he by Proxy kill, He boldly dar'd to act what he durst will; No meaner hand the pointed Javelin threw, Than that which Saul himself at Gilboa slew.

Horrid indeed and new, that great intent, Which once against our Senate-House was meant; Had not You timely interpos'd your aid, What a wide Golgotha had then been made! There Stones, Skulls, Rafters, mangled Limbs, would form The dire ingredients of th' unnatural storm. Royal and Noble blood had mingled there, And fall'n a dismal shower through the dark wounded Air.

But then our Island fear'd no foreign Chain, From rising France, or from declining Spain. Now Hell improv'd hath rais'd our danger higher, Freedom with its Defender must expire. Freedom! by all the Sweets of thy dear Name, By all thy Charms, stronger than those of Fame, Or Beauty, hear me swear; I'd chuse to live Obscure, but blest with they Prerogative, Rather than suffer the grand Monarchs Fate, And to become so Guilty, and so Great.

Like Hannibal, he on our Coast appears, And who his Faith less than the Punick fears? In whose Cause e'er the Conquest he had won, The Tyrant had enslav'd us in his own.

Degenerate Off-Spring of a Nation free, Tenacious of its ancient Liberty! That could that noble Privilege betray, Though the vast Bribe both Indies were to pay. When impious Corah did of old rebel, Alive the Wretch translated was to Hell; And Corah's be their Fate, That reeking in a murder'd Monarch's gore, Could meet their Brother Cut-throats on our shore. If her own Sons, poor Albion thus expose, What would she not have felt from foreign Foes? Who can describe their Miseries, that at once Must suffer under Jesuits and Dragoons? Those would our Conscience, these our Bodies sway, And even to sigh, would be to disobey. The ••oiling Slave must all his gains disburse To the Priests tricks, or barbarous Souldiers force. If any could from wretched Albion fly, No Kingdom could afford him Liberty. All Europe must submit to the hard Slavery. Mild was the Oppression in the Conquering Reigns, Of Romans, Saxons, Normans, or the Danes. Few Arts they knew destructive of Mankind, By Rome, and France, and Hell of late refin'd. What Blood had stain'd and swell'd the blushing Thames, Reflecting gloomily Augusta's Flames. The brib'd Artillery too fierce Balls had sent, And glowing to assist the raging Element. Thus had the great Emporium of our Isle, Flam'd for its Lord, a mighty Funeral Pile. What Plague, and Fire, in two years had not done, Had been perform'd now in two days alone. Slow Desolation, and a lingring Fate Had surely seiz'd the distant parts, though late. Rapes, Plunders, Contributions, then had been Throughout the unhappy Isle, one dismal Scene. So 'tis with Men in an acute Disease, Whom token'd Plagues, or fiery Fevers seize; Quick as their trembling Pulse, or panting Breath, Are the approaches then of sudden Death. But when Fate forms a tedious Blockade, Its Hectick steps are by Consumptions made:

The fleshy Outworks by degress consume, And Skeletons receive the Conquerour's doom.

Say next, what dread on your dim Foreheads sate, When ye beheld so near th' impending Fate. In slow flat Notes ye mournful Anthems sung, Harmonious Grief dwelt on each trembling tongue. Did ye not fear, as Angels can, for Him, Whom Tyrants dread more than their Subjects them? For him, who knows no fear, but whose Defence In War is Valour, in Peace Innocence; For him, whose shining Sword with constant Pains, Cuts through the Gordian Knots of servile Chains: Who's Great, to be more Good in Victory, He Wounds to heal, and Conquers to set free. Doubly his hand prevails, when arm'd in War, In Peace, when lifted up in pious Prayer. So Moses from the Hill both Hosts survey'd With the same warmth great Ioshua fought, he pray'd; Fresh Courage from his Arm each Souldier took, Faintness his Limbs, and Fear his heart forsook; The Powers that in those Chiefs divided lay, United in our King, secure the glorious day. So Just, so Good, so Brave, to him alone All such shall be compar'd, himself to none. This know the Kings, whose truest Characters Will be our generous Hero's in reverse.

Let then Blasphemous Epithets Proclaim, The mighty Monarchs loud, but blasted, Fame; The Gallic Muses Trophies raise in vain, False is th' Applause, their Numbers all prophane. The subject will require true Poetry, Where all the nauseous Praise must Fiction be. Extorted Gold th' Oppressor's Power doth raise, That purchases his Conquests, and their Praise; Let breathing stone express the looks divine, And Persian Fires around the Marble shine: If open War and noble dangers call, Cold as his Statue sits the Original; By other hands he gains mean Victories, And only dares in Person Tyrannize. Whilst Mighty William in a juster Cause, His Conquering Sword with nobler Anger draws; And dares the utmost Malice of his Foes, In the wide Field his Rightful Claim t' oppose.

FINIS.