Acknowledgment’s a tribute seldom paid. He dwelt in bright Maria’s circling arms, Defended by the magic of her charms From foreign fears and from domestic harms. Ambition found no fuel to her fire; He had what God could give or man desire. Till pity roused him from his soft repose, His life to unseen hazards to expose; Till pity moved him in our cause t’appear; Pity! that word which now we hate to hear. But English gratitude is always such, To hate the hand which doth oblige too much. Britannia’s cries gave birth to his intent, And hardly gained his unforeseen assent; His boding thoughts foretold him he should find The people fickle, selfish, and unkind. Which thought did to his royal heart appear More dreadful than the dangers of the war; For nothing grates a generous mind so soon As base returns for hearty service done. Satire, be silent! awfully prepare Britannia’s song and William’s praise to hear. Stand by, and let her cheerfully rehearse Her grateful vows in her immortal verse. Loud Fame’s eternal trumpet let her sound; Listen, ye distant Poles and endless round. May the strong blast the welcome news convey As far as sound can reach or spirit can fly. To neighb’ring worlds, if such there be, relate Our hero’s fame, for theirs to imitate. To distant worlds of spirits let her rehearse: For spirits, without the help of voice, converse. May angels hear the gladsome news on high, Mixed with their everlasting symphony. And Hell itself stand in suspense to know Whether it be the fatal blast or no. BRITANNIA