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 for 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 to appear, Pity! that word which now we hate to hear; But English gratitude is always such, To hate the hand that does oblige too much. Britannia's cries gave birth to his intent, And hardly gain'd 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 fly! To neighb'ring worlds, if such there be, relate Our heroes fame for theirs to imitate; To distant worlds of spirits let her rehearse, For spirits without the helps of voice converse: May angels hear the gladsome news on high, Mix'd with their everlasting symphony; And hell itself stand in surprise to know, Whether it be the fatal blast or no. BRITANNIA. The fame of virtue 'tis for which I sound, And heroes with immortal triumphs crown'd; Fame built on solid virtue swifter flies, Than morning light can spread the eastern skies: The gath'ring air returns the doubling sound; And loud repeating thunders force it round; Echoes return from caverns of the deep, Old Chaos dreams on't in eternal sleep: Time hands it forward to its latest urn, From whence it never, never shall return: Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long, 'Tis heard by ev'ry ear, and spoke by every tongue. My hero, with the sails of honour furl'd, Rises like the great genius of the world; By fate and fame wisely prepared to be The soul of war and life of victory; He spreads the wings of virtue on the throne, And ev'ry wind of glory fans them on; Immortal trophies dwell upon his brow, Fresh as the garlands he has won but now. By different steps the high ascent he gains, And differently that high ascent maintains: Princes for pride and lust of rule make war, And struggle for the name of conqueror; Some fight for fame, and some for victory, He fights to save, and conquers to set free.