The Stennetts of England Poems by Joseph Stennett
A POEM to the Memory of King William III *
1701-1702
*From the Works of Joseph Stennett. The capitalization varies from the hand written text.
Here is the tunful tribe that sang so well
The british hero's acts before fell?
That in no vulgar rhimes so well could flow,
What Britian and the world to W I L L I A M owe?
Thro' fields and floods his shining path could race,
Their verse with his immortal trophies grace?
Did the harmonious nine with him expire,
And all soft airs to native spheres retire?
Sure when great souls to relmes of glory go,
Poets are left to spread their fame below.
When Isral's pios king Josiah dies,
The weeping profit morns his obsequies.
Smooth numbers first were formed for noble themes
To paint great deeds, and sing illustrious names.
Can you, who by his royal hand were fed,
Who prais'd him living, now neglect him dead?
Ev'n stones wil speak, if you forbear to sing
So good a master, and so great a king;
Great in himself, and bountiful to you,
Who Found in Ceaser a Meacenas too.
Is it your pressing grief, or conscious thought
That you can never praise him as you ought,
That makes you stand amaz'd? -----------
Make an essay, your gratitude to prove;
And if you shew less art, yet shew more love.
Speak, sons of of harmony -- mean while excuse
The week endeavours of a timorous muse,
That has with awful silence waited long
To hear the sighs of your politer song.
Tell Britannia's tears so largly flow,
Because the great, the good king W I L L I A M's gone.
Britannia's tears shall be your Helicon.
Tell 'em what earth has lost, what heaven has gain'd;
How he shines there, who here so brightly reign'd.
With his own laurels dress his mournful herse,
And deck his marble with more lasting verse.
Let distant shores with his atchievements ring,
While there are pens to write, or toungs to sing.
No longer this so noble task refuse,
Urged by th' adventure of a humbler mese;
Who if she does less honor to his name,
Propitious heav'n accepts a pair of doves
From willing hands, and from a heart that loves.
Can time, or other thoughts, e'er wipe away
The deep remembrance of that gloomy day,
When the sad whisper thro' our Streets was spread,
Usher'd by tears, The good king W I L L I A M's dead?
So great a soul so dear a life resign'd!
How every his glories fresh occur'd to mind!
What he had done, and what he had design'd!
How every brow with heavy clouds was drest,
And they lamented most who knew him best:
What was their joy, tis now their greif to know;
What rais'd their pleasure once, arguments their woe.
True sorrow in her pomp at court appears,
The city joins her undissembled tears.
To every temple weeping crouds repair,
Hoping to vent their sorrows in their prayer,
United sighs express the common woe,
The priests to heaven turn their complain ing eyes,
And interrupt their pray'rs with ardent sighs:
Their looks, their gesture, and their voice are chang'd;
Their thoughts no more in wonted order rang'd
Sobs break their periods to give sorrow vent;
Their words confus'd and slow, but tears are eloquent.
The doleful news thro' all the nation flies,
Strikes every English heart with deep surprise:
The general greif, the general loss exprest,
And Floods of tears the common father's death confest.
Grief sits triumphant in the soldiers face,
And in his generous breast now finds a place.
Never did death to them so dreadful show
In foreign fields, as in this one domestick blow.
Their warlike trumpets make a dismal moan,
Their ensign droop, and drums their trouble groan:
O how unlike the fame that us'd to go
Shouting where W I L L I A M led, to meet the foe!
Those whom the grace of his indulgent reign
Had long attemped to oblige in vain,
Touch'd with remorse, deplore his hasty fate,
And weep that their repentance is so late:
Ungrateful murmurs intp prases turn,
Grudg'd him a crown, but now revere his urn:
Conscious of long neglect in former years,
What they in duty owe now pay in tears.
So factious tribes unworthily complain
Of their deliver's meek and gentle reign;
The deeds of Moses, and of God forget,
Look back on Egypt's shore with fond regret,
Slight angel's fare, and fruits of Palistine,
And for Egyptian leeks and onions pine;
The servile task of treading clay prefer
To freedom with the glorious toils of war;
Chuse to make bricks on Zoan's slavish coasts,
Rather than lodg in tents to serve the Lord of hosts.
But when the prophet to the sky retires,
The wondrous loss a wondrous grief inspires;
Thro' the sad camp a general sorrow reigns,
And sighs, for murmurs, now fill Moab's Plains.
Those confessors, those candidates for heaven,
Whom persecuting rage had hither driven
From native shores, to find a kind asyle
In the warm bosom of the British isle;
Guilty of nothing but adoring God
In bold defiance to a tyrant's nod,
Who racks mens limbs to put their minds in frame
Burns 'em to guide their conscience by the flame
To save their souls devoutly cuts their throats,
And to this pious work dragoons devotes,
While reverend Priests their Approbation show,
And glut their bloody eyes with scenes of woe:
Those confessors whom blows could ne'er convince.
That true religion governs such a prince,
Mourn for a king that made 'em doubly free,
With civil and religious liberty;
Whose liberal hands dispens'd his royal store
To feed their prophets, and supply their poor.
The Belgic lion, touch'd with anguish roars,
And sends the frightful sound to distant shores.
Th' imperial eagle flags his drooping wings,
Nassau, they cray, the glory of the age,
Nassau is gone, the scourge of Gallic rage;
Able to counsel, conquer and command,
And hold the ballance in his steady hand.
Stupendous grief! that smote us by surprise,
And snatch'd away the pleasure of our eyes!
Oft when a nation's numerous crimes have tryed
God's patience long, and long for vengeance cry'd
When pregnant storms come lowering from afar
To threaten famine, plague, intesing war;
When heaven its just artillery prepares;
Some signal the impending stroke declares:
Earth in her entrals strange convulsions feels;
Shock'd with ill boding fears, the quakes and reels;
The fun his radiant head in fables veils;
Or dreadful comets spread their fiery tails;
Loud peals of thunder tear the lightening air,
And falling meteors shake their flaming hair.
But no such frightful signs presag'd our woe,
To give us warning of the coming blow.
Secure we lay, nor dreaded future harms,
Under the shade of Nassau's conquering arms.
Now thoughts on triumphs past our joys renew,
And now fresh laurels seem to be in view.
Europe had fix'd her eye on him, to be
The guardian of her common liberty.
Lewis observ'd his growing interest spread,
With hate and envy equal to his dread.
But O the fickle state of human things!
How frail the life! how vain the pomp of kings!
How are we shipwreck'd in the view shores,
Our hopes are dash'd; for W I L L I A M is no more:
In every soul grief joins with conscious dread,
In every face they both their pallid ensigns spread.
What triumphs did our hero's youth presage
To crown the toil of his maturer age?
Early he rais'd his country's sinking state,
For doing good he knew was being great:
His patience civil factions quell at home.
Where noxious weeds with deadly juice abound,
There antidotes oft bless the neighbouring ground:
While Lewis frights the world with pride and rage,
W I L L I A M stands up to prop the drooping age:
One age our danger and deliverance brings,
The Worst of tyrants, and the belt of kings.
When Albion's cries his generous aid implor'd
He soon our dying liberties restor'd:
Religion blest th' assertor of her cause,
And justice smiled to see reviving laws:
And to inhance the value of the good,
'Twas done without expence of English blood
The idol-priests his awful presence shun,
And fly like scatter'd mists before the fun.
Thus by desert rais'd to the crown he wore,
He's call'd to rule those he had sav'd before;
While nations round applaud Britannia's choice
And own the voice of god was in the peoples voice.
Nor does he less reguard Hybernia's cries
but thro' rough seas-wing'd with deliv'rance flies;
In wanted danger wonted houour gains,
Conquers her foes and breaks her slavish hains
O Boyne! the world shall W I L L I A M's valor know;
While thy clear streams, or time it self shall flow
Fame keeps the roll of various placesmore
Known by his conquests on the Irish shore.
To Namur; when the common safety calls
To plant his ensigns on those haughty walls,
With daring troops the comquering hero speeds,
While numerous foes bear witness to his deeds
With new sucess and with fresh laurls crown'd,
He still proceeds to gather trophies,
till the proud Gaul a humble friendship fein'd,
And own'd the title W I L L I A M's merit gain'd
The Macedonian hero's virtues he,
And more posses'd, from all his vices free;
Himself as well as others could subdue;
While he rul'd men, rul'd his own passions too;
For Europ's freedom generously fought,
Thro' glorious hazards commom safety fought;
Inur'd to clashing arms and roaring waves,
To humble tyrants, and unfetter slaves;
Plung'd into storms of fire and seas of blood,
Not for proud triumph, but for publick good;
Scorning the downy pleasures of a throne,
Secur'd our lives, regardless of his own;
Scarse thought it great when done, and others were in view:
Equally versed in arts of war and peace;
Laurls and palms he wore in equal grace
Rather endur'd than e'er enjoy'd a crown,
His grace his very foes would reconcile,
And melt 'em down with a forgiving smile.
He bid them live who had deserved to die,
And if he err'd, 'twas still in clemency.
No patriot's guilt's blood distained his
To please another's humour, or his own,
Nor would he make a tender conscience groan.
No force of reason could approve,
To sway the judgment, and the passions move
To pure Religion, which is truth and love.
How oft his words the wondering senate charm'd
Bright as his fame, victorious as his arms.
Abroad 'twas but to see, and overcome;
'Twas but to speak, and overcome at home:
Nothing was wanting in his eloquence.
Such was the product of his ripene'd thought,
He spoke nor more nor less than what he ought.
Still nervice reason ever sentence strung,
And still his generous heart kept measure with his tongue.
What Crimson sins, what aggravated crimes,
Have heav'n provok'd, and stain our guilty times!
Could none but such a killing stroke suffice.
To break our rocky hearts, and thaw out frozen eyes!
O Britions! see, to late, what you have lost!
O Britions! see, what your lov'd, sins have cost!
These have your king, these have have your captain slain,
And forc'd his heaven-born soul to heaven again
How oft have you refuse'd to be reform'd
When piou zeal his sacrted bosom warm'd;
And from the throne inspir'd him to declare
Against your vices a religious war?
Ho oft he call'd to fast, to weep, and pray.
While you supinely slept your hours away!
He saw great judgements would be great sins pursue;
He saw and said it, unbeliv'd by you .
Who now shall head your armies in the field
Who wave his sword, and who shall bear his shield?
Who shall your troops with generous courage fire,
And all around him martial rage inspire?
Who thro' your squadrons swift as lightning fly,
Togive fresh vigour with his sparkling eye,
Leading the way to constant victory?
His army was the body, he the soul,
T' inform, direct, and animate the whole:
In dreadful order firm battalions mov'd,
To conquer or to die with him they lov'd;
So brave a chief, so great a witness near,
They knew not how to fly, or how to fear.
Suprise itself cou'd no weak passion find,
To disconcert the texture of his mind:
When he approach'd the confines of the dead,
In fields of war, or in a dying bed;
Patient in pain, and calm in every storm,
Fearless he seem'd of death in every form;
Fearless he seem'd of death in every form;
In doubtful battel, or on foaming seas,
In treacherous plots, or languishing disease.
When the faint lamp of life was burning low,
And now the tremullous flam was hovering to and fro;
Feeling the bonds of nature disunite,
His parting foul prepares her wings for flight.
Britain and heav'n now share his thoughts and cares;
Britain and heav'n now share his thoughts and cares;
Britain his counsels has, and heaven his pray'rs.
Thee, fair Britannia, how he long'd to see
From civil fueds and foreign dangers free!
And tho in view of paradise, could be
Almost content to live again for thee.
But 'tis decreed, the fatal moment's near,
No pray'rs or vows can hold him longer here.
No pray'rs or vows can hold hold him longer here.
Our fainting heads no hopeful omen rears;
Just heaven rejects our cries, rejects our tears.
Calmly expecting death, the hero lies,
Till beck'ning angels call him to the skies.
His life was glorious, and serene his death;
His soul the same, firm to his last breath,
Preference of mind in this dark viel retrain'd,
And no reluctant agony sustain'd.
So Moses on mount Nebo smiling lay,
When the almighty kiss his foul away.
Great Nassau's dawn was like the orient fun,
His wond'rous race of glory soon was run.
No clods of envy could his lustre shroud,
And when he set, he set without a cloud.
Ah! that so bright a sun sshould set at noon,
A life so useful fly away so soon!
Does heaven such gifts gifts as these bestow on men,
So soon, alas! to call them back agen!
From this low world his willing soul retires,
And swiftly to its native heanen aspires.
No anxious thought restrains his soaring mind,
His royal cares are left with royal dust behind.
A guard of angels for his convoy fly
Through the vast regions of the parting sky:
Charm'd with seraphic musick as they go,
He scorns the pagent pomp of thrones below.
Aethereal plains convey the the found along,
Aetherial hills all echo back the song,
Till heaven's wide gates recieve the welcome throng.
The spacious arches of the palace ring.
With tidings of th' arival of a king.
Armies of cherubs with kind speed resort
From distant mansions to th' imperial court;
Their charming skill in heavenly sounds display
To grace the triumph of this solemn day,
While troops of faints line all the shining way.
The son of Jess touches his harp, and sings
In confort with a choir of pious kings;
The happy few who govern'd well below,
And for their labors deathless pleasures know.
And O! the joy to meet Maria there,
The former partner of his crown and care!
What ambient glories deck the happy pair,
Who blis unknown to earthly monarcs share.
On Eden's flowery banks they safe reside,
Where christal streems from vitalk fountains glide;
No ruffling storms of ar, or faction know,
And pity them that feel the weight of crowns below:
There reign, blest pair, while your distinguish'd name
Shall glitter in the brightest rolls of fame:
Blest by this age, and late posterity,
While there are Britions wife, or just, or free.
There reign; expecting that reviving day,
That will refinew and raisee your slumbering
Give it a heavenly form and godlike grace,
Fit for such souls, and for so bright a place.
But muse, restrain thy too adventurous flight:
Glorie so disproportion'd to thy fight,
O'erwhelm thee with unsufferable light.
Stoop to the lower regions of the skies,
And with less dazzling light refresh thy eyes,
See how the morning sprteads her growing light,
And drives away the dusky shades of night.
See Britain's clouds begin to scatter too,
And scenes of coming glory are in view.
A N N A the British scepter mildly sways,
and gives vast hopes of yet auspicious days:
A N N A, whom parents frowns could never move
From her religion, and her country's love.
O tyrants! boast no more that W I L L I A M's dead,
From her religion, and her country's love.
O tyrants! boast no more that W I L L I A M's dead
Since A N N A's reign shall give you equal dread.
Again the trumpet's clanger war declares,
Join'd with our acclimations and our prayrs:
Associate nations echo back the found,
And fleets and armies make the fierce alarm rebound
As great E L I Z A crush'd ambitious Spain,
And sunk their floating castles in the main;
May both those tyrants, that forge Europ'e chains,
BGe Humbled, nowe illustrious A N N A reigns.
May the Deb'rah to our Israel prove,
Dread of her foes, her people's joy and love;
On tyrants haughty necks in triumph tread,
Assisted by the N O B L E C O N S O R T of her bed.
A sample of Joseph Stennett's hand writing. ( The first twenty one lines to "Who Found in Ceaser a Meacenas too")
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