TO THE KING, AN ODE, &c.

ON MARY's Tomb, thrô rowling Years,
 The Mournful Graces all shall weep;
 And, with fresh Lamps and flowing Tears,
 The Virtues endless Vigils Keep. 

For MARY distant Lands shall Mourn
 When late Records Her Deeds relate,
 Ages to come, and Men unborn,
 Shall Bless Her Name, and Sigh Her Fate. 

Fair ALBION shall with watchful Trust,
 Her Holy QUEEN's sad Reliques guard,
 Till Heaven awakes the precious Dust,
 To Cloath it in its full Reward. 

But let the KING forsake his Woes,
 Reflecting on his fair Renown;
 And take the Cypress from his Brows,
 To put his wonted Lawrels on. 

The Lovely Dead, whom He regrets,
 Can know no Fear, can feel no Grief:
 The living World, whom He forgets,
 Would perish without His Relief. 

In vain the British Lyons roar,
 While prest by Grief their MONARCH stoops;
 The Belgic Darts will wound no more,
 If He, whose Hand sustain'd them, droops:

Embattel'd Princes wait their Chief,
 Whose Voice should rule, whose Arm should lead;
 And, in Kind Murmurs, chide that Grief
 Which hinders EUROPE's being freed. 

The great Example they demand
 Who still to Conquest led the Way,
 And wish Him present to command,
 As They stand ready to obey. 

They seek that Joy which used to glow
 Expanded on the HERO's Face,
 When the thick Squadrons prest the Foe,
 And WILLIAM led the glorious Chase. 

Oh! give the Mourning Nations Joy,
 Break forth, great Sun, with usual Light:
 And let thy stronger Beams destroy
 Those Clouds, which keep Thee from our sight. 

Advance in thy Meridian Course,
 And, since thy MARY's Light is gone,
 Rejoyce the World with double Force,
 Thy Beams all fixt in Thee alone. 

See, pious KING, with different strife
 Thy struggling ALBION's Bosom torn;
 So much She fears for WILLIAM's Life,
 That MARY's Fate she dare not mourn. 

Her fair Delight, Her softer Half,
 Cold in the Grave with MARY lies,
 Unless in Thee her strength is safe,
 The frighted Nation wholly dies. 

Thou, Guardian Angel, save our Land. 
From Thy own Grief, her fiercest foe;
 Lest, rais'd and rescu'd by thy Hand,
 She bend and sink beneath thy Woe. 

Her former Triumphs all are vain,
 Unless new Trophies still be sought;
 And hoary Majesty sustain
 The Battles which thy youth has fought. 

Where now is BRITAIN's fearful Love,
 Which made Her hate the War's alarms? 
Where that Excess with which She strove
 To keep her HERO in her Arms? 

While still She chid the coming Spring,
 Which call'd Thee o'er thy subject Seas,
 Whilst, for the Safety of the KING,
 She wish'd the VICTOR's Glory less? 

'Tis gone, 'tis chang'd; sad BRITAIN now
 Hastens her LORD to Foreign Wars:
 Happy if Toyls may break his Woe,
 Or Danger may divert his Cares. 

In Martial sounds She drowns her Sighs,
 Lest He the rising Grief should hear. 
She pulls her Helmet o'er her Eyes,
 Lest He should see the falling Tear. 

Go, Mighty Prince, let FRANCE be taught
 How constant Minds by grief are try'd,
 How great the Land, that wept and fought,
 When WILLIAM led, and MARY dy'd. 

Fierce in the Battle make it Known,
 Where Death with all her Darts is seen,
 That she could strike Thy Heart with None,
 But that with which she struck the QUEEN. 

Thy Virtue, whose resistless force
 No dire Event could ever stay,
 Must carry on its destin'd course,
 Thô Death and envy stop the way. 

Envy shall calm that useless Rage,
 By which Thy Glory brighter grows,
 And Death, Thy Sorrows to asswage,
 Shall turn her wrath, and wound Thy Foes. 

BELGIA indulg'd her open Grief,
 While yet her Master was not near,
 She hated Hope, She scorn'd Relief,
 And triumph'd, Proud in full Despair. 

Her echo'd Wailings pierc't the Skyes,
 To Earth her bended Forehead bow'd,
 The Tears unbounded from her Eyes,
 As Waters from her Sluces, flow'd. 

But soon as Thou her Lord return'd,
 Her Head is rear'd, her Eyes are dry'd,
 She smiles as WILLIAM ne'r had mourn'd,
 She looks as MARY ne'r had dy'd. 

That Freedom which all Sorrows claim
 She does for Thy Content resign:
 Her Piety it self would blame,
 If Her Regrets should waken Thine. 

Dissembling Ease, and forcing Joy,
 She begs her Lord his Tears to dry:
 Did BELGIA e're her prayers employ,
 And ORANGE stand regardless by? 

To cure Thy Woes She shews thy Fame,
 Lest the great Mourner should forget
 That all the Race whence ORANGE came,
 Made Virtue triumph over Fate. 

WILLIAM his Countrey's Cause cou'd fight,
 And with His Blood its Freedom Seal:
 MAURICE and HENRY guard that Right
 For which their pious Father fell. 

A second WILLIAM's Bloom could tell
 How Heroes rise, how Patriots set:
 As Theirs did Others Deeds excel,
 Excelling Theirs be Thine compleat. 

The last fair Instance Thou must give
 Whence NASSAU's Virtue can be try'd;
 And shew the World that Thou canst live
 As glorious as Thy MARY dy'd. 

That Thou canst live for BELGIA's sake,
 Pierc'd by her Griefs forget Thy own;
 New Toyls endure, new Conquests make
 To give her Ease, thô Thou hast None. 

To keep from treach'rous Foes Her store,
 Thô all Thy Wealth be robb'd by Death;
 To vanquish, thô She lives no more
 Whose Hands prepar'd the Victor's Wreath. 

Oh, could Thy Griefs obdurate prove
 To BELGIA's Cries, to BRITAIN's Fears,
 Yet let them yield to MARY's Love,
 To NASSAU's Glory joyn'd in Her's. 

If MARY could so well command,
 It was by long obeying Thee;
 Her Scepter, guided by Thy Hand,
 Preserv'd the Isles and rul'd the Sea. 

But oh! 'twas little that Her Life
 Thy Fame o'er Earth and Water bears,
 In Death 'twas worthy WILLIAM's Wife
 To Fix His Name amidst the Stars. 

Beyond where Matter moves, or Place
 Receives its Forms, Thy Virtues rowl:
 From MARY's Glories Angels trace
 The Beauties of Her Part'ners Soul. 

Wise Fate, which does its Heaven decree
 To Heroes, when They yield their breath,
 Hastens Thy Triumphs, Half of Thee
 Is deifi'd before Thy Death. 

And to Thy Fame alone 'tis given
 Unbounded thrô all Worlds to go,
 While MARY reigns a Saint in Heaven,
 And Thou a Demi-God below.