The loud-sung Triumphs of his Warlike Years.
Whether this Praise to _Stepny's_ Muse belong,
Or _Prior_ claim it for _Pindarick Song_.
The sleeping Dooms of Empire were delay'd,
And Fate stood silent while the Poet play'd.
The double Vertue of _Nassovian Fire_
At once the Soldier and the Bard inspire.
The Hero listen'd when the Canons rung
A Fatal Peal, or when the Harp was strung,
When _Mars_ has Acted, or when _Phoebus_ Sung.

O cou'd my Muse reach _Milton's_ tow'ring Flight,
Or stretch her Wings to the _Mæonian_ Height!
Thro' Air, and Earth, and Seas, I wou'd disperse
His Fame, and sing it in the loudest Verse.
The rowling Waves to hear me shou'd grow tame,
And Winds should calm a Tempest with his Name
But we must all decline: The Muse grows dumb,
Not weary'd with his Praise, but overcome.
Who shall describe Him? or what Eye can trace
The Matchless Glories of his Princely Race?
What Prince can equal what no Muse can praise?
No Land but _Britain_, must pretend to shine
With Gods and Heroes of an equal Line.
So may this Island a new _Delos_ prove,
Joyn[8] Young _Apollo_ to the _Cretan Jove_!
What Bloom! what Youth! what Hopes of future Fame!
How his Eyes sparkle with a Heav'nly Flame!
How swiftly _Gloster_ in his Bud began!
How the _Green Hero_ blossoms into Man!