Hail, ye Poetick Dead, who wander now
  In Fields of Light! at your fair Shrines we bow. 
  Freed from the Malice of Injurious Fate,
  Ye blest Partakers of a happier State! 
  Whether Intomb’d with English Kings you sleep,
  Or Common Urns your Sacred Ashes keep: 
  There, on each Dawning of the tender Day,
  May Tuneful Birds their pious Off’rings pay! 
  There may sweet Myrrh with Balmy Tears perfume
  The hallow’d Ground, and Roses deck the Tomb.

    While You, Who live, no frowning Tempest fear,
  Sing on; let Montague and Dorset hear. 
  In Stately Verse let William’s Praise be told,
  WILLIAM rewards with Honour and with Gold. 
  No more of Richelieu’s Worth:  Forget not, Fame,
  To change Augustus for Great William’s Name. 
  Who, tho’ like Homer’s Jupiter, he sate,
  Musing on something eminently great
  And ballanc’d in his Mind the World’s important Fate;
  Lays by the vast Concern, and gladly hears
  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 Maeonian 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! 
  Smit with the Thirst of Fame, and Honour’s Charms,
  To tread his Uncle’s Steps, and shine in Arms: 
  See, how he Spurs, and Rushes to the War! 
  Pale Legions view, and tremble from afar,
  What Blood! what Ruin!  Thrice unhappy They
  Who shall attempt him on that fatal Day.
  Edwards and Harry’s to his Eyes appear