To the Lord Sy — ney, Created Lieutenant of Ireland, about the time his Majesty went to Flanders

As when the Sun hastes to renew his Toils,
And sets in glories, to return in Smiles.
He lies in Seas, and rises thence more fair,
As if he got new Fires, new brightness there.
So, the great Nassaw, when thro' Waves he goes,
Renews his Terrors on his trembling Foes.
With Joy he Fights, of every Laurel sure,
While, what he Conquers, you alone secure.
Sacred to him the Gods that Tree shall own,
It shall dread Nassaw, not Apollo Crown,
And he shall, e'er his mighty course is run,
Ride round the Globe, — Triumphant, like the Sun.
Janus, his Gates, no more shall open stand,
Their Keys lie safe, in your securer hand.
Hibernia free from tumults, and from fears;
No danger there but Luxury appears.
Soon William's Arms shall round the Earth be hurld,
And You deputed o'er the Conquer'd World.
Whilst all Fame's thousand Trumpets Sound afar.
You, Prince of Peace, and Nassaw, God of War.