Classic Poem

On the STORM in 1704.

Cease, angry God, your Noise and Fury cease,
And hush your Winds, in one eternal Peace:
Let 'em, in languid Murmurs, gently moan,
And be the Eccho of themselves alone.

And Thou, rude, boist'rous Deity, retire;
To Rocks and Desarts lead your blust'ring Choir;
There vent your Rage, there fret and rave in vain,
But never more presume to vex the Main.
Unless, in Quiet, I enjoy my Crown,
Your spongy Caverns, and your Court, I'll drown.

When Britain, Dear to me, sent forth her Fleet,
With swelling Sails Iberia 's King to meet,
I bid my Waves, in gentlest Motion, glide;
And Nymphs and Tritons, sporting, calm'd the Tide.
When, lo! your Winds, with maddest Fury hurl'd,
Ruffled the proudest Island of the World;
Half of my Realm, on which, I did bestow,
Anna! to Rule Above, and I Below.

Their well-built Ships, which bounding o'er the Tide,
In every distant Sea, could, safely, ride;
Untaught to Strike to any Foe, but You,
Yield to the Tempest, and Themselves subdue.
The valiant Chief, who on the Hostile Coast,
With Glorious Danger, had been, often, tost,
Grieves, in his Native Harbour, to be lost.
Grieves! tho' well anchor'd, in his fought-for Shore,
His Grave to sind, which, was his Home, before.

O! you had heard the Cries, the moving Pray'rs,
Hadn't your own Noise stopt up your deafen'd Ears;
The wildest Savage I command, could say,
Hippotades more savage was than they;
For, as they eat, they soften'd with their Food,
And felt Compassion, while they fill'd with Blood.

My Waves, amaz'd, I saw transfus'd from Green,
To the deep Die, which cloath'd the Tyrian Queen;
While Albion 's chalky Cliffs, confess'd, in Red,
Their Shame, and blush'd to see the mighty Dead.

Accursed Lewis! he has brib'd at Land,
And shall his Treachery at Sea command?

Begone, thou mercenary God, begone,
Retire, asham'd, repent the Ills you've done;
While I descend to my astonish'd Court,
Where Tritons, and where tuneful Nymphs resort;
Where, bath'd in Tears, on Coral Beds they sit,
And to the mournful Theme, their Numbers fit;
Prepar'd the Wrongs of Britain to relate,
And shew, how much the Winds and Thee they hath.