Classic Poem

1.

They lye that say, there is no Providence,
But all things are contriv'd by giddy Chance
As some men ween, but men of little sense.
Atheists and Cargilites, what think you now?
Will you this Miracle allow?
Are ye convinc'd, ye Whigs, your Prayers are Tricks
When (GOD WITH US) you own?
Are you not fool'd in all your Politicks,
When you would undermine a Crown?
Heav'n laughs at your Attempts, and tells you loud,
The Sons shall live t'avenge the Fathers blood.
Whatever Hell or Rebels dare
The Royal Brothers are It's tender care.
Unreasonable Men shall know
That neither Exile to a forein Land,
A secret Poniard, nor an open Foe
A foaming Sea, nor treacherous Sand
The wonderful Decree shall overthrow.
See how the Martyrs Son in Pomp appear's
Bright as the Lamp of Heav'n broke through a Cloud
The fair return of Loyal Vows and Tears
Of the astonish'd Croud.
Look with an envious Eye,
Look on the Martyrs Son, ye Whigs, and look, and Die.

2.

Welcom (miraculous Prince) once more,
Welcom to th' ingrateful shore;
And with thee all the Noble Train,
Which Heav'n has singled out and given again
Snatch'd from the Jaws of Death.
And thou, great Princess, in whose fruitful Womb
Blessings are treasur'd up for times to come,
Three Kingdoms bid thee Welcom Home.
At thy approach the Winds and Seas agree
And calmly seem to Prophesie
To England Halcyon days of long Serenity.
The Hydra, late so formidable grown
In the too happy Town,
Is by this bright appearance overthrown.
Thus when the ruddy Morn draws near
Goblins and Phantomes disappear;
They revel'd all the factious Night
And broke our pleasant Rest,
Till York whom nothing can affright
Their insolence with a look supprest.
Their trembling Rout must now with Present come
And Cant th'illustrious Duke a Welcom Home;
Or hide their guilty Heads, and groveling lie
Struck with the Princely Thunder of his Eye.