They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just,
And fit for highest trust;
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the Republic’s hand
(How fit he is to sway,
That can so well obey!),
He to the Commons’ feet presents
A Kingdom for his first year’s rents,
And (what he may) forbears
His fame, to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the Public’s skirt
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having killed, no more doth search
But on the next green bough to perch,
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our Isle presume
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear
If thus he crowns each year?
As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all states not free
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-coloured mind,
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid.
Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son,
March indefatigably on,
And for the last effect
Still keep the sword erect: