Spreading our sails, to Harwich we resort,
And meet the beauties of the British court.
The illustrious Duchess, and her glorious train,
(Like Thetis with her nymphs) adorn the main.
The gazing sea-gods, since the Paphian Queen*
Sprung from among them, no such sight had seen.
Charmed with the graces of a troop so fair,
Those deathless powers for us themselves declare,
Resolved the aid of Neptune's court to bring,
And help the nation where such beauties spring;
The soldier here his wasted store supplies,
And takes new valour from the ladies' eyes.†
Meanwhile, like bees, when stormy winter's gone, The Dutch (as if the sea were all their own) Desert their ports, and, falling in their way, Our Hamburg merchants are become their prey.‡ Thus flourish they, before the approaching fight; As dying tapers give a blazing light.
To check their pride, our fleet half-victualled goes,
Enough to serve us till we reach our foes;
Who now appear so numerous and bold,
The action worthy of our arms we hold.
A greater force than that which here we find,
Ne'er pressed the ocean, nor employed the wind. §
The Duke of York's family were on board his vessel, while the fleet lay upon the English coast; and their presence, instead of producing the effect attributed to it by Waller, is said to have been resented by the sailors, who were not disposed at such a time to pay them the respect they appear to have anticipated.
The loss sustained by our merchants was estimated at between two and three hundred thousand pounds. All possible precautions had been taken to warn the little Hamburg fleet, just then expected home, that the Duke of York had retired to the coast; but the fleet, still supposing him to be at sea, pursued their voyage, and thus fell into the hands of the enemy.
§ The English fleet consisted of 114 men-of-war and frigates, 28 fire-ships and ketches, and about 21,000 soldiers and seamen. The Dutch, under Opdam, numbered upwards of 100 vessels of war, besides fire-ships and yachts, and upwards of 22,000 men, the whole divided into seven squadrons.
Restrained a while by the unwelcome night,
The impatient English scarce attend the light.
But now the morning (heaven severely clear!)
To the fierce work indulgent does appear;
And Phoebus lifts above the waves his light,
That he might see, and thus record, the fight.
As when loud winds from different quarters rush,
Vast clouds encountering one another crush;
With swelling sails so, from their several coasts,
Join the Batavian and the British hosts.
For a less prize, with less concern and rage,
The Roman fleets at Actium did engage;
They, for the empire of the world they knew,
These, for the Old contend, and for the New.
At the first shock, with blood and powder stained,
Nor heaven, nor sea, their former face retained;
Fury and art produce effects so strange,
They trouble Nature, and her visage change.
Where burning ships the banished sun supply,
And no light shines, but that by which men die,
There York appears! so prodigal is he
Of royal blood, as ancient as the sea!
Which down to him, so many ages told,
Has through the veins of mighty monarchs rolled !
The great Achilles marched not to the field
Till Vulcan that impenetrable shield,
And arms, had wrought; yet there no bullets flew,
But shafts and darts which the weak Phrygians threw.
Our bolder hero on the deck does stand
Exposed, the bulwark of his native land;
Defensive arms laid by as useless here,
Where massy balls the neighbouring rocks do tear.
Some power unseen those princes does protect,
Who for their country thus themselves neglect.
Against him first Opdam his squadron leads,
Proud of his late success against the Swedes;
Made by that action, and his high command,
Worthy to perish by a prince's hand.
The tall Batavian in a vast ship rides,
Bearing an army in her hollow sides;
Yet, not inclined the English ship to board,
More on his guns relies, than on his sword;*
From whence a fatal volley we received;
It missed the Duke, but his great heart it grieved; '
Three worthy persons from his side it tore,
And dyed his garment with their scattered gore.t
Happy! to whom this glorious death arrives,
More to be valued than a thousand lives!
On such a theatre as this to die,
For such a cause, and such a witness by!
Who would not thus a sacrifice be made,
To have his blood on such an altar laid?
The rest about him struck with horror stood,
To see their leader covered o'er with blood.
So trembled Jacob, when he thought the stains
Of his son's coat had issued from his veins.
He feels no wound but in his troubled thought;
Before, for honour, now, revenge he fought;
His friends in pieces torn, (the bitter news
Not brought by Fame) with his own eyes he views.
His mind at once reflecting on their youth,
Their worth, their love, their valour, and their truth,
The joys of court, their mothers, and their wives,
To follow him, abandoned, and their lives!
* This is an injustice to the gallant Opdam, for which but inadequate amends are made in a subsequent passage. The courage displayed by the Dutch commander in his attempt to board the English Admiral deserved a more generous acknowledgment. The collision was so
close between the two vessels, that the Dutch historians assert that the Royal Charles was at one moment actually boarded. After Opdam perished, his vice-admiral renewed the attempt, and would probably have succeeded but for the intrepidity of an English captain, who, running his vessel between, boarded and burned the Dutchman.
The peril in which the Duke of York was personally placed is illustrated by the incident here alluded to, when the Earl of Falmouth, Lord Muskerry, and Mr. Boyle, second son of the Earl of Burlington, and several of the Duke's footmen, were killed at his side by a chainshot. The Duke was sprinkled by their blood and brains, and is said to have been wounded in the hand by a fragment of Mr. Boyle's skull.
He storms and shoots, but flying bullets now,
To execute his rage, appear too slow;
They miss, or sweep but common souls away;
For such a loss Opdam his life must pay.
Encouraging his men, he gives the word,
With fierce intent that hated ship to board,
And make the guilty Dutch, with his own arm,
Wait on his friends, while yet their blood is warm.
His winged vessel like an eagle shows,
When through the clouds to truss a swan she goes;
The Belgian ship unmoved, like some huge rock
Inhabiting the sea, expects the shock.
From both the fleets men's eyes are bent this way,
Neglecting all the business of the day;
Bullets their flight, and guns their noise suspend;
The silent ocean does the event attend,
Which leader shall the doubtful victory bless,
And give an earnest of the war's success;
When Heaven itself, for England to declare,
Turns ship, and men, and tackle, into air.
Their new commander from his charge is tossed,
Which that young prince* had so unjustly lost,
Whose great progenitors, with better fate,
And better conduct, swayed their infant state.
His flight towards heaven the aspiring Belgian took,
But fell, like Phaëton, with thunder strook;
From vaster hopes than his he seemed to fall,
That durst attempt the British Admiral;
From her broad sides a ruder flame is thrown
Than from the fiery chariot of the sun;
That, bears the radiant ensign of the day,
And she, the flag that governs in the sea.†
The cause of the explosion of Opdam's ship has been variously stated, but by Waller alone ascribed to the fire of the English. According to some accounts, one of the English captains, perceiving the Duke's danger, ran under the Dutch Admiral's side, and set fire to the powderroom; while others assert that it was done by a black in Opdam's service, out of revenge for some ill usage.
The Duke, (ill pleased that fire should thus prevent
The work which for his brighter sword he meant)
Anger still burning in his valiant breast,
Goes to complete revenge upon the rest.
So on the guardless herd, their keeper slain,
Rushes a tiger in the Libyan plain.
The Dutch, accustomed to the raging sea,
And in black storms the frowns of heaven to see,
Never met tempest which more urged their fears,
Than that which in the Prince's look appears.
Fierce, goodly, young! Mars he resembles, when
Jove sends him down to scourge perfidious men ;
Such as with foul ingratitude have paid,
Both those that led, and those that gave them aid.
Where he gives on, disposing of their fates,
Terror and death on his loud cannon waits,
With which he pleads his brother's cause so well,
He shakes the throne to which he does appeal.
The sea with spoils his angry bullets strow,
Widows and orphans making as they go;
Before his ship fragments of vessels torn,
Flags, arms, and Belgian carcasses are borne;
And his despairing foes, to flight inclined,
Spread all their canvas to invite the wind.
So the rude Boreas, where he lists to blow,
Makes clouds above, and billows fly below,
Beating the shore; and, with a boisterous rage,
Does heaven at once, and earth, and sea engage.
The Dutch, elsewhere, did through the watery field
Perform enough to have made others yield;
But English courage, growing as they fight,
In danger, noise, and slaughter, takes delight;
Their bloody task, unwearied still, they ply,
Only restrained by death, or victory.
Iron and lead, from earth's dark entrails torn,
Like showers of hail, from either side are borne;
So high the rage of wretched mortals goes,
Hurling their mother's bowels at their foes!
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