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The last fair instance thou must give,

Whence Nassau's virtue can be tried; And shew the world, that thou canst live,

Intrepid, as thy consort died.

Thy virtue, whose resistless force

No dire event could ever stay, Must carry on its destin'd course,

Though Death and Envy stop the way.

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For Britain's sake, for Belgia’s, live :

Pierc'd by their grief forget thy own : New toils endure; new conquest give;

And bring them ease, though thou hast none.

Vanquish again; though she be gone,

Whose garland crown'd the victor's hair ; And reign, though she has left the throne,

Who made thy glory worth thy care.

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Fair Britain never yet before

Breath'd to her king a useless pray'r : Fond Belgia never did implore,

While William turn'd averse his ear.

But should the weeping hero now

Relentless to their wishes prove; Should he recall, with pleasing woe,

The object of his grief and love;

Her face with thousand beauties blost,

Her mind with thousand virtues stor'd,

Her power

with boundless joy confest, Her person only not ador'd:

:

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Yet ought his sorrow to be check’d;

Yet ought his passions to abate : If the great mourner would reflect,

Her glory in her death complete.

She was instructed to command,

Great king, by long obeying thee: Her sceptre, guided by thy hand,

Presery'd the isles, and ruld the sea.

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But oh! 'twas little, that her life

O’er earth and water bears thy fame: In death, 'twas worthy William's wife,

Amidst the stars to fix his name.

Beyond where matter moves, or place

Receives its forms, thy virtues roll: From Mary’s glory, Angels trace

The beauty of her partner's soul.

Wise Fate, which does its Heav'n decree

To heroes, when they yield their breath, Hastens thy triumph. Half of thee

Is deified before thy death.

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Alone to thy renown 'tis giv’n,

Unbounded through all worlds to go: While she, great saint, rejoices Heav'n;

And thou sustain'st the orb below.

IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.

ET 'em censure: what care I?

The herd of critics I defy.
Let the wretches know, I write,

Regardless of their grace, or spite.
No, no: the fair, the

gay,
the

young
Govern the numbers of my song.
All that they approve is sweet,
And all is sense that they repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire:
Venus, string thy servant's lyre:
Love shall be my endless theme:
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame:
And when these maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy fate be mine:
May I grasp at empty praise ;
And lose the nymph, to gain the bays.

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AN ODE.

HE merchant, to secure his treasure,

Conveys it in a borrow'd name : Euphelia serves to grace my measure;

But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; When Cloe noted her desire,

That I should sing, that I should play.

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My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ;

But with my numbers mix my sighs : And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,

I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:

I sung and gaz'd: I play'd and trembled : And Venus to the Loves around

Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled.

ODE

SUR LA PRISE DE NAMUR, PAR LES ARMES DU ROY,

L'ANNEE MDCXCII.

PAR MONSIEUR

BOILEAU DESPREAUX.

I.

UELLE docte & sainte yvresse

Aujourd'huy me fait la loy?
Chastes nymphes du Permesse,

N'est-ce pas vous que je voy?
Accourez, troupe sçavante:
Des sons que ma lyre enfante ;
Ces arbres sont réjouis :
Marquez en bien la cadence:
Et vous, vents, faites silence :
Je vais parler de Louiş.

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II.

Dans ses chansons immortelles,
Comme un aigle audacieux,
Pindare étendant ses aisles,
Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux.
Mais, ô ma fidèle lyre,
Si, dans l'ardeur qui m'inspire,
Tu peux suivre mes transports ;
Les chesnes des monts de Thrace
N'ont rien oüi, que n'efface
La douceur de tes accords.

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