But, greatest Anna! while thy arms purfue
Paths of renown, and climb ascents of fame,
Which nor Auguftus, nor Eliza knew;
What poet fhall be found to fing thy name?
What numbers fhall record, what tongue shall fay
Thy wars on land, thy triumphs on the main ?
O fairest model of imperial fway!
What equal pen fhall write thy wond'rous reign?
Who shall attempts and feats of arms rehearse,
Not yet by story told, nor parallel'd by verse?
IV.
Me all too mean for fuch a task I weet:
Yet if the fov'reign lady deigns to smile,
I'll follow Horace with impetuous heat,
And cloath the verse in Spenser's native style.
By these examples rightly taught to fing,
And fmit with pleasure of my country's praise,
Stretching the plumes of an uncommon wing,
High as Olympus I my flight will raise :
And latest times fhall in my numbers read
Anna's immortal fame, and Marlbro's hardy deed.
As the ftrong eagle in the filent wood,
Mindlefs of warlike rage, and hostile care,
Plays round the rocky cliff, or crystal flood;
'Till by Jove's high behefts call'd out to war,
And charg'd with thunder of his angry king,
His bofom with the vengeful meffage glows:
Upward the noble bird directs his wing;
And tow'ring round his master's earth-born foes,
Swift he collects his fatal ftock of ire;
Lifts his fierce talon high, and darts the forked fire.
Sedate and calm thus victor Marlbro fate, Shaded with laurels, in his native land; 'Till Anna calls him from his foft retreat, And gives her fecond thunder to his hand. Then leaving fweet repofe, and gentle eafe, With ardent speed he feeks the distant foe: Marching o'er hills and vales, o'er rocks and feas, He meditates, and ftrikes the wond'rous blow. Our thought flies flower than our general's fame: Grafps he the bolt? (we ask) when he has hurl'd the flame,
When fierce Bavar on Judoign's spacious plain
Did from afar the British chief behold;
Betwixt defpair, and rage, and hope, and pain,
Something within his warring bosom roll'd:
He views that fav'rite of indulgent fame,
Whom whilom he had met on Ifter's fhoar:
Too well, alas! the man he knows the fame,
Whose prowess there repell'd the Boyan pow'r;
And sent them trembling thro' the frighted lands,
Swift as the whirlwind drives Arabia's scatter'd fands.
VIII,
His former loffes he forgets to grieve;
Abfolves his fate, if with a kinder ray
It now would fhine, and only give him leave
To balance the account of Blenheim's day.
So the fell lion in the lonely glade,
His fide still smarting with the hunter's fpear,
Tho' deeply wounded, no way yet difmay'd,
Roars terrible, and meditates new war;
In fullen fury traverses the plain,
To find the vent'rous foe, and battle him again.
Mifguided prince! no longer urge thy fate,
Nor tempt the heroe to unequal war;
Fam'd in misfortune, and in ruin great,
Confefs the force of Maribro's ftronger star.
Thofe lawrel groves (the merits of thy youth)
Which thou from Mahomet didst greatly gain,
While bold affertor of refiftless truth,
Thy fword did godlike liberty maintain,
Muft from thy brow their falling honours fhed;
And their transplanted wreaths must deck a worthier head.
X.
Yet ceafe the ways of Providence to blame,
And human faults with human grief confefs:
'Tis thou art chang'd; while heav'n is ftill the fame:
From thy ill councils date thy ill fuccefs.
Impartial justice holds her equal fcales:
'Till ftronger virtue does the weight incline:
If over thee thy glorious foe prevails;
He now defends the cause, that once was thine.
Righteous the war, the champion shall subdue;
For Jove's great handmaid Power, muft Jove's decrees purfue.
Hark! the dire trumpets found their shrill alarms:
Auverquerque, branch'd from the renown'd Nassaus,
Hoary in war, and bent beneath his arms,
His glorious sword with dauntless courage draws:
When anxious Britain mourn'd her parting lord,
And all of William that was mortal dy'd ;
The faithful heroe had receiv'd this fword
From his expiring master's much-lov'd fide.
Oft from its fatal ire has Louis flown,
Where-e'er great William led, or Macfe and Sambre run.
But brandish'd high, in an ill-omen'd hour
To thee, proud Gaul, behold thy justest fear,
The master sword, difpofer of thy power:
'Tis that which Caefar gave the British peer.
He took the gift: nor ever will I sheath
This fteel (fo Anna's high behefts ordain)
The general faid, unless by glorious death
Abfolv'd, 'till conqueft has confirm'd your reign.
Returns like these our mistress bids us make,
When from a foreign prince a gift her Britons take.
XIII.
And now fierce Gallia rushes on her foes,
Her force augmented by the Boyan bands:
So Volga's ftream, increas'd by mountain fnows,
Rolls with new fury down thro' Ruffia's lands.
Like two great rocks against the raging tide
(If virtue's force with nature's we compare)
Unmov'd the two united chiefs abide,
Sustain the impulse, and receive the war.
Round their firm fides in vain the tempeft beats;
And still the foaming wave with leffen'd power retreats. XIV.
The rage difpers'd, the glorious pair advance,
With mingl'd anger, and collected might,
To turn the war, and tell aggreffing France,
How Britain's fons, and Britain's friends can fight.
On conqueft fix'd, and covetous of fame,
Behold them rushing thro' the Gallic host.
Thro' ftanding corn fo runs the fudden flame,
Or eastern winds along Sicilia's coaft.
They deal their terrors to the adverse nation:
Pale death attends their arms, and ghaftly defolation.
But while with fierceft ire Bellona glows;
And Europe rather hopes than fears her fate;
While Britain preffes her afflicted foes;
What horror damps the strong, and quells the great?
Whence look the foldiers cheeks difmay'd and pale?
Erft ever dreadful, know they now to dread?
The hoftile troops, I ween, almost prevail;"
And the pursuers only not recede.
Alas! their leffen'd rage proclaims their grief!
For anxious, lo! they croud around their falling chief.
XVI.
I thank thee, fate, exclaims the fierce Bavar;
Let Boya's trumpet grateful Io's found:
I saw him fall, their thunderbolt of war:-
Ever to vengeance facred be the ground-
Vain wish! fhort joy! the heroe mounts again
In greater glory, and with fuller light:
The ev'ning star so falls into the main,
To rife at morn more prevalently bright.
He rifes fafe, but near, too near his fide,
A good man's grievous loss, a faithful fervant dy'd.
Propitious Mars! the battle is regain’d: The foe with leffen'd wrath disputes the field: The Briton fights, by fav'ring gods sustain'd: Freedom muft live; and lawlefs power muft yield. Vain now the tales which fabling poets tell, That wav'ring Conquest still defires to rove! In Marlbro's camp the goddess knows to dwell: Long as the heroe's life remains her love. Again France flies: again the Duke pursues: And on Ramilia's plains he Blenheim's fame renews.
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