On the taking of NAMUR by the KING of
GREAT BRITAIN, 1695.
Dulce eft defipere in loco.
M E folks are drunk, yet do not know it:
So might not Bacchus give you law?
Was it a mufe, O lofty poet,
Or virgin of St. Cyr, you saw?
Why all this fury? what's the matter,
That oaks must come from Thrace to dance?
Muft ftupid stocks be taught to flatter?
And is there no fuch wood in France?.
Why must the winds all hold their tongue?
If they a little breath should raise;
Would that have spoil'd the poet's song;
Or puff'd away the monarch's praise?
Pindar, that eagle, mounts the skies:
While virtue leads the noble way:
Too like a vultur Boileau flies,
Where fordid int'reft fhews the prey.
When once the poet's honour ceases,
From reason far his transports rove:
And Boileau, for eight hundred pieces,
Makes Louis take the wall of Jove..
III.
Neptune and Sol came from above,
Shap'd like Megrigny and Vauban :
They armed these rocks; then show'd old Jove
Of Marli wood, the wond'rous plan. Such walls, these three wife gods agreed, By human force could ne'er be shaken: But you and I in Homer read
Of gods, as well as men, miftaken. Sambre and Maefe their waves may join; But ne'er can William's force restrain: He'll pass them both, who pass'd the Boyn: Remember this, and arm the Sein.
Full fifteen thousand lufty fellows
With fire and fword the fort maintain:
Each was a Hercules, you tell us ;
Yet out they march'd like common men.
Cannons above, and mines below
Did death and tombs for foes contrive:
Yet matters have been order'd so,
That most of us are still alive.
If Namur be compar'd to Troy;
Then Britain's boys excell'd the Greeks:
Their fiege did ten long years employ;
"We've done our bus'ness in ten weeks.
What godhead does fo faft advance,
What dreadful pow'r those hills to gain?
'Tis little Will, the fcourge of France;
No godhead but the first of men.
His mortal arm exerts the pow'r
To keep ev'n Mons's victor under:
And that fame Jupiter no more
Shall fright the world with impious thunder,
N'en doute point: c'est luy-mesme.
Tout brille en luy; tout est roy.
Dans Bruxelles Nassau blême
Commence à trembler pour toy.
En vain il voit le Batave,
Deformais docile efclâve,
Rangé fous les étendars:
En vain au lion Belgique
Il voit l'aigle Germanique
Uni fous les leopards.
Plein de la frayeur nouvelle,
Dont fes fens font agités,
A fon fecours il appelle
Les peuples les plus vantéz.
Ceux-là viennent du rivage,
Ou s'enorgueillit le Tage
De l'or, qui roule en fes eaux ;
Ceux-ci des champs, où la neige
Des marais de la Norvége
Neuf mois couvre les rofeaux.
Mais qui fait enfiler la Sambre?
Sous les Jumeaux effrayéz, -
Des froids Torrens de Decembre
Le champs par tout font noyéz,
Ceres s'enfuit, éplorée
De voir en proye à Borce
Our king thus trembles at Namur,
Whilft Villeroy who never afraid is, To Bruxelles marches on fecure,
To bomb the monks, and scare the ladies.
After this glorious expedition,
One battle makes the marshal great:
He must perform the king's commiffion :
Who knows, but Orange may retreat?
Kings are allow'd to feign the gout,
Or be prevail'd with not to fight:
And mighty Louis hop'd, no doubt,
That William wou'd preferve that right,
From Sein and Loyre, to Rhone and Po,
See ev'ry mother's fon appear:
In fuch a cafe ne'er blame a foe,
If he betrays fome little fear.
He comes, the mighty Villeroy comes;
Finds a small river in his way:
So waves his colours, beats his drums;
And thinks it prudent there to stay.
The Gallic troops breath blood and war;
The marshal cares not to march fafter;
Poor Vill'roy moves fo flowly here,
We fancy'd all, it was his master.
Will no kind flood, no friendly rain
Disguise the marshal's plain disgrace:
No torrents fwell the low Mehayne?
The world will fay, he durft not pass.
Why will no Hyades appear,
Dear poet, on the banks of Sambre
Juft as they did that mighty year,, rueg
When you turn'd June into December.
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