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Sans fruit veu les funérailles
De ses plus fiers combattans.
Quelle effroyable Puissance
Aujourd'huy pourtant s'avance,
Preste à foudroyer tes monts ?
Quel bruit, quel feu l'environne ?
C'est Jupiter en personne ;
Ou c'est le vainqueur de Mons.

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 Batâve,
Desormais docile Esclâve,
Rangé sous ses étendars :
En vain au Lion Belgique
Il voit l'aigle Germanique
Uni sous les léopards.

Plein de la frayeur nouvelle,
Dont ses sens sont agités,
A son secours il appelle
Les peuples les plus vantéz.

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Their siege did ten long years employ;
We’ve done our bus'ness in ten weeks.
What godhead does so fast advance,
With dreadful power those hills to gain P
'Tis little Will, the scourge of France;
No godhead, but the first of men.
His mortal arm exerts the power
To keep ev’n Mons's victor under:”
And that same Jupiter no more
Shall fright the world with impious thunder,

Our king thus trembles at Namur,
Whilst Villeroy, who ne'er afraid is,”
To Bruxelles marches on secure,
To bomb the monks and scare the ladies.
After this glorious expedition,
One battle makes the marshal great:
He must perform the king's commission:
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 would preserve that right.

From Seine and Loire, to Rhone and Po,
See ev'ry mother's son appear:

In such a case ne'er blame a foe,
If he betrays some little fear.

1 Mons surrendered to Louis XIV. 10th April, 1691. * While King William was carrying on the siege of Na

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Ceux là viennent du rivage,
Où s'enorgueillit le Tage
De l'or, qui roule en ses eaux ;
Ceux-ci des champs, où la neige
Des marais de la Norvège
Neuf mois couvre les roseaux.

Mais qui fait enfler la Sambre ?
Sous les Jumeaux effrayéz,
Des froids torrens de Decembre
Les champs par tout sont noyéz.
Cérès s'enfuit, éplorée
De voir en proye à Borée
Ses guerets d'epics chargéz,
Et sous les urns fangeuses
Des Hyades orageuses
Tous ses trésors submergéz.

Déployez toutes vos rages,
Princes, vents, peuples, frimats ;
Ramassez tous vos nuages ;
Rassemblez tous vos soldats.
Malgré vous Namur en poudre
S'en va tomber sous la foudre

mur, Marshal Villeroy, in order to compel him to relinquish that design, marched to Brussels and bombarded that town.

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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 breathe blood and war;
The Marshal cares not to march faster;
Poor Willeroy moves so slowly here,
We fancied all, it was his master.

Will no kind flood, no friendly rain
Disguise the marshal's plain disgrace:
No torrents swell the low Mehayne?
The world will say, he durst not pass.
Why will no Hyades appear,
Dear Poet, on the banks of Sambré Ž
Just as they did that mighty year,
When you turn'd June into December.
The water-nymphs are too unkind
To Villeroy; are the land-nymphs so f
And fly they all, at once combin’d
To shame a general, and a beau?

Truth, Justice, Sense, Religion, Fame,
May join to finish William's story:
Nations set free may bless his name;
And France in secret own his glory.
But Ypres, Maestricht, and Cambray,
Besançon, Ghent, St. Omers, Lisle,
Courtray, and Dole—ye critics, say,
How poor to this was Pindar's style

[graphic]
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