But should the weeping Hero now
Relentless to their Wishes prove;
Should he recall, with pleafing Woe,
The Object of his Grief and Love:

Her Face with thousand Beauties bleft;
Her Mind with thousand Virtues ftor'd;
Her Pow'r with boundless Joy confeft;
Her Perfon only not ador'd :

Yet ought his Sorrow to be checkt;
Yet ought his Paffions to abate:
If the great Mourner would reflect,
Her Glory in her Death compleat.

She was inftructed to command,
Great King, by long obeying Thee;
Her Scepter, guided by thy Hand,
Preferv'd the Ifles, and Rul'd the Sea.

But

But oh ! 'twas little, that her Life

O'er Earth and Water bears thy Fame: In Death, 'twas worthy William's Wife,

f

Amidft the Stars to fix his Name.

Beyond where Matter moves, or Place
Receives its Forms, thy Virtues rowl:
From Mary's Glory Angels trace

The Beauty of her Part'ner's Soul.

Wife Fate, which does in Heav'n decree
To Heroes, when they yield their Breath,
Haftens thy Triumph; Half of thee

Is Deify'd before thy Death.

Alone to thy Renown 'tis giv'n,

Unbounded thro' all Worlds to go :

While She great Saint rejoices Heav'n;
And Thou sustain'st the Orb below.

Q

ODE.

Sur la Prife.

De NAM U R.

L' Année 1692.

Par Monfieur Defpreaux de Boileau.

I.

Uelle docte & Sainte yvresse
Aujourd' buy me fait la loy?

Chaftes Nymphes du Permeffe,
N'est-ce pas vous que je voy?
Accourez, Troupe Sçavante,
Des fons que ma Lyre enfante
Ces Arbres font réjoüis.
Marques en bien la cadence;
Et vous, Vents, faites Silence :

Je vais Parler de Louis.

II. Dans

An English BALLAD,

On the Taking

Of NA MUR.
1695.

Dulce eft defipere in loco.

I. and II.

Ome Folks are drunk, yet do not know it:

Son

So might not Bacchus give you Law?

Was it a Mufe, O lofty Poet,

Or Virgin of St. Cyr, you faw?

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 fhou'd raise,

Would that have spoil'd the Poet's Song,
Or puff'd away the Monarch's Praife?

II.

Dans fes chansons immortelles,

Comme un Aigle audacieux,
Pindare étendant ses aisles,
Fuit loin des Vulgaires yeux.
Mais, o ma fidele Lyre,

Si, dans l'ardeur qui m'infpire,
Tu peux fuivre mes Transports;
Les chefnes de Monts de Thrace
N'ont rien oui que n'efface

La douceur de tes accords.

III.

Eft-ce Apollon & Neptune
Qui fur ces Rocs Sourcilleux,
Ont, compagnons de Fortune,
Bafti ces Murs orgueilleux ?
De leur enceinte fameufe
La Sambre unie à la Meuse
Deffend le fatal abord,

Et par cent bouches horribles

L'airain fur ces Monts terribles
Vomit le fer, & la Mort.

IV. Dix