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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 through the Gallic hoft.
Through standing corn fo runs the fudden flame,
Or eastern winds along Sicilia's coaft.

They deal their terrrors to the adverse nation :
Påle death attends their arms, and ghaftly defolation
XV.

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 ftrong, and quells the great?
Whence look the foldiers cheeks dismay'd and pale?
Erft ever dreadful, know they now to dread?
The hoftile troops, I ween, almost prevails;

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 faw him fall, their thunderbolt of war:
Ever to vengeance facred be the ground-
Vain with short joy! the hero mounts again
In greater glory, and with fuller light:
The ev'ning ftar fo 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 lofs, a faithful fervant dy'd

XVII.

Propitious Mars! the battle is regain'd': The foe with leffen'd wrath difputes the field: The Briton fights, by fav'ring gods fuftain'd: Freedom muft live; and lawless power must yield.. Vain now the tales which fabling poets tell, That wav'ring conqueft ftill desires to rove! In Marlbro's camp the goddess knows to dwellt: Long as the hero's life remains her love. Again France flies: again the Duke pursues: And on Ramilia's plains he Blenheim's fame renews. XVIII.

Great thanks, O captain great in arms! receive
From thy triumphant country's public voice:
Thy country greater thanks can only give

To Anne, to her who made those arms her choice.
Recording Schellenbergs, and Blenheim's toils,
We dreaded left thou fhould'ft those toils repeat:
We view'd the palace charg'd with Gallie fpoils
And in thofe fpoils we thought thy praife compleat::
For never Greek, we deem'd, nor Roman knight,
In characters like thefe did e'er his acts indite..

XIX.

Yet mindless still of eafe, thy virtue flies-
A pitch to old and modern times unknown:-
Thofe goodly deeds which we fo highly prize,
Imperfect seem, great chief, to thee alone.

Those heights, where William's virtue might have ftaid,

And on the subject world look'd fafely down,
By Marlbro' pafs'd, the props and fteps were made,.
Sublimer yet to raise his queen's renown::

Still gaining more, still slighting what he gain'd, Nought done the hero deem'd, while ought undone remain❜d.

XX.

When fwift-wing'd Rumour told the mighty Gaul, How leffen'd from the field Bavar was fled; He wept the swiftness of the champion's fall; And thus the royal treaty-breaker said: And lives he yet, the great, the loft Bavar, Ruin to Gallia, in the name of friend? Tell me, how far has fortune been fevere? Has the foe's glory, or our grief an end? Remains there, of the fifty thousand loft,

To fave our threaten'd realm, or guard our fhatter'd coaft?

XXI.

To the close rock the frighted raven flies,
Soon as the rifing eagle cuts the air:

The fhaggy wolf unfeen and trembling lies,
When the hoarse roar proclaims the lion near.
Ill-ftarr'd did we our forts and lines forfake,
To dare our British foes to open fight;
Our conquest we by ftratagem fhould make:
Our triumph had been founded in our flight.
'Tis ours, by craft and by furprize to gain :
'Tis theirs, to meet in arms, and battle in the plain.
XXII.

The ancient father of this hoftile brood,

Their boasted Brute, undaunted fnatch'd his gods From burning Troy, and Xanthus red with blood And fix'd on Gilver Thames his dire abodes;

And this be Troynovante, he faid, the feat
By heav'n ordain'd, my fons, your lasting place;
Superior here to all the bolts of fate

Live, mindful of the author of your race,

Whom neither Greece, nor war, nor want, nor flame, Nor great Feleides' arm, nor Juno's rage could tame.

XXIII.

Their Tudors hence, and Stuart's off-fpring flow: Hence Edward, dreadful with his fable fhield, 'Talbot to Gallia's pow'r eternal foe,

And Seymour, fam'd in council, or in field;
Hence Nevil, great to fettle or dethrone,
And Drake, and Ca'ndish, terrors of the fea:
Hence Butler's fons, o'er land and ocean known,
Herbet's and Churchill's warring progeny :

Hence the long roll which Gallia should conceal:
For oh! who, vanquish'd, loves the victor's fame to

tell!

XXIV.

Envy'd Britannia, fturdy as the oak,

Which on her mountain-top fhe proudly bears,
Eludes the ax, and fprouts against the stroke;
Strong from her wounds, and greater by her wars.
And as thofe teeth, which Cadmus fow'd in earth,
Produc'd new youth, and furnish'd fresh fupplies:
So with young vigour, and fucceeding birth,
Her loffes more than recompens'd arife;
And ev'ry age fhe with a race is crown'd,
For letters more polite, in battles more renown'd. ·
XXV.

Obftinate pow'r whom nothing can repel;
Not the fierce Saxon, nor the Dane.

Nor deep impreffion of the Norman steel,
Nor Europe's force amafs'd by envious Spain,
Nor France on univerfal fway intent,

Oft breaking leagues, and oft renewing wars;
Nor (frequent bane of weaken'd government)
Their own inteftine-feuds, and mutual jars ;
Thofe feuds and jars, in which I trusted more,
Than in my troops, and fleets, and all the Gallicpow'r.
XXVI.

To fruitful Rheims, or fair Lutetia's gate,
What tidings shall the meffenger convey?
Shall the loud herald our fuccefs relate,
Or mitred priest appoint the folemn day?
Alas! my praifes they no more muft fing;
They to my ftatue now muft bow no more:
Broken, repuls'd is their immortal king:
Fall'n, fall'n for ever is the Gallic pow'r-
The Woman chief is master of the war:

Earth fhe has freed by arms, and vanquish'd heav'n by pray❜r.

XXVII.

While thus the ruin'd foe's defpair commends Thy council and thy deed, victorious queen, What shall thy fubjects fay, and what thy friends? Now fhall thy triumphs in our joy be feen? Oh! deign to let the eldeft of the Nine Recite Britannia great, and Gallia free: Oh! with her fifter Sculpture let her join To raife, great Anne, the monument to thee; To thee, of all our good the facred fpring; To thee our dearest dread; to thee, our fofter King.

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