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Mais, ô ma fidele lyre,
Déployez toutes vos rages,
Loin de fermer le passage
La fame & le fer en main :
What godhcad does so fast advance, Et sur les monceaux de piques,
With dreadful power, those hills to gain? De corps morts, de rocs, de briques,
'Tis little Will, the scourge of France; S'ouvrir un large cheunin.
No godhead, but the first of men.
His mortal arm exerts the power C'en est fait. Je viens d'entendre
To keep c'en Mons's victor under: Sur ces rochers éperdus
And that same Jupiter no more Battre un signal pour se rendre :
Shall fright the world with impious thundes. Le feu cesse. Ils sont rendus. Dépouillez votre arrogance,
Our king thus trembles at Namur; Fiers ennemis de la France,
Whilst Villeroy, who ne'er afraid is, Ft desormais gracieux,
To Bruxelles marches on secure, Allez à Liege, à Bruxelles,
To bomb the inonks, and scare the ladies Porter les hombles nouvelles
After this glorious expedition,
One battle makes the marshal great:
Who knows but Orange may retreat!
Kings are allou'd to feign the gout,
Or be prevail'd with not to light:
And mighty Louis hop'd, no doubt,
From Seine and Loire, to Rhone and Po,
See every mother's son appear:
In such a case ne'er blame a foe, Some folks are drunk, yet do not know it:
If he betrays some little fear. So might not Bacchus give you law?
He comes, the mighty Villeroy comes; Was it a Muse, O lofty poet,
Finds a small river in his way; Or virgin of St. Cyr, you saw ?
So waves his colours, beats his drums, Why all this fury? what's the matter,
And thinks it prudent there to stay. That oaks must come from Thrace to dance? The Gallic troops breathe blood and war; Blust stupid stocks be taught to flatter?
The marshal cares not to march faster: And is there no such wood in France ?
Poor Villeroy inoves so slowly here, Why must the winds all hold their tongue?
We fancied all, it was his master. If they a little breath should raise,
Will no kind food, no friendly rain, Would that have spoil'd the poet's song,
Disguise the marshal's plain disgrace! Or puff'd away the monarch's praise ?
No torrents swell the low Mehayne? Pindar, that eagle, mounts the skies,
The world will say, he durst not pass. While Virtue leads the noble way:
Why will no Hyades appear, Too like a vulture Boileau fies,
Dear poet, on the banks of Sambre; Where sordid Interest shows the prey.
Just as they did that mighty year, When once the poet's honour ceases,
When you turn'd June into December? Prom reason far his transports rove:
The water-nymphs are too unkind And Boileau, for eight hundred pieces,
To Villeroy ; are the land-nymphs so ? Makes Louis take the wall of Jove.
And fy they all, at once combin'd
To shame a general, and a beau ? Neptune and Sol came from above,
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. By human force could ne'er be shaken:
But Ypres, Mastricht, and Cambray, But you and I in Homer read
Besan on, Ghent, St. Omers, Lisle, Of gods, as well as men, mistaken.
Courtray, and Dole- Ye critics, say, Sambre and Maese their waves may join,
How poor to this was Pindar's style ?
With ekes and alsos tack thy strain,
Great bard! and sing the deathless prince,
Who lost Namur the same campaign Remember this, and arm the Seine.
He bought Dixmuyd, and plunder'd Deynse. Full fifteen thousand lusty fellows,
I'll hold ten pound my dream is out: With fire and sword, the fort maintain :
I'd tell it you, but for the rattle Fach was a Hercules, you tell us;
Of those confounded drums; no doubt Yet out they march'd, like cominon men.
Yon bloody rogues intend a battle. Cannons above, and mines below,
Dear me! a hundred thousand French Did death and tombs for foes contrive:
With terrour till the neighbouring field; Yet matters have been order'd so,
While Williain carries on the trench, That most of us are still alive.
Till both the town and castle yield. I Namur be compar'd to Troy;
Villeroy to Bouftlers should advance, Then Britain's boys excell'd the Greeks :
Says Mars, throngh cannons' mouths in fire; Toeir siege did ten long years employ;
Id est, one inareschal of France We've donc our business in ten wocks,
Tells t'other, he can come no nigher.
Regain the lines the shortest way,
| My softest verse, my darling lyre, Villeroy; or to Versailles take post;
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; For, having seen it, thou canst say
When Clue noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And, whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
. I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. From Louis to conceal thy fear:
Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: He'll own the strength of thy excuse;
I sung, and gaz'd: I play'd, and trembled : Tell him that William was but there.
And Venus to the Loves around Now let us look for Louis' feather,
Remark'd, how ill we all dissembled. 'That us'd to shine so like a star: The generals could not get together,
Wanting that influence, great in war.
PRESENTED TO THE KING,
AT HIS ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER TIE DISCOVEAY To animate the doubtful fight,
OF THE CONSPIRACY, 1696. Namur in vain expects that ray:
Serus in cælum redeas ; diúque In vain France hopes, the sickly light
Lietus intersis populo Quirini ; Should shine near William's fuller day:
Néve te nostris vitiis iniquum It know's Versailles, its proper station;
Ocyor aura Nor cares for any foreign sphere:
Hor. ad Augustuwi. Where you see Boileau's constellation, Be sure no danger can be near.
Ye careful angels, whom eternal Fate The French had gather'd all their force;
Ordains, on Earth and human acts to wait; And William met them in their way:
Who turn with secret power this restless ball, Yet off they brush'd, both foot and horse.
And bid predestin'd empires rise and fall : What has friend Boileau left to say ?
Your sacred aid religious monarchs own, When his high Muse is bent upon't,
When first they merit, then ascend the throne: To sing her king--that great commander, But tyrants dread you, lest your just decree Or on the shores of Hellespont,
Transfer the power, and set the people free. Or in the valleys near Scamander;
See rescued Britain at your altars bow; Would it not spoil his noble task,
And hear her hymns your happy care arow: If any foolish Phrygian there is,
That still her axes and her rods support Impertinent enough to ask,
The judge's frown, and grace the awful court; How far Namur may be from Paris ?
That Law with all her pompous terrour stands, . Two stanzas more before we end,
To wrest the dagger from the traitour's hands Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks, and fire:
And rigid Justice reads the fatal word, Leave them behind you, honest friend;
Poises the balance first, then draws the sword. And with your countrymen retire.
Britain her safety to your guidance owns, Your ode is spoilt: Namur is freed;
That she can separate parricides from sons ; For Dixmuyd something yet is due:
That, impious rage disarm'a, she lives and reigns, So good count Guiscard may proceed;
Her freedom kept by him, who broke her chains. But Boufflers, sir, one word with you. -
And thou, great minister, above the rest
Of guardian spirits, be thou for ever blest; Tis done. In sight of these commanders,
Thou who of old wast sent to Israel's court, Who neither fight, nor raise the siege,
With secret aid, great David's strong support, The foes of France march safe through Flanders;
To mock the frantic rage of cruel Saul, Divide to Bruxelles, or to Liege.
And strike the useless javelin to the wall. Send, Fame, this news to Trianon,
Thy later care o'cr William's temples held, That Boutiers may new honours gain:
On Buyne's propitious banks, the heavenly shield, He the same play by land has shown,
When power divine did sovereign right declare; As Tourville did upon the main.
And cannops mark'd whom they were bid to spare Yet is the marshal made a peer:
Still, blessed angel, be thy care the same ! O William, may thy arins advance !
Be William's life untouch'd as is his fame! That he may lose Dinant next year, ,
Let him own thine, as Britain owns his hand : And so be constable of France.
Save thou the king, as he has sav'd the land!
We angels' forins in pious monarchs view;
We reverence William; for he acts like you; AN ODE.
Like you, commission'd to chastise and bless,
He must avenge the world, and give it peace. The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Indulgent Fate our potent prayer receives; Conveys it in a borrow'd name :
And still Britannia smiles, and William lives. Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
The hero dear to Earth, by Heaven belov'd. But Cloe is my real fame.
* By troubles must be vex'd, by dangers pror'ds
His foes must aid, to make his fame complete, | And is it enough for the joys of the day,
To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say ?
TO CLOE WEEPING.
The brooks beyond their limits flow;
They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears.
But that dear breast on which they fall.
70 MR. HOWARD.
AN ODE. Down to your native seats of Night repair.
Dear Howard, from the soft assaults of Love, And thou, Bellona, weep thy cruel pride Restrain'd, behind the victor's chariot tied
Pocts and painters never are secure ;
Can I untouch'd the fair-one s passions move, In brazen knots and everlasting chains, (So Europe's peace, so William's fate ordains)
Or thou draw Beauty, and not feel its power ? While on the ivory chair, in happy state,
To great Apolles when young Ammon brought He sits, secure in innocence, and great
The darling idol of his captive heart; In regal clemency; and views beneath
And the pleas d nymph with kind attention sat, Averted darts of Rage, and pointless arms of Death.
To have her charms recorded by bis art :
Sigh when he lock'd, and trembled as he drew;
Each flowing line contirm'd his first surprise,
And, as the piece advanc'd, the passion grew,
While Philip's son, while Venus' son, was near, While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,
What diferent tortures does his bosom feel!
Great was the rival, and the god severe : And in one day atone for the business of six,
Nor could he hide his tlame, nor durst reveal. In a little Dutch chaise on a Saturday night, On my left-hand my Horace, a nymph on my | The prince, renown'd in bounty as in arms, right:
With pity saw the ill-conceal'd distress; No memoirs to compose, and no post-boy to move, | Quitted his title to Campaspe's charms, That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love; And gave the fair-one to the friend's embrace. For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea, Nor the lonz-winded cant of a dull refugee.
Thus the more beauteous Cloe sat to thee, This night and the next shall be hers, shall be
Good Howard, einulous of the Grecian art : To good or ill-fortune the third we resign: (mine,
But happy thou, from Cupid's arrow free, Thus scorning the world and superior to fate,
And names that pierc dtby predecessor's heart! I drive on my car in processional state.
Had thy poor breast receiv'd an equal pain; So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode;
Had I been vested with the monarch's power; Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god.
Thou must have sigh’d, unlucky youth, in vain; But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Nor from my bounty hadst thou found a cure. Where people knew love, and were partial to verse; Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose, Though, to convince thee that the friend did feel In Holland half drowned in interest and prose?
A kind concern for thy ill-fated care, By Greece and past ages what need I be tried, I would have sooth'd the flaine I could not heal; When the Hague and the present are both on my Given thee the world; though I withheld the side
But in this nymph, my friend, my sister kron: LOVE DISARVED.
She draws my arrows, and she bends my bow:
Fair Thames she haunts, and ever neighbouring Beneath a myrtle's verdant shade
Sacred to soft recess, and gentle love. (grove, As Cloe half asleep was laid,
Go, with thy Cynthia, hurl the pointed spear Cupid perch'd lightly on her breast,
At the rough boar, or chase the dying deer: And in that Heaven desir'd to rest :
I and my Cloe take a nobler aim: Over her paps his wings he spread :
At human hearts we fling, nor ever miss the game."
Still lay the god : the nymph, surpris'd,
CUPID AND GANY MEDE.
Is Heaven, one holiday, you read
In wise Anacreon, Ganymede The silken bond, and held him fast.
Drew heedless Cupid in, to throw The god awak'd; and thrice in vain
A main, to pass av hour, or so. He strove to break the cruel chain;
The little Trojan by the way, And thrice in vain he shook his wing,
By Hermes taught, play'd all the play. Encumber'd in the silken string.
The god unhappily engag'd, Flutt ring the god, and weeping, said,
By nature rash, by play enrag'd, . “ Pity poor Cupid, generous maid,
Complain'd, and sigh’d, and cried and fretted ; Who happen'd, being blind, to stray,
Lost every earthly thing he betted: And on thy bosom lost his way;
In ready money, all the store Who strav'd, alas! but knew too well,
Pick'd up long since from Danac's shower; He never there must hope to dwell:
A snuff-box, set with bleeding hearts, Set an unhappy prisoner free,
Rubies, all pierc'd with diamond darts; Who ne'er intended harm to thee."
His nine-pins made of myrtle wood “ To me pertains not,” she replies,
(The tree in Ida's forest stood); “ To know or care where Cupid flies;
His bowl pure gold, the very same What are his haunts, or which his way ;
Which Paris gave the Cyprian dame; Where he would dwell, or whither stray :
Two table-books in shagreen covers, Yet will I never set thee free;
Fill'd with good verse froin real lovers; Yor harm was meant, and harm to me.”
Merchandise rare ! a billet-doux, “ Vain fears that vex thy virgin heart! Its matter passionate, yet true; I'll give thee up my bow and dart;
Heaps of hair-rings, and cypherd seals; Untangle but this cruel chain,
Rich tritles; serious bagatelles. And freely let me fiy again."
What sad disorders play begets ! “Agreed: secure my virgin heart:
Desperate and mad, at length he sets Instant give up thy bow and dart:
Those darts, whose points make gods adore . The chain I'll in return untie;
His might, and depr cate his power : And freely thou again shalt Ay."
Those darts, whence all our joy and pain Thus she the captive did deliver ;
Arise : those darts—“ Come, seven's the main The captive thus gave up his quiver.
Cries Ganymede : the usual trick: The god disarın'd, e'er since that day,
Seven, slur a six ; eleven, a nick. Passes his life in harmless play;
Ill news goes fast: 'twas quickly known Flies round, or sits upon her brcast,
That simple Cupid was undone. "
Swifter than lightning Venus flew :
Guess how the goddess greets her son:
“ Come hither, sirrah; no, begone! Gives grief, or pleasure ; spares, or kills. And, hark ye, is it so indeed ?
A comrade you for Ganymede?
As any earthly lauly's page;
A scandal and a scourge to Troy ;
A prince's son! a black-guard boy ; Behind her neck her comely tresses tied,
A sharper, that with box and dice Her ivory quiver graceful by her side,
Draws in young deities to vice.
All Heaven is by the cars together,
Juno herself has had no peace :
And taken ways extremely ocid.
“ And thou, unhappy child," she said, Or on Meander's bank, or Latinus' pcake | (Her anger by her grief allay'd)