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Mais, ô ma fidele lyre,

Si, dans l'ardeur qui m'inspire,
Tu peus suivre mes transports:
Les chênes des monts de Thrace
N'ont rien oui, que n'efface
La douceur de tes accords.
Est-ce Apollon et Neptune,
Qui sur ces rocs sourcilleux
Ont, compagnons de Fortune,
Basti ces murs orgueilleux ?
De leur enceinte, fameuse
La Sambre unie à la Meuse,
Defend le fatal abord;
Et par cens bouches horribles
L'airain sur ces monts terribles
Vomit le fer, & la mort.
Dix mille vaillans Alcides
Les bordant de toutes parts,
D' éclairs au loin homicides
Font petiller leurs remparts:
Et dans son sein infidele
Par toute la terre y recele
Un feu prêt à s'élancer,
Qui soudain perçant son goufre,
Ouvre un sepulchre de soufre,
A quiconque ose avancer.
Namur, devant tes murailles
Jadis la Grece eût vingt ans
Sans fruit veu les funerailles
De ses plus fiers combattans.
Quelle effroyable puissance
Aujourd'hui pourtant s'avance,
Prête 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 lui-même,
Tout brille en lui; tout est roi.
Dans Bruxelles Nassau blême
Commence à trembler pour toi.
En vain il voit le Batâve,
Desormais docile esclâve,
Rangé sous ses étendarts:
En vain au lion Belgique
Il voit l'aigle Germanique
Uni sous les leopards.
Plein de la frayeur nouvelle,
Dont ses sens sont agités,
A son secours il appelle
Les peuples les plus vantés.
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 maras de la Norvége
Neuf mois couvre les roseaux.

Mais qui fait enfler la Sambre?
Sous les Jumeaux effrayés,
Des froids torrens de Decembre
Les champs par tout sont noyés.
Ceres s'enfuit, éplorée
De voir en proye à Borée
Ses guerets d'epis chargés,
Et sous les urns fangeuses
Des Hyades orageuses

Tous ses trésors sulmergés.

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
Qui domta Lille, Courtray,
Gand la superbe Espagnole,
Saint Omer, Bezançon, Dole,
Ypres, Mastricht, & Cambray.

Mes présages s'accomplissent:
Il commence à chanceler:
Sous les coups qui retentissent
Ses murs s'en vont s'écrouler.
Mars en feu qui les domine,
Souffle à grand bruit leur ruine,
Et les bombes dans les airs
Allant chercher le tonnere,
Semblent tombant sur la terre,
Vouloir s'ouvrir les enfers.

Accourez, Nassau, Baviere,
De ces murs l'unique espoir:
A couvert d'une riviere
Venez vous pouvez tout voir.
Considerez ces approches:
Voyez grimper sur ces roches
Ces athletes belliqueux;

Et dans les eaux, dans la flame,
Louis à tout donnant l'ame,
Marcher, courir avec eux.

Contemplez dans la tempête,
Qui sort de ces boulevards,
La plume qui sur sa tête
Attire tous les regards.
A cet astre redoubtable
Toûjours un sort favorable
S'attache dans les combats:
Et toûjours avec la gloire
Mars amenant la victoire
Vole, & le suit à grands pas
Grands defenseurs de l'Espagne,
Montrez-vous: il en est tems:
Courage; vers la Mahagne
Voilà vos drapeaux flottans.
Jamais ses ondes craintives
N'ont vu sur leurs foibles rives
Tant de guerriers s'amasser.
Courez donc: Qui vous retarde?
Tout l'univers vous regarde.
N'osez vous la traverser?

Loin de fermer le passage
A vos nombreux bataillous,
Luxembourg a du rivage
Recule ses pavillons.

Quoi? leur seul aspect vous glace?
Où sont ces chefs pleins d'audace,
Jadis si prompts â marcher,
Qui devoient de la Tamise,
Et de la Dráve soûmise,
Jusqu'à Paris nous chercher?

Cependant l'effroi redouble
Sur les reinparts de Namur.
Son gouverneur qui se trouble
S'enfuit sous son dernier mur.
Déja jusques à ses portes
Je voi monter nos cohortes,

La flame & le fer en main:

Et sur les monceaux de piques,

De corps morts, de rocs, de briques, S'ouvrir un large chemin.

C'en est fait. Je viens d'entendre

Sur ces rochers éperdus

Battre un signal pour se rendre:
Le feu cesse. Ils sont rendus.
Dépouillez vôtre arrogance,
Fiers ennemis de la France,
Et desormais gracieux,
Allez à Liege, à Bruxelles,
Porter les humbles nouvelles
De Namur pris à vos yeux.

AN ENGLISH BALLAD,

ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR BY THE KING OF GREAT

BRITAIN, 1695.

Dulce est desipere in loco.

SOME folks are drunk, yet do not know it:
So might not Bacchus give you law?
Was it a Muse, 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? Must stupid stocks be taught to flatter?

And is there no such 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 vulture Boileau flies,

Where sordid Interest shows 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.

Neptune and Sol came from above,
Shap'd like Megrigny and Vauban :
They arm'd these rocks; then show'd old Jove
Of Marli wood the wondrous plan.
Such walls, these three wise gods agreed,
By human force could ne'er be shaken:
But you and I in Homer read

Of gods, as well as men, mistaken.
Sambre and Maese their waves may join,
But ne'er can William's force restrain:
He'll pass them both, who pass'd the Boyne:
Remember this, and arm the Seine.

Full fifteen thousand lusty fellows,
With fire and sword, the fort maintain :
Each was a Hercules, you tell us ;

Yet out they march'd, like cominon 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 siege did ten long years employ ; We've done our business in ten weeks,

VOL X,

What godhead does so fast advance,

With dreadful power, those hills to gain?
'Tis little Will, the scourge of France;

No godhead, but the first of men.
His mortal arm exerts the power

To keep e'en 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 every mother's son appear:
In such a case ne'er blame a foe,

If he betrays some 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 breathe blood and war;
The marshal cares not to march faster:
Poor Villeroy 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 Sambre;
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?
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, Mastricht, and Cambray,
Besançon, Ghent, St. Omers, Lisle,
Courtray, and Dole- -Ye critics, say,
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

He bought Dixmuyd, and plunder'd Deynse.
I'll hold ten pound my dream is out:

I'd tell it you, but for the rattle
Of those confounded drums; no doubt
Yon bloody rogues intend a battle.
Dear me! a hundred thousand French
With terrour fill the neighbouring field;
While William carries on the trench,

Till both the town and castle yield.
Villeroy to Boufflers should advance,
Says Mars, throngh cannons' mouths in fire;

Id est, one mareschal of France

Tells t'other, he can come no nigher.

L

Regain the lines the shortest way,

Villeroy; or to Versailles take post; For, having seen it, thou canst say

The steps, by which Namur was lost.
The smoke and flame may vex thy sight:
Look not once back: but, as thou goest,
Quicken the squadrons in their flight,

And bid the Devil take the slowest.
Think not what reason to produce,
From Louis to conceal thy fear:
He'll own the strength of thy excuse;
Tell him that William was but there.
Now let us look for Louis' feather,

That us'd to shine so like a star:
The generals could not get together,
Wanting that influence, great in ware
O poet! thou hadst been discreeter,

Hanging the monarch's hat so high,
If thou hadst dubb'd thy star, a meteor,
That did but blaze, and rove, and die.
To animate the doubtful fight,

Namur in vain expects that ray:
In vain France hopes, the sickly light
Should shine near William's fuller day:
It knows Versailles, its proper station;
Nor cares for any foreign sphere:
Where you see Boileau's constellation,
Be sure no danger can be near.
The French had gather'd all their force;
And William met them in their way:
Yet off they brush'd, both foot and horse.
What has friend Boileau left to say?
When his high Muse is bent upon't,

To sing her king-that great commander,
Or on the shores of Hellespont,

Or in the valleys near Scamander; Would it not spoil his noble task,

If any foolish Phrygian there is,

Impertinent enough to ask,

How far Namur may be from Paris?

Two stanzas more before we end,

Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks, and fire: Leave them behind you, honest friend;

And with your countrymen retire. Your ode is spoilt: Namur is freed;

For Dixmuyd something yet is due:

So good count Guiscard may proceed;

But Boufflers, sir, one word with you.-

'Tis done. In sight of these commanders, Who neither fight, nor raise the siege,

The foes of France march safe through Flanders; Divide to Bruxelles, or to Liege.

Send, Fame, this news to Trianon,

That Boufflers may new honours gain:

He the same play by land has shown,

As Tourville did upon the main. Yet is the marshal made a peer:

O William, may thy arms advance! That he may lose Dinant next year, And so be constable of France.

AN ODE.

THE merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure; But Cloe is my real flame.

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YE careful angels, whom eternal Fate
Ordains, on Earth and human acts to wait;
Who turn with secret power this restless ball,
And bid predestin'd empires rise and fall :
Your sacred aid religious monarchs own,
When first they merit, then ascend the throne:
But tyrants dread you, lest your just decree
Transfer the power, and set the people free.
See rescued Britain at your altars bow;
And hear her hymns your happy care avow:
That still her axes and her rods support
The judge's frown, and grace the awful court;
That Law with all her pompous terrour stands,
To wrest the dagger from the traitour's hands;
And rigid Justice reads the fatal word,
Poises the balance first, then draws the sword.
Britain her safety to your guidance owns,
That she can separate parricides from sons;
That, impious rage disarm'd, she lives and reigns,
Her freedom kept by him, who broke her chains.
And thou, great minister, above the rest
Of guardian spirits, be thou for ever blest ;
Thou who of old wast sent to Israel's court,
With secret aid, great David's strong support,
To mock the frantic rage of cruel Saul,
And strike the useless javelin to the wall.
Thy later care o'er William's temples held,
On Boyne's propitious banks, the heavenly shield,
When power divine did sovereign right declare;
And cannons mark'd whom they were bid to spare.
Still, blessed angel, be thy care the same!
Be William's life untouch'd as is his fame!
Let him own thine, as Britain owns his hand :
Save thou the king, as he has sav'd the laud!
We angels' forms in pious monarchs view;
We reverence William; for he acts like you;
Like you, commission'd to chastise and bless,
He must avenge the world, and give it peace.

Indulgent Fate our potent prayer receives;
And still Britannia smiles, and William lives.
The hero dear to Earth, by Heaven belov'd,
By troubles must be vex'd, by dangers prov'dė

His foes must aid, to make his fame complete,
And fix his throne secure on their defeat.

So, though with sudden rage the tempest comes;
Though the winds roar; and though the water
Imperial Britain on the sea looks down, [foams;
And smiling sees her rebel-subjects frown.
Striking her cliff, the storm confirms her power;
The waves but whiten her t iumphant shore:
In vain they would advance, in vain retreat;
Broken they dash, and perish at her feet.

For William still new wonders shall be shown: The powers, that rescued, shall preserve the Safe on his darling Britain's joyful sea,

[throne.

Behold, the monarch plows his liquid way:
His fleets in thunder through the world declare,
Whose empire they obey, whose arms they bear.
Bless'd by aspiring winds, he finds the strand
Blacken'd with crowds; he sees the nation stand,
Blessing his safety, proud of his command.
In various tongues he hears the captains dwell
On their great leader's praise; by turns they tell,
And listen, each with emulous glory fir'd,
How William conquer'd, and how France retir'd;
How Belgia freed the hero's arms confess'd,
But trembled for the courage which she blest.
O Louis, from this great example know,
To be at once a hero and a foe:

By sounding trumpets, hear, and rattling drums,
When William to the open vengeance comes:
And see the soldier plead the monarch's right,
Heading his troops, and foremost in the fight.

Hence then, close Ambush and perfidious War, Down to your native seats of Night repair. And thou, Bellona, weep thy cruel pride Restrain'd, behind the victor's chariot tied In brazen knots and everlasting chains, (So Europe's peace, so William's fate ordains) While on the ivory chair, in happy state, He sits, secure in innocence, and great In regal clemency; and views beneath Averted darts of Rage, and pointless arms of Death.

THE SECRETARY.

WRITTEN AT THE HAGUE, 1696.

WHILE with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the business of six,
In a little Dutch chaise on a Saturday night,
On my left-hand my Horace, a nymph on my
right:

No memoirs to compose, and no post-boy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee.
This night and the next shall be hers, shall be
To good or ill-fortune the third we resign: [mine,
Thus scorning the world and superior to fate,
I drive on my car in processional state.
So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode;
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse;
Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose,
In Holland half drowned in interest and prose?
By Greece and past ages what need I be tried,
When the Hague and the present are both on my
side?

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TO CLOE WEEPING.

See, whilst thou weep'st, fair Cloe, see
The world in sympathy with thee.
The cheerful birds no longer sing;
Each drops his head, and hangs his wing.
The clouds have bent their bosom lower,
And shed their sorrows in a shower.
The brooks beyond their limits flow;
And louder murmurs speak their woe.
The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares;
They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears.
Fantastic nymph! that grief should move
Thy heart obdurate against love.
Strange tears! whose power can soften all,
But that dear breast on which they fall.

TO MR. HOWARD.

AN ODE.

DEAR Howard from the soft assaults of Love,
Pocts and painters never are secure ;
Can I untouch'd the fair-one s passions move,
Or thou draw Beauty, and not feel its power?

To great Apelles when young Ammon brought
The darling idol of his captive heart;
And the pleas d nymph with kind attention sat,
To have her charms recorded by his art:
The amorous master own'd her potent eyes;
Sigh'd when he look'd, and trembled as he drew;
Each flowing line confirm'd his first surprise,

And, as the piece advanc'd, the passion grew.
While Philip's son, while Venus' son, was near,
What different tortures does his bosom feel!

Great was the rival, and the god severe :

Nor could he hide his flame, nor durst reveal. The prince, renown'd in bounty as in arms, With pity saw the ill-conceal'd distress; Quitted his title to Campaspe's charms,' And gave the fair-one to the friend's embrace. Thus the more beauteous Cloe sat to thee, Good Howard, emulous of the Grecian art: But happy thou, from Cupid's arrow free, And flames that pierc d thy predecessor's heart! Had thy poor breast receiv'd an equal pain;

Had I been vested with the monarch's power; Thou must have sigh'd, unlucky youth, in vain; Nor from my bounty hadst thou found a cure. Though, to convince thee that the friend did feel. A kind concern for thy ill fated care,

I would have sooth'd the flame I could not heal; Given thee the world; though I withheld the fair,

LOVE DISARMED.

BENEATH a myrtle's verdant shade
As Cloe half asleep was laid,
Cupid perch'd lightly on her breast,
And in that Heaven desir'd to rest:
Over her paps his wings he spread;
Between he found a downy bed,
And nestled in his little head.

Still lay the god: the nymph, surpris'd, Yet mistress of herself, devis'd How she the vagrant might inthral, And captive him, who captives all. Her bodice half-way she unlac'd; About his arms she slily cast The silken bond, and held him fast.

The god awak'd; and thrice in vain He strove to break the cruel chain; And thrice in vain he shook his wing, Encumber'd in the silken string. Fluttering the god, and weeping, said,

66

Pity poor Cupid, generous maid,
Who happen'd, being blind, to stray,
And on thy bosom lost his way;
Who stray'd, alas! but knew too well,
He never there must hope to dwell:
Set an unhappy prisoner free,
Who ne'er intended harm to thee."

"To me pertains not," she replies, "To know or care where Cupid flies; What are his haunts, or which his way; Where he would dwell, or whither stray: Yet will I never set thee free;

For harm was meant, and harm to me."
"Vain fears that vex thy virgin heart!
I'll give thee up my bow and dart;
Untangle but this cruel chain,
And freely let me fly again."

"Agreed: secure my virgin heart:
Instant give up thy bow and dart:
The chain I'll in return untic;
And freely thou again shalt fly."
Thus she the captive did deliver;
The captive thus gave up his quiver.
The god disarin'd, e'er since that day,
Passes his life in harmless play;
Flies round, or sits upon her breast,
A little, fluttering, idle guest.

F'er since that day, the beauteous maid
Governs the world in Cupid's stead;
Directs his arrow as she wills;
Gives grief, or pleasure; spares, or kills.

CLOE HUNTING.

BEHIND her neck her comely tresses tied,
Her ivory quiver graceful by her side,
A hunting Cloe went: she lost her way,
And through the woods uncertain chane'd to stray.
Apollo, passing by, beheld the maid,

And, "Sister dear, bright Cynthia, turn," he said;
"The hunted hind lies close in yonder brake."
Loud Cupid laugh'd, to see the God's mistake,
And, laughing, cried, "Learn better, great divine,
To know thy kindred, and to honour mine.
Rightly advis'd far hence thy sister seek,
Or on Meander's bank, or Latmus' peak.

But in this nymph, my friend, my sister know:
She draws my arrows, and she bends my bow:
Fair Thames she haunts, and ever neighbouring
Sacred to soft recess, and gentle love. [grove,

Go, with thy Cynthia, hurl the pointed spear
At the rough boar, or chase the flying deer:

I and my Cloe take a nobler aim:

At human hearts we fling, nor ever miss the game."

CUPID AND GANYMEDE.

Is Heaven, one holiday, you read
In wise Anacreon, Ganymede
Drew heedless Cupid in, to throw
A main, to pass an hour, or so.
The little Trojan by the way,
By Hermes taught, play'd all the play.
The god unhappily engag'd,

By nature rash, by play enrag'd,
Complain'd, and sigh'd, and cried and fretted
Lost every earthly thing he betted:

In ready money, all the store

Pick'd up long since from Danaë's shower;

A snuff-box, set with bleeding hearts,
Rubies, all pierc'd with diamond darts;
His nine-pins made of myrtle wood
(The tree in Ida's forest stood);
His bowl pure gold, the very same
Which Paris gave the Cyprian dame ;
Two table-books in shagreen covers,
Fill'd with good verse from real lovers;
Merchandise rare! a billet-doux,
Its matter passionate, yet true;
Heaps of hair-rings, and cypher'd seals
Rich trifles; serious bagatelles.

What sad disorders play begets!
Desperate and mad, at length he sets
Those darts, whose points make gods adore
His might, and deprecate his power:

Those darts, whence all our joy and pain

:

Arise those darts-" Come, seven's the main," Cries Ganymede: the usual trick:

Seven, slur a six; eleven, a nick.

Ill news goes fast: 'twas quickly known
That simple Cupid was undone.
Swifter than lightning Venus flew:
Too late she found the thing too true.
Guess how the goddess greets her son:
"Come hither, sirrah; no, begone!
And, hark ye, is it so indeed?
A comrade you for Ganymede?
An imp as wicked, for his age,
As any earthly lady's page;

A scandal and a scourge to Troy;
A prince's son! a black-guard boy;
A sharper, that with box and dice
Draws in young deities to vice.
All Heaven is by the cars together,
Since first that little rogue came hither:
Juno herself has had no peace :
And truly I've been favour'd less:
For Jove, as Fame reports (but Fame
Says things not fit for me to name),
Has acted ill for such a god,
And taken ways extremely odd.

"And thou, unhappy child," she said, (Her anger by her grief allay'd)

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