Who, though unmeet, yet touch'd the trembling string,
For the fair fame of Anne and Albion's land,
Who durft of war and martial fury fing;
And when thy will, and when thy fubject's hand,
Had quell'd those wars, and bid that fury ceafe, 349
Hangs up her greatful harp to conqueft, and to peace.
'N one great now, fuperior to an age,
How heavenly virtue can exalt, or rage
Infernal how degrade the human mind.
While the fierce monk does at his trial stand,
He chews revenge, abjuring his offence:
Guile in his tongue, and murder in his hand,
He tabs his judge, to prove his innocence.
The guilty ftroke and torture of the steel
Infix'd, our dauntlefs Briton fcarce perceives:
The wounds his country from his death must feel,
The patriot views; for those alone he grieves.
The barbarous rage that durft attempt thy life,
Harley, great counsellor, extends thy fame;
And the fharp point of cruel Guifcard's knife,
In brafs and marble carves thy deathlefs name.
Faithful affertor of thy country's caufe,
Britain with tears shall bathe thy glorious wound:
She for thy fafety fhall enlarge her laws,
And in her ftatutes fhall thy worth be found.
Yet 'midft her fighs fhe triumphs, on the hand
Reflecting, that diffus'd the public woe¡
A ftranger to her altars, and her land ;
No fon of hers could meditate this blow.
Meantime thy pain is gracious Anna's care:
Our queen, our faint, with facrificing breath,
Softens thy anguifh: in her powerful prayer
She pleads thy fervice, and forbids thy death.
Great as thou art, thou canst demand no more,
O breaft bewail'd by earth, preferv'd by Heaven?
No higher can afpiring virtue foar:
Enough to thee of grief and fame is given,
HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II.
Written in the year 1692,
H in the lethargic fleep, the fad repofe
OW long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie
By which thy clofe thy conftant enemy
Has foftly lull'd thee to thy woes?
Or wake, degenerate Ifle, or ceafe to own
What thy old kings in Gallic camps have done,
The fpoils they brought thee back, the crowns they
William (fo Fate requires) again is arm'd,
Thy father to the field is gone,
Again Maria weeps her abfent Lord,
For thy repofe content to rule alone.
Are thy enervate fons not yet alaim'd?
When William fights dare they look tamely on,
So flow to get their ancient fame restor'd,
[iword ? As not to melt at Beauty's tears nor follow Valour's
See the repenting Isle awakes,
Her vicious chains the gen'rous goddess breaks;
The fogs around her temples are difpell'd;
Abroad the looks, and fees arm'd Belgia ftand
Prepar'd to meet their common Lords command,
Her fions roaring by her fide, her arrows in her hand,
And, blushing to have been so long withheld,
Weeps off her crime, and haftens to the field:
Henceforth her youth fhall be inur'd to bear
Hazardous toil and active war:
To march beneath the dogftar's raging heat,
Patient of fummer's drought and martial fweat,
And only grieve in winters, camp to find
Its days too fhort for labours they defign'd:
All night beneath hard heavy arms to watch,
All day to mount the trench, to ftorm the breach,
And all the rugged paths to tread
Where William and his virtue led.
Silence is the foul of war;
Delib'rate counfel meft prepare
The mighty work which valour must complete :
Thus William refcued, thus preferves, the state,
Thus teaches us to think and dare;
As, whilst his cannon juít prepar'd to breath
Avenging anger and fwift death,
In the try'd metal the clofe dangers glow,
And now, too late, the dying foe
Perceives the flame, yet cannot ward the blow;
So whilst in William's breaft ripe counsels lie,
Secret and fure as brooding Fate,
No more of his defign appears
Than what awakens Gallia's fears,
And (tho' Guilt's eye can fharply penetrate)
Diftracted Lewis can decry
Britannia fafely through her mafter's fea
Only a long unmeafur'd ruin nigh.
On Norman coafts, and banks of frighted Seine,
Lo! the impending ftorms begin;
Plows up her victorious way:
The French Salmoneus throws his bolts in vain
Whilft the true thunderer afferts the main.
'Tis done! to fhelves and rocks his fleets retire, Swift victory, in 'vengeful flames,
Burns down the pride of their prefumptuous names:
They run to fhipwreck to avoid our fire,
And the torn veffels that regain their coast
Are but fad marks to show the rest are lost.
All this the mild the beauteous Queen has done,
And William's fofter half shakes Lewis' throne.
Maria does the fea command,
Whilst Gallia flies her husband's arms by land.
So, the fun abfent, with full fway the moon
Governs the ifles and rules the waves alone;
So Juno thunders when her Jove is gone.
lö, Britannia! loofe thy ocean's chains,
Whilft Ruffel strikes the blow thy Queen ordains.
Thus refcued, thus rever'd, for ever itand,
And blefs the counfel, and reward the hand.
Io Britannia! thy Maria reigns.
From Mary's conquefts and the refcu'd main
Let France look forth to Sambre's armed fhore,
And boaft her joy for William's death no more.
He lives, let France confefs the victor lives :
Her triumphs for his death were vain,
And spoke her terror of his life too plain.
The mighty years begin, the days draw nigh
In which that one of Lewis' many wives*
Who, by the baleful force of guilty charms,
Has long enthrall'd him in her wither'd arms,
Shall o'er the plains from diftant tow`rs on high
Caft around her mournful eye,
And with prophetic forrow cry,
Why does my ruin'd Lord retard his flight?
Why does defpair provoke his age to fight?
As well the wolf may venture to engage
The
The rav'nous vulture and the bird of night
As fafely tempt the itooping eagle's flight,
As Lewis to unequal arms defy
angry lion's gen'rous rage,
Yon hero, crown'd with blooming victory,
Juft triumphing o'er rebel rage reftrain'd,
And
yet unbreath'd from battles gain'd.
See all yon dufty fields, quite cover'd o'er
With hoftile troops, and Orange at their head;
Orange deftin'd to complete
The great defigns of labouring Fate;
Orange the name that tyrants dread :
He comes; our ruin'd empire is no more;
Down like the Perfian goes the Gallic throne;
Darius flies; young Ammon urges on.
Now from the dubious battle's mingled heat
Let Fear lock back, and ftretch her hafty wing,
In patient to fecure a bafe retreat;
Let the pale coward leave his wounded king,
For the vile privilege to breath,
To live with fhame in dread of glorious death!
In vain; for Fate has fwifter wings than Fear,
She follows hard, and ftrikes him in the rear;
Dying and mad the traitor bites the ground,
His back transfix'd with a difhoneft wound,
Whilft thro' the fierceft troops and thickest press
Virtue carries on fuccefs;
Whilft equal Heav'n guards the diftinguish'd brave,
And armies cannot hurt whom angels fave.
Virtue to verfe immortal luftre gives;
Each by the other's mutual friendship lives;
Aneas fuffer'd and Achilles fought;
The hero's acts enlarg'd the poet's thought,
Or Virgil's majefty and Homer's rage
Had ne'er like lafting Nature vanquish'd age.
Whilft Lewis then his rifing terror drowns
With drums' alarms and trumpets' founds;
Whilft hid in arm'd retreats and guarded towns,
From danger as from honour far,
He bribes clofe Murder against open War,
In vain you Gallic Mufes ftrive
With labour'd verfe to keep his fame alive
Your mould'ring monuments in vain you raife
On the weak bafis of the tyrant's praise;
Your fongs are fold, your numbers are profane 135
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