The dreadful burft of cannon rend the skies,

And all the thunder of the battle rife.

Twas then great MARLBRO's mighty foul was prov'd,

"That, in the shock of charging hofts unmov'd,

Amidft confufion, horror, and despair,

Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war:

In peaceful thought the field of death furvey'd,
To fainting fquadrons fent the timely aid,
Inspir'd repuls'd batallions to engage,

And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rifing tempests shakes a guilty land,

Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past ;

Calm and ferene he drives the furious blast ;
And, pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the ftorm.

But fee the haughty houthold-troops advance!
The dread of Europe, and the pride of France.
The war's whole art each private foldier knows,
And with a Gen'ral's love of conqueft glows;
Proudly he marches on, and void of fear
Laughs at the fhaking of the British spear:
Vain infolence! with native freedom brave
The meanest Briton fcorns the highest slave;
Contempt and fury fire their fouls by turns,
Each nation's glory in each warrior burns,

Each

Each fights, as in his arm th' important day
And all the fate of his great monarch lay :
A thoufand glorious actions, that might claim.
Triumphant laurels, and immortal fame,
Confus'd in crouds of glorious actions lie,
And troops of heroes undistinguish'd die.
O Dormer, how can I behold thy fate,
And not the wonders of thy youth relate!
How can I see the gay, the brave, the young,
Fall in the cloud of war, and lie unfung!

In joys of conqueft he refigns his breath,
And, fill'd with England's glory, fmiles in death.
The rout begins, the Gallic fquadron run,
Compell'd in crouds to meet the fate they fhun;
Thousands of fiery fteeds with wounds transfix'd,
Floating in gore, with their dead mafters mixt,
'Midft heaps of spears and standards driv'n around,
Lie in the Danube's bloody whirl-pools drown'd.
Troops of bold youths, born on the distant Soane,
Or founding borders of the rapid Rhône,

Or where the Seine her flow'ry fields divides,

Or where the Loire through winding vineyards glides,
In heaps the rolling billows fweep away,

And into Scythian feas their bloated corps convey.
From Blenheim's tow'rs the Gaul, with wild affright,
Behold the various havoc of the fight;

His waving banners, that fo oft had stood
Planted in fields of death, and streams of blood,
So wont the guarded enemy to reach,
And rife triumphant in the fatal breach,

Or pierce the broken foe's remotest lines,
The hardy veteran with tears refigns.

Unfortunate Tallard! Oh who can name
The pangs of rage, of forrow, and of fhame,
That with mixt tumult in thy bofom fwell'd,
When first thou faw'ft thy braveft troops repell'd,
Thine only fon pierc'd with a deadly wound,
Chok'd in his blood, and gafping on the ground,
Thyfelf in bondage by the victor kept!
The chief, the father, and the captive wept.
An English Mufe is touch'd with gen'rous woe,
And in th' unhappy man forgets the foe.
Greatly diftreft! thy loud complaints forbear,
Blame not the turns of fate, and chance of war;
Give thy brave foes their due, nor blush to own
leaders won,

The fatal field by fuch great

The field whence fam'd Eugenio bore away

Only the fecond honours of the day.

With floods of gore that from the vanquish'd fell
The marshes ftagnate, and the rivers fwell.
Mountains of flain lie heap'd upon the ground,
Or 'midft the roarings of the Danube drown'd;

Whole

Whole captive hofts the conqueror detains
In painful bondage, and inglorious chains;
Ev'n those who 'fcape the fetters and the fword,
Now feek the fortunes of a happier lord,
Their raging King difhonours, to compleat
MARLBRO'S
's great work, and finish the defeat.
From Memminghen's high domes, and Augsburg's walls,
The diftant battle drives th' infulting Gauls,
Freed by the terror of the victor's name,

The refcu'd states his great protection claim;
Whilft Ulme th' approach of her deliverer waits,
And longs to open her obfequious gates.

The hero's breaft ftill fwells with great defigns,
In ev'ry thought the tow'ring genius fhines:
If to the foe his dreadful courfe he bends,
O'er the wide continent his march extends;
If fieges in his lab'ring thoughts are form'd,
Camps are affaulted, and an army ftorm'd;
If to the fight his active foul is bent,
The fate of Europe turns on its event.
What diftant land, what region can afford
An action worthy his victorious fword;
Where will he next the flying Gaul defeat,
To make the series of his toils compleat?

Where the fwoln Rhine ruthing with all its force
Divides the hoftile nations in its courfe,

While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows,

Enlarg'd or ftraiten'd as the river flows,
On Gallia's fide a mighty bulwark stands,
That all the wide extended plains commands;
Twice, fince the war was kindled, has it try'd
The victor's rage, and twice has chang❜d its fide
As oft whole armies, with the prize o'erjoy'd,
Have the long fummer on its walls employ'd.
Hither our mighty chief his arms directs,
Hence future triumphs from the war expects;
And tho' the dog-star had its course begun
Carries his arms ftill nearer to the Sun ;
Fixt on the glorious action, he forgets

The change of feafons, and increase of heats;
No toils are painful that can danger show,
No climes unlovely, that contain a foe.

;

The roving Gaul, to his own bounds restrain'd, Learns to incamp within his native land,

But foon as the victorious hoft he spies,

From hill to hill, from ftream to ftream he flies:
Such dire impreflions in his heart remain
́OF MARLBRO'S fword, and Hocftet's fatal plain:
In vain Britannia's mighty chief befets
Their fhady coverts, and obfcure retreats;
They fly the conqueror's approaching fame,
That bears the force of armies in his name.

Auftria's