For thought no higher wish of bliss can frame,
Than to enjoy that virtue still the same.
Entire and sure the monarch's rule must prove,
Who founds her greatness on her subjects' love;
Who does our homage for our good require;
And orders that which we should first desire.
Our vanquished wills that pleasing force obey,
Her goodness takes our liberty away,
And haughty Britain yields to arbitrary sway.
Let the young Austrian then her terrors bear,
Great as he is, her delegate in war;
Let him in thunder speak to both his Spains,
That in these dreadful isles a woman reigns.
While the bright queen does on her subjects shower
The gentle blessings of her softer power;
Gives sacred morals to a vicious age,
To temples zeal, and manners to the stage;
Bids the chaste Muse without a blush appear,
And wit be that which Heaven and she may hear.
Minerva thus to Perseus lent her shield;
Secure of conquest, sent him to the field:
The hero acted what the queen ordained:
So was his fame complete, and Andromede unchained.
Meantime amidst her native temples sate
The goddess, studious of her Grecians' fate;
Taught them in laws and letters to excel,
In acting justly, and in writing well.
Thus while she did her various power dispose,
The world was freed from tyrants, wars, and woes;
Virtue was taught in verse, and Athens' glory rose.
TO MONSIEUR BOILEAU DESPREAUX, OCCASIONED BY THE VICTORY AT BLENHEIM, MDCCIV.
Cupidum, pater optime, vires
Deficiunt: neque enim quivis horrentia pilis
Agmina, nec fractâ pereuntes cuspide Gallos.
SINCE hired for life, thy servile Muse must sing
Successive conquests, and a glorious king;
Must of a man immortal vainly boast,
And bring him laurels, whatsoe'er they cost;
What turn wilt thou employ, what colours lay
On the event of that superior day,
In which one English subject's prosperous hand
(So Jove did will; so Anna did command)
Broke the proud column of thy master's praise,
Which sixty winters had conspired to raise?
From the lost field a hundred standards brought
Must be the work of Chance, and Fortune's fault:
Bavaria's stars must be accused, which shone
That fatal day the mighty work was done,
With rays oblique upon the Gallic sun.
Some demon envying France misled the fight;
And Mars mistook, though Louis ordered right.
When thy young Muse invoked the tuneful Nine,
To say how Louis did not pass the Rhine,
What work had we with Wageninghen, Arnheim, 20
Places that could not be reduced to rhyme!
And though the poet made his last efforts,
Wurts-who could mention in heroic-Wurts?
But, tell me, hast thou reason to complain
Of the rough triumphs of the last campaign;
1 Epistre 4. du Sr. Boileau Despreaux au Roy.
En vain, pour te loüer, &c.
The Danube rescued, and the empire saved,
Say, is the majesty of verse retrieved?
And would it prejudice thy softer vein,
To sing the princes, Louis and Eugene?
Is it too hard in happy verse to place
The Vans and Vanders of the Rhine and Maese;
Her warriors Anna sends from Tweed and Thames,
That France may fall by more harmonious names!
Canst thou not Hamilton or Lumley bear!
Would Ingoldsby or Palmes offend thy ear!
And is there not a sound in Marlborough's name,
Which thou, and all thy brethren ought to claim,
Sacred to verse, and sure of endless fame!
Cutts is in metre something harsh to read,
Place me the valiant Gouram in his stead;
Let the intention make the number good;
Let generous Sylvius speak for honest Wood.
And though rough Churchill scarce in verse will stand,
So as to have one rhyme at his command;
With ease the bard reciting Blenheim's plain,
May close the verse, remembering but the Dane.
I grant, old friend, old foe (for such we are
Alternate as the chance of peace and war)
That we poetic folks, who must restrain
Our measured sayings in an equal chain,
Have troubles utterly unknown to those,
Who let their fancy loose in rambling prose.
For instance now, how hard is it for me.
To make my matter and my verse agree!
"In one great day on Hochstet's fatal plain,
French and Bavarians twenty thousand slain,
Pushed through the Danube to the shores of Styx
Squadrons eighteen, battalions twenty-six:
Officers captive made and private men,
Of these twelve hundred, of those thousands ten.
Tents, ammunition, colours, carriages,
Cannon, and kettle-drums;"-sweet numbers these.
But is it thus you English bards compose,
With Runic lays thus tag insipid prose;
And when you should your heroes' deeds rehearse,
Give us a commissary's list in verse?
Why, faith! Despreaux, there's sense in what you say: I told you where my difficulty lay;
So vast, so numerous were great Blenheim's spoils, They scorn the bounds of verse, and mock the Muse's toils.
To make the rough recital aptly chime,
Or bring the sum of Gallia's loss to rhyme,
'Tis mighty hard; what poet would essay
To count the streamers of my Lord Mayor's-day?
To number all the several dishes dressed,
By honest Lamb, last coronation feast?
Or make arithmetic and epic meet,
And Newton's thoughts in Dryden's style repeat?
O Poet, had it been Apollo's will,
That I had shared a portion of thy skill:
Had this poor breast received the heavenly beam;
Or could I hope my verse might reach my theme;
Yet, Boileau, yet the labouring Muse should strive,
Beneath the shades of Marlborough's wreaths to live;
Should call aspiring gods to bless her choice,
And to their favourite strains exalt her voice,
Arms and a queen to sing; who, great and good,
From peaceful Thames to Danube's wandering flood,
Sent forth the terror of her high commands,
To save the nations from invading hands;
Το prop fair liberty's declining cause,
And fix the jarring world with equal laws.
The queen should sit in Windsor's sacred grove, 93 Attended by the gods of war and love;
Both should with equal zeal her smiles implore,
To fix her joys, or to extend her power.
Sudden, the Nymphs and Tritons should appear;
And as great Anna's smiles dispel their fear,
With active dance should her observance claim;
With vocal shell should sound her happy name.
Their master Thames should leave the neighbouring
By his strong anchor known, and silver oar;
Should lay his ensigns at his sovereign's feet,
And audience mild with humble grace entreat.
To her, his dear defence, he should complain,
That whilst he blesses her indulgent reign;
Whilst furthest seas are by his fleets surveyed,
And on his happy banks each India laid;
His brethren Maese, and Waal, and Rhine, and Saar,
Feel the hard burthen of oppressive war;
That Danube scarce retains his rightful course
Against two rebel armies' neighbouring force;
And all must weep sad captives to the Seine,
Unless unchained and freed by Britain's queen.
The valiant sovereign calls her general forth;
Neither recites her bounty, nor his worth:
She tells him, he must Europe's fate redeem,
And by that labour merit her esteem.
She bids him wait her to the sacred hall;
Shows him Prince Edward, and the conquered Gaul;
Fixing the bloody cross upon his breast,
Says, he must die, or succour the distressed.
Placing the saint an emblem by his side,
She tells him Virtue armed must conquer lawless Pride. The hero bows obedient, and retires;
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