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The queen's commands exalt the warrior's fires.
His steps are to the silent woods inclined,
The great design revolving in his mind:
When to his sight a heavenly form appears:
Her hand a palm, her head a laurel wears.
Me, she begins, the fairest child of Jove,
Below for ever sought, and blessed above;
Me, the bright source of wealth, and power,
(Nor need I say, Victoria is my name)
Me the great father down to thee has sent;
He bids me wait at thy distinguished tent,
To execute what Anna's wish would have;
Her subject thou, I only am her slave.

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and fame;

Dare then, thou much beloved by smiling fate,
For Anna's sake, and in her name, be great;
Go forth, and be to distant nations known,
My future favourite, and my darling son.
At Schellenbergh I'll manifest sustain

Thy glorious cause; and spread my wings again,
Conspicuous o'er thy helm, in Blenheim's plain.
The goddess said, nor would admit reply;
But cut the liquid air, and gained the sky.
His high commission is through Britain known,
And thronging armies to his standard run,
He marches thoughtful, and he speedy sails:
(Bless him, ye seas! and prosper him, ye gales!)
Belgia receives him welcome to her shores,
And William's death with lessened grief deplores:
His presence only must retrieve that loss;
Marlborough to her must be what William was.
So when great Atlas, from these low abodes
Recalled, was gathered to his kindred-gods;
Alcides respited by prudent fate,

Sustained the ball, nor drooped beneath the weight.

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Secret and swift behold the chief advance; Sees half the empire joined, and friend to France; The British general dooms the fight; his sword Dreadful he draws-the captains wait the word. Anne and St George! the charging hero cries; Shrill echo from the neighbouring wood replies, Anne and St George.—At that auspicious sign The standards move; the adverse armies join. Of eight great hours, Time measures out the sands; And Europe's fate in doubtful balance stands; The ninth, Victoria comes:-O'er Marlborough's head Confessed she sits; the hostile troops recede: Triumphs the goddess, from her promise freed. The eagle, by the British lion's might Unchained and free, directs her upward flight; Nor did she e'er with stronger pinions soar From Tyber's banks, than now from Danube's shore. Fired with the thoughts which these ideas raise, And great ambition of my country's praise;

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The English Muse should like the Mantuan rise, 179 Scornful of earth and clouds, should reach the skies, With wonder (though with envy still) pursued by human eyes.

But we must change the style-just now I said, I ne'er was master of the tuneful trade;

Or the small genius which my youth could boast,
In prose and business lies extinct and lost,
Blessed if I may some younger muse excite,
Point out the game, and animate the flight;
That from Marseilles to Calais, France may know,
As we have conquerors, we have poets too;
And either laurel does in Britain grow;

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That, though amongst ourselves, with too much heat, We sometimes wrangle, when we should debate;

(A consequential ill which freedom draws;
A bad effect, but from a noble cause;)
We can with universal zeal advance,
To curb the faithless arrogance of France;
Nor ever shall Britannia's sons refuse
To answer to thy master or thy muse;
Nor want just subject for victorious strains;
While Marlborough's arm eternal laurels gains;
And where old Spenser sung, a new Eliza reigns.

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FOR THE PLAN OF A FOUNTAIN.

On which are the Effigies of the Queen on a Triumphal Arch, the Duke of Marlborough beneath, and the chief Rivers of the World round the whole Work.

YE active streams, where'er your waters flow,

Let distant climes and furthest nations know

What ye from Thames and Danube have been taught, How Anne commanded, and how Marlborough fought.

Quacunque æterno properatis, flumina, lapsu,
Divisis latè terris, populisque remotis,

Dicite, nam vobis Tamisis narravit et Ister,
Anna quid imperiis potuit, quid Marlburus armis.

THE CHAMELEON.

As the Chameleon, who is known
To have no colours of his own;
But borrows from his neighbour's hue
His white or black, his green or blue;
And struts as much in ready light,
Which credit gives him upon sight.
As if the rainbow were in tail

Settled on him, and his heirs male;
So the young squire, when first he comes
From country school to Will's or Tom's:1
And equally, in truth is fit

To be a statesman or a wit;
Without one notion of his own,
He saunters wildly up and down;
Till some acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes notice of a staring lad;
Admits him in among the gang;

They jest, reply, dispute, harangue;

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He acts and talks, as they befriend him,
Smeared with the colours which they lend him. 20
Thus merely, as his fortune chances,
His merit or his vice advances.
If haply he the sect pursues,
That read and comment upon news;
He takes up their mysterious face:
He drinks his coffee without lace.
This week his mimic-tongue runs o'er
What they have said the week before;
His wisdom sets all Europe right,
And teaches Marlborough when to fight.

Or if it be his fate to meet

With folks who have more wealth than wit;
He loves cheap port, and double bub,
And settles in the hum-drum club:
He learns how stocks will fall or rise;
Holds poverty the greatest vice;
Thinks wit the bane of conversation;
And says that learning spoils a nation.
But if, at first, he minds his hits,
And drinks champagne among the wits,

1 Two celebrated coffee-houses.

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Five deep he toasts the towering lasses;
Repeats you verses wrote on glasses;
Is in the chair; prescribes the law;
And lies with those he never saw.

MERRY ANDREW.

SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair (At Bartholomew he did not much appear: So peevish was the edict of the Mayor)

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At Southwark therefore as his tricks he showed,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd;
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held:
His left was with a good black pudding filled.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage;
Why how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll,
To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull:
Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain,
What does your emblematic worship mean?
Quoth Andrew; Honest English let us speak:
Your emble (what d'ye call 't?)—is heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence;
Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense.
That busy fool I was, which thou art now;
Desirous to correct, not knowing how:
With very good design, but little wit,
Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit.
I for this conduct had what I deserved;
And dealing honestly, was almost starved.
But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat;
Since I have found the secret to be great.
O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll,
Henceforth may I obey, and thou control;

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