« הקודםהמשך »
1 THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Cloe is my real flame.
2 My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Cloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
3 My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
4 Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned:
I sung and gazed: I played and trembled;
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.
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 spoiled the Poet's song,
Or puffed away the monarch's praise?
2 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.
3 Neptune and Sol came from above,
Shaped like Megrigny and Vauban:1
They armed these rocks, then showed 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 passed the Boyne;
Remember this and arm the Seine.
4 Full fifteen thousand lusty fellows
With fire and sword the fort maintain;
Each was a Hercules, you tell us,
Yet out they marched like common men.
Cannons above, and mines below,
Did death and tombs for foes contrive;
Yet matters have been ordered so,
That most of us are still alive.
5 If Namur be compared to Troy;
Then Britain's boys excelled the Greeks:
Their siege did ten long years employ;
We’ve done our business in ten weeks.
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 even Mons's victor under:”
And that same Jupiter no more
Shall fright the world with impious thunder.
6 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 allowed to feign the gout, o
Or be prevailed with not to fight:
And mighty Louis hoped, no doubt,
That William would preserve that right.
7 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.
8 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 turned June into December?
The water-nymphs are too unkind
To Villeroy; are the land-nymphs so;
And fly they all, at once combined
To shame a general, and a beau?
9 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, Maestricht, 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 plundered 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 terror fill the neighbouring field;
While William carries on the trench,
Till both the town and castle yield.
Willeroy to Boufflers should advance,
Says Mars, through cannons' mouths in fire;
Id est, one mareschal of France
Tells t'other, he can come no nigher.
Regain the lines the shortest way,
Willeroy, 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 d–l 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 used to shine so like a star;
The generals could not get together,
Wanting that influence, great in war.