His mortal arm exerts the power
To keep e'en Mons's victor under:
And that fame Jupiter no more
Shall fright the world with impious thunder.
VI.
*Our King thus trembles at Namur;
Whilft Villeroy, who ne'er afraid is, To Bruxelles marches on fecure,
To bomb the monks, and feare the ladies. -After this glorious expedition,
One battle makes the Marshal
He must perform the King's commission:
Who knows but Orange may retreat ?
Kings are allow'd to feign the gout,
Or be prevail'd with not to fight:
And mighty Louis hop'd, no doubt,
That William would preferve that right.
From Seine and Loyre, to Rhone and Po,
See every mother's fon
In fuch a cafe ne'er blame a foe,
If he betrays fome 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 Marthal cares not to march faster:
Poor Villeroy moves fo flowly here,
We fancied all, it was his Mafter.
Mais qui fait enfler la Sambre ?
Sous les Jumeaux effrayés,
Des froids torrens de Decembre
Les champs par tout font noyés.
Ceres s'enfuit, éplorée
De voir en proye à Borée
Ses guerets d'epics chargés,
Et fous les urns fangeufes
Des Hyades orageufes
Tous fes tréfors fubmergés.
Déployez toutes vos rages,
Princes, vents, peuples, frimats;
Ramaffez tous vos nuages;
Raffemblez tous vos foldats.
Malgré vous Namur en poudre
S'en va tomber fous la foudre
Qui domta Lille, Courtray,
Gand la fuperbe Espagnole,
Saint Omer, Bezançon, Dole,
Ypres, Maftricht, & Cambray.
Mes préfagés s'accompliffent :
Il commence à chanceler:
Sous les coups qui retentiffent
Ses murs s'en vont s'écrouler.
Will no kind flood, no friendly rain,
Disguise the Marshal's plain difgrace? No torrents fwell the low Mehayne ? The world will fay, he durft not pass. Why will no Hyades appear,
Dear Poet, on the banks of Sambre;
Juft as they did that mighty year,
When you turn'd June into December?
The water-nymphs are too unkind
To Villeroy; are the land-nymphs fo?
And fly they all, at once combin'd
To shame a General, and a Beau ?
IX.
Truth, juftice, fenfe, religion, fame,
May join to finish William's ftory:
Nations fet free may blefs his name :
And France in fecret own his glory.
But Ypres, Maftricht, and Cambray,
Befançon, Ghent, St. Omers, Lisle,
Courtray, and Dole Ye critics, fay,
How poor to this was Pindar's style?
With eke's and alfo's tack thy ftrain,
Great bard! and fing the deathlefs Prince,
Who loft Namur the fame campaign
He bought Dixmuyd, and plunder'd Deynfe,
X.
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.
Mars en feu qui les domine,
Souffle à grand bruit leur ruine,
Et les bombes dans les airs
Allant chercher le tonnere,
Semblent tombant fur la terre,
Vouloir s'ouvrir les enfers.
Accourez, Naffau, Baviere,
De ces murs l'unique efpoir:
A couvert d'une riviere
Venez vous pouvez tout voir.
Confiderez ces approches:
Voyez grimper fur ces roches
Ces athletes belliqueux ;
Et dans les eaux, dans la 'flame,
Louis à tout donnant l'ame,
Marcher, courir avec eux.
*Contemplez dans la tempête,
Qui fort de ces boulevars,
La plume qui fur fa tête
Attire tous les regards.
A cet aftre redoubtable
Toûjours un fort favorable
S'attache dans les combats :
Et toûjours avec la gloire
Mars amenant la victoire
Vole, & le fuit à grands pas.
Dear me! a hundred thousand French
With terror fill the neighbouring field:
While William carries on the trench,
Till both the town and caftle yield.
Villeroy to Boufflers fhould advance,
Says Mars, through cannons' mouths in fire;
Id eft, one Marefchal of France
Tells t'other, he can come no nigher.
XI.
Regain the lines the fhorteft way,
Villeroy; or to Versailles take poft;
For, having feen it, thou canst say
The fteps, by which Namur was lost.
The smoke and flame may vex thy fight:
Look not once back: but, as thou goest,.
Quicken the fquadrons in their flight,
And bid the devil take the flowest.
Think not what reason to produce,
From Louis to conceal thy fear :.
He 'll own the ftrength of thy excuse;
Tell him that William was but there.
Now let us look for Louis' feather,
That us'd to fhine fo like a ftar :
The Generals could not get together,
Wanting that influence, great in war.
O Poet! thou hadst been discreeter,
Hanging the monarch's hat fo high;
If thou hadst dubb'd thy ftar, a meteor,
That did but blaze, and rove, and die.
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