Grands deffenfeurs de l'Espagne, Montrez-vous: il en eft tems: Courage; vers la Mahagne Voilà vos drapeaux flottans. Jamais fes ondes craintives N'ont veû fur leurs foibles rives Tant de guerriers s'amaffer. Courez donc : Qui vous retarde? Tout l'univers vous regarde. N'ofez vous la traverfer?
Loin de fermer le paffage A vos nombreux bataillons, Luxembourg a du rivage Reculé fes pavillons.
Quoi? leur feub aspect vous glace ? Où font ces chefs pleins d'audace, Jadis fi prompts à marcher,
Qui devoient de la Tamife,/ 153 A Et de la Drâve foûmife,
Jufqu'à Paris nous chercher ?
Cependant l'effroi redouble Sur les remparts de Namur. Son gouverneur qui fe trouble S'enfuit fous fon dernier mur.
To animate the doubtful fight, Namur in vain expects that ray : In vain France hopes, the fickly light Should fhine near William's fuller day: It knows Versailles, its proper ftation, Nor cares for any foreign sphere : Where you fee Boileau's conftellation, Be fure no danger can be near.
The French had gather'd all their force ; And William met them in their way:
Yet off they brush'd, both foot and horse. What has friend Boileau left to say?
When his high Mufe is bent
To fing her king-that great commander, Or on the fhores of Hellefpont,
Or in the valleys near Scamander; Would it not spoil his noble task,
If any foolish Phrygian there is, Impertinent enough to ask,
How far Namur may be from Paris?
Two ftanzas more before we end,
Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks, and fire
Leave them behind you, honeft friend;
And with your countrymen retire.
Déja jufques à fes portes Je voi monter nos cohortes,
La flame & le fer en main : Et fur les monceaux de piques, De corps morts, de rocs, de briques, S'ouvrir un large chemin.
C'en eft fait. Je viens d'entendre Sur ces rochers éperdus
Battre un figual pour se rendre; Le feu ceffe. Ils font rendus. Dépouillez vôtre arrogance, Fiers enemis de la France, Et deformais gracieux, Allez à Liege, à Bruxelles, Porter les humbles novelles De Namur pris à vos yeux.
Your ode is fpoilt; Namur is freed ;
For Dixmuyd fomething yet is due : So good count Guifcard inay proceed; But Boufflers, Sir, one word with you.- XVI.
"Tis done. In fight of these commanders, Who neither fight, nor raise the siege, The foes of France march fafe through Flanders; Divide to Bruxelles, or to Liege.
Send, Fame, this news to Trianon,
That Boufflers may new honours gain: He the fame play by land has fhewn, As Tourville did upon the main. Yet is the Marshal made a peer:
O William, may thy arms advance! That he may lofe Dinant next year, And fo be conftable of France.
HE merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name : Euphelia ferves to grace my measure; But Cloe is my real flame.
My fofteft verfe, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Cloe noted her defire,
That I fhould fing, that I fhould play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my fighs; And, whilft I fing Euphelia's praise, I fix my foul on Cloe's eyes.
Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd :
I fung, and gaz'd: I play'd, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around
Remark'd, how ill we all diffembled.
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