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He faints; his steed no longer feels the rein; Mov'd by my charms, with them your love maj But stumbles o'er the heap, his hand had slain. And, as the fuel sinks, the flame decrease: (cease, And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies; Or angry Heaven may quicker darts prepare, Lovely, sad object! in his half-clos'd eyes

And Sickness strike what Time a while would spare. Stern vengeance yet, and hostile terrour, stand : Then will my swain his glowing vows renew; His front yet threatens, and his frowns command. Then will his throbbing heart to mine beat true; The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call; When my own face deters me from my glass, Fear to approach him, though they see him fall. And Kneller only shows what Celia was?

O Kneller! could thy shades and lights express Fantastic Fame may sound her wild alarms; The perfect hero in that glorious dress;

Your country, as you think, may want your arms. Ages to come might Ormond's picture know, You may neglect, or quench, or hate the flame, And palms for thee bencath his laurels grow:

Whose smoke too long obscur'd your rising name; In spite of T'ime, thy work might ever shine; And quickly cold indifference will ensue, Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine.

When you Love's joys through Honour's optic view.

Then Celia's loudest prayer will prove too weak,
To this abandon'd breast to bring you back;

When my lost lover the tall ship ascends,

With music gay, and wet with jovial friends,

The tender accent of a woman's cry Atque in amore mala hæc proprio, summéque se

Will pass unheard, will unregarded die; cundo Inveniuntur.

Lucret. lib. iv.

When the rough seamen's louder shouts prevail,

When fair occasion shows the springing gale, Want

dat can I say, what arguments can prove And Interest guides the helm, and Honour swells the My truth, what colours can describe my love,

sail. If its excess and fury be not known,

Some wretched lines, from this neglected hand, lu what my Celia has already done?

May find my hero on the foreign strand, Thy infant flames, while yet they were conceal'd | Warm with new fires, and pleas'd with new comIn timorous doubts, with pity I beheld;

mand : With easy smiles dispell’d the silent fear,

While she who wrote them, of all joy bereft, That durst not tell me what I dy'd to hear.

To the rude censure of the world is left; In vain I strore to check my growing flame, Her mangled fame in barbarous pastime lost, Or shelter passion under Friendship's name, The coxcomb's novel, and the drunkard's toast. You saw my heart, how it my tongue bely'd ;

But nearer care (O pardon it !) supplies And when you press'd, how faintly I deny'd. Sighs to my breast, and sorrow to my eyes.

Ere guardian Thought could bring its scatter'd aid, Love, Love himselt (the only friend I have) Ere Reason could support the doubting maid, May scorn his triumph, having bound his slava My soul, surpris'd, and from herself disjoin'd, That tyrant-god, that restless conqueror, Left all reserve, and all the sex, behind :

May quit his pleasure, may assert his power ; From your command her motions she receiv'd; Forsake the provinces that bless his sway, And not for me, but you, she breath'd and liv'd. To vanquish those which will not yet obey. But ever blest be Cytherea's shrine,

Another nymph with fatal power may rise, And fires eternal on her altars shine!

To damp the sinking beains o Celia's eyes; Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound; With haughty pride may hear her charms confest, Since in thy kindness my desires are crown'd. And scorn the ardent vows that I have blest. By thy each look, and thought, and care, 'tis shown, You every night may sigh for her in vain, Thy joys are center'd all in me alone;

And rise each morning to some fresh disdain: And sure I am, thou wouldst not change this hour While Celia's softest look may cease to charm, For all the white ones Fate has in its power.-

And her embraces want the power to warm : Yet thus belov'd, thus loving to excess,

While these fond arins, thus circling you, may Yet thus receiving and returning bliss,

prove In this great moment, in this golden now,

More heavy chains than those of hopeless love. When every trace of what, or when, or how,

Just gods! all other things their like produce; Should from my soul by raging love be torn, The Vine arises from her mother's juice: And far on swelling seas of rapture borne;

When fceble plants or tender flowers decay, A melancholy tear afflicts my eye,

They to their seed their images convey : And my heart labours with a sudden sigh:

Where the old Myrtle ber good influence sheds, larading fears repel my coward joy,

Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads: And ills, foreseen, the present bliss destroy. And when the parent Rose decays and dies, Poor as it is, this beauty was the cause,

With a resembling face the daughter buds arise. That with first sighs your panting bosomn rose : That product only which our passions bear But with no owner Beauty long will stay,

Eludes the planter's miserable care. Upcn the wings of Time borne swift away;

While blooming Love assures us golden fruit, Pass but some fleeting years, and these poor eyes Some inborn poison taints the secret root: (Where now, without a boast, some lustre lies) Soon fall the flowers of Joy, soon seeds of Hatred No longer shall their little honours keep;

shoot. Shall only be of use to read or weep :

Say, shepherd, say, are these reflections true?
And on this forehead, where, your verse has said, Or was it but the woman's fear that drew
“ The Loves delighted, and the Graces play'd,” This cruel scene,-unjust to love and you?
Insulting Age will trace his cruel way,

Will you be only and for ever mine?
And leare sad marks of his destructive sway. Shall neither time nor age our souls disjoin?

From this dear bosom shall I ne'er be torn? Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust,
Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn? Her holy queen's sad relics guard,
And can you not for her you love do more

Till Heaven awakes the precious dust,
Than any youth for any nymph before?

And gives the saint her full reward.
But let the king dismiss his woes,

Reflecting on his fair renown;

And take the cypress from his brows,

To put his wonted laurels on.

If prest by grief our monarch stoops, $POKEN BY LORD BUCKHURST, IN WESTMINSTER

In vain the British lions roar:

If he, whose hand sustain'd them, droops,
AT A RRPRESENTATION OF MR. DRYdEx's CLEOMENES, The Belgic darts will wound no more.

Embattled princes wait the chief,
Pisu, Lord, I wish this prologue was but Greek, Whose voice should rule, whose arm should lead;
Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak; And, in kind murmurs, chide that grief,
But can lord Buckhurst in poor English say,

Which hinders Europe being freed. Gentle spectators, pray excuse the play?

The great example they demand No, witness all ye gods of ancient Greece,

Who still to conquest led the way ;
Rather than condescend to terms like these, Wishing him present tu command,
'I'd go to school six hours on Christmas-day,

As they stand ready to obey.
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,

They seek that joy, which us'd to glow,
Who tremble when they see a critic frown;

Expanded on the hero's face ;
Poor rogues, that smart like fencers for their bread, When the thick squadrons prest the foe,
And, if they are not wounded, are not fed.

And William led the glorious chase.
But, sirs, our labour bas more noble ends,

To give the mourning nations joy, We act our tragedy to see our friends:

Restore them thy auspicious light, Our generous scenes are for pure love repeated, Great Sun : with radiant beams destroy And if you are not pleas'd, at least you're treated. Those clouds, which keep thee from our sight The candles and the clothes ourselves we bought,

Let thy sublime meridian course Our tops neglected, and our balls forgot.

For Mary's setting rays atone : To le'm our parts, we left our midnight bed,

Our lustre, with redoubled force,
Most of you snor'd whilst Cleomenes read:

Must now proceed from thee alone.
Not that from this confusion we would sue
Praise undeserved; we know ourselves and you :

See, pious king, with different strife
Reso'v'd to stand or perish by our cause,

Thy struggling Albion's bosom torn: We neither censure fear, nor beg applause,

So much she fears for William's life, For these are Westminster and Sparta's laws.

That Mary's fate she dares not mour.. Yet, if we see some judgment well inclind,

Her beauty, in thy softer half To young desert, and growing virtue kind,

Bury'd and lost, she ought to grieve; That critic by ten thousand marks should know, But let her strength in thee be safe; That greatest souls to goodness only bow;

And let her weep; but let her live. And that your little hero does inherit

Thou, guardian angel, save the land
Not Cleomenes' more than Dorset's spirit.

From thy own grief, her fiercest foe;
Lest Britain, rescued by thy hand,

Should bend and sink beneath thy woe.
AN ODE, PRESENTED TO THE KING, Her former triumphs all are vain,

Unless new trophies still be sought,

And hoary majesty sustain

The battles which thy youth has fought. Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus

Where now is all that fearful love, Tam cari capitis ? præcipe lugubres

Which made her hate the war's alarıng I Cantus, Melpomene.

That soft excess, with which she strove

To keep her hero in her arms? Ar Mary's tomb (sad sacred place !)

While still she chid the coming Spring, The Virtues shall their vigils keep:

Which call'd him o'er his subject seas : And every Muse, and every Grace,

While, for the safety of the king, In solemo state shall ever weep.

She wish'd the victor's glory less. The future pious, mournful fair,

'Tis chang'd; 'tis gonc: sad Britain nou Oft as the rolling vears return,

Hastens her lord to foreign wars: With fragrant wreaths and Hosing hair,

Happy, if toils may break his woe, Shall visit her di tinguish'd urn.

Or danger may divert his cares. For her the wise and great shall mourn,

In martial din she drowns her sighs, When late records her deeds repeat:

Lest he the rising grief should heare Ages to come, and men unborn,

She pulls her helmet o'er her eyes, Shall bless her name, and sigh her fate.

Lest he should sce the falling teak.

143 IMITATION OF ANACREON.. LA PRISE DE NAMUR. Go, mighty prince; let France be taught, Yet ought his sorrow to be checkt; How constant minds by grief are try'd;

Yet ought his passions to abate ; How great the land, that wept and fought,

If the great mourner would reflect, When William led, and Mary dy'd.

Her glory in her death complete. Fierce in the battle make it known,

She was instructed to command, Where Death with all his darts is seen,

Great king, by long obeying thee ; That he can touch thy heart with none,

Her sceptre, guided by thy hand,

Preserv'd the isles, and rul'd the sea. But that which struck the beauteous queen.

But oh! 'twas little, that her life Belgia indulg'd her open grief,

O’er earth and water bears thy fame: While yet her master was not ncar:

In death, 'twas worthy William's wife, With sullen pride refus'd relief,

Amidst the stars to fix his name. And sat obdurate in despair.

Beyond where matter moves, or place As waters from their sluices, flow'd

Receives its forms, thy virtues roll; Unbounded sorrow from her eyes :

From Mary's glory, angels trace To earth her bended front she bow'd,

The beauty of her partner's soul. And sent her wailings to the skies.

Wise Fate, which does its Heaven decree But wben her anxious lord return'd,

To heroes, when they yield their breath, Rais'd is her head, her eyes are dry'd ;

Hastens thy triumph. Half of thee She smiles, as William ne'er had mourn'd,

Is deify'd before thy death. She looks, as Mary ne'er had dy'd.

Alone to thy renown 'tis given, That freedom, which all sorrows claim,

Unbounded through all worlds to go: She does for thy content resign:

While she, great saint, rejoices Heaven;
Her piety itself would blame,

And thou sustain'st the orb below.
If her regrets should weaken thine.
To cure thy woe, she shows thy fame:

Lest the great mourner should forget
That all the race, whence Orange came,

IN IMITATION OF ANACREON. Made Virtue triumph over Fate.

Let them censure: what care 1? William his country's cause could fight,

The herd of critics I defy. And with his blood her freedom seal :

Let the wretches know, I write, Blaurice and Henry guard that right,

Regardless of their grace or spite. For which their pious parents fell.

No, no: the fair, the gay, the young, How heroes rise, how patriots set,

Govern the numbers of my song; Thy father's bloom and Death may tell :

All that they approve is sweet ; Excelling others, these were great :

And all is sense that they repeat. Thou, greater still, must these excel.

Bid the warbling Nine retire; The last fair instance thou must give,

Venus, string thy servant's lyre: Whence Nassau's virtue can be try'd;

Love shall be my endless theme; And show the world that thou canst live

Pleasıire shall triumph over Pame: Intrepid, as thy consort dy'd;

And, when these maxims I decline, Thy virtue, whose resistless force

Apollo, may thy fate be mine! No dire event could ever stay,

May I grasp at empty praise ;
Must carry on its destin'd course,

And lose the nymph, to gain the bays !
Though Death and Envy stop the way.
For Britain's sake, for Belgia's, live:
Pierci by their grief, forget thy own:

ODE dew toils endure, new conquest give,

And bring them ease, though thou hast none.
Vanquish again; though she be gone,

W'hose garland crown'd the victor's hair :

An: reiga, though she has left the throne,
Who inade thy glory worth thy care.

Quelle docte & saint yvresse
Fair Britain never yet before

Aujourd'hui me fait la loi? Breath'd to her king an useless prayer :

Chastes Nymphes du Permesse, Pound Belgia never did implore,

N'est-ce pas vous que je voi? While William turn'd averse his ear.

Accourez, troupe sçavante:

Des sons que ma lyre enfante But, should the weeping hero now

Ces arbres sont rejoiiis : Relentless to their wishes prove ;

Marquez on bien la cadence : Should he recall, with pleasing woe,

Et vous, vents, faites silence : The olsject of his grief and love ;

Je vais parler de Louis. Her face with thousand beauties blest,

Dans ses chansons immortelles, Her mind with thousand virtues stor'd,

Comme un aigle audacieux, Her power with boundless joy confest,

Pindare étendant ses aisles, Her person only not ador'd:

Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux

Mais, ô ma fidele lyre,
Si, dans l'ardeur qui m'inspire,
Tu peus suivre mes transports :
Les chênes des monts de Thrace
N'ont rien oüi, que n'efface
La douceur de tes accords.
Est-ce Apollon et Neptune,
Qui sur ces rocs sourcilleux
Ont, compagnons de Fortune,
Basti ces murs orgueilleux?
De leur enceinte, fameuse
La Sambre unie à la Meuse,
Defend le fatal abord;
Et par cens bouches horribles,
L'airain sur ces monts terribles
Vomit le fer, & la mort.
Dix mille vaillans Alcides
Les bordant de toutes parts,
D'éclairs au loin homicides
Font petiller leurs remparts :
Et dans son sein infidele
Par toute la terre y recele
Un feu prêt à s'élancer,
Qui soudain perçant son goufre,
Ouvre un sepulchre de soufre,
A quiconque ose avancer.
Namur, devant tes murailles
Jadis la Grece eût vingt ans
Sans fruit veu les funerailles
De ses plus fiers combattans.
Quelle effroyable puissance
Aujourd'hui pourtant s'avance,
Prête à foudroyer tes monts ?
Quel bruit, quel feu l'environne?
C'est Jupiter en personne;
Ou c'est le vainqueur de Mons.
N'en doute point: c'est lui-même,
Tout brille en lui; tout est roi.
Dans Bruxelles Nassau blême
Commence à trembler pour toi.
En vain il voit le Batâve,
Desormais docile.esclave,
Rangé sous ses etendarts :
En vain au lion Belgique
Il voit l'aigle Gerinanique
Uni sous les leopards.
Plein de la frayeur nouvelle,
Dont ses sens sont agités,
A son secours il appelle
Les peuples les plus vantés.
Ceux-là viennent du rivage,
Où s'enorgueillit le Tage
De l'or, qui roule en ses eaux;
Ceux-ci des champs, où la neige
Des maras de la Norvége
Neuf mois couvre les roseaux.
Mais qui fait enfier la Sambre?
Sous les Jumeaux effrayés,
Des froids torrens de Decembre
Les champs par tout sont noyés
Ceres s'enfuit, éplorée
De voir en proye à Borée
Ses guerets d'epis chargés,
Et sous les urns fangeuses
Des Hyades orageuses
Tous ses trésors submergés.

Déployez toutes vos rages,
Princes, vents, peuples, frimats }
Ramassez tous vos nuages;
Rassemblez tous vos soldats.
Malgré vous Namur en poudre
S'en va tomber sous la foudre
Qui domta Lille, Courtray,
Gand la superbe Espagnole,
Saint Omer, Bezançon, Dole,
Ypres, Mastricht, & Cambray.
Mes présages s'accomplissent :
Il commence à chanceler:
Sous les coups qui retentissent
Ses murs s'en vont s'écrouler.
Mars en feu qui les domine,
Souffle à grand bruit leur ruine,
Et les bombes dans les airs
Allant chercher le tonnere,
Semblent tombant sur la terre,
Vouloir s'ourrir les enfers.
Accourez, Nassau, Baviere,
De ces murs l'unique espoir:
A couvert d'une riviere
Venez: vous pouvez tout voir.
Considerez ces approches :
Voyez grimper sur 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 sort de ces boulevards,
La plume qui sur sa tête
Attire tous les regards.
A cet astre redoubtable
Toûjours un sort favorable
S'attache dans les combats :
Et toûjours avec la gloire
Mars amenant la victoire
Vole, & le suit à grands pas,
Grands defenseurs de l'Espagtie,
Montrez-vous : il en est tems:
Courage; vers la Mahagne
Voilà vos drapeaux flottans.
Jamais ses ondes craintives
N'ont vû sur leurs foibles rives
Tant de guerriers s'amasser
Courez donc: Qui vous retaine?
Tout l'univers vous regarde.
N'osez vous la traverser?
Loin de fermer le passage
A vos nombreux bataillons,
Luxembourg a du rivage
Reculé ses pavillons.
Quoi ? leur seul aspect vou zce?
Où sont ces chefs pleins d'a switce,
Jadis si prompts å marcher,
Qui devoient de la Tamise,
Et de la Drâve soůmise,
Jusqu' à Paris nous chercher?
Cependant l'effroi redouble
Sur les reinparts de Namur.
Son gouverneur qui se trouble
S'enfuit sous son dernier mur.
Déja jusques à ses portes
Je voi monter nos cohortes


la flame & le fer en main :

What godhead does so fast advance, Et sur les monceaux de piques,

With dreadful power, those hills to gain? De corps morts, de rocs, de briques,

'Tis little Will, the scourge of France; S'ouvrir un large cheinio.

No godhead, but the first of men.

His mortal arm exerts the power
C'en est fait. Je viens d'entendre
Sur ces rochers éperdus

To kcep e'en Mons's victor under:

And that same Jupiter no more Battre un signal pour se rendre :

Shall fright time world with impious thunder. le fer cesse.

Ils sont rendus. Depouillez votre arrogance,

Our king thus trembles at Namur; Ficis ennemis de la France,

Whilst Villeroy, who ne'er afraid is, Et desormais gracieux,

To Bruxelles marches on secure, Allez à Liege, à Bruxelles,

To bonib the monks, and scare the ladies. Porter les humbles nouvelles

After this glorious expedition,
De Namur pris à vos yeux.

One battle makes the marshal great:
He must perform the king's cominission:

Who knows but Orange may retreat?

Kings are allow'd to feign the gout,

Or be prerail'd with not to fight:
And mighty Louis hop'd, no doubt,

That William would preserve that right
BRITAIX, 1695.

From Seine and Loire, to Rhone and Po,
Dulee est desipere in loco.

See every mother's son appear:

In such a case ne'er hlame a foe, Some folks are drunk, yet do not know it:

If he betrays soine little fear. So might not Bacchus give you law?

He comes, the mighty Villeroy comes; Was it a Muse, O lofty poet,

Finds a small river in his way; Or virgin of St. Cyr, you saw ?

So waves his colours, bcats his drains, Why all this fury? what's the matter,

And thinks it prudent there to stay. That oaks must come from Thrace to dance ? The Gallic troops breathe blood and war; Must stupid stocks be taught to flatter?

The marshal cares not to march faster : And is there no such wood in France?

Poor Villeroy moves so slowly here, Why must the winds all hold their tongue?

We fancied all, it was his master. If they a little breath should raise,

Will no kind food, no friendly rain, Would that have spuild the poet's song,

Disguise the marshal's plain disgrace? Or puff d away the monarcb's praise?

No torrents swell the low Mehayne? Pindar, that eagle, mounts the skies,

The world will say, he durst not pass. While Virtue leads the noble way:

Why will no Hyades app ar, Too like a vulture Poileau flies,

Dear poet, on the banks of Sambre; Where sordid Interest shows the prey.

Just as they did that mighty year, When once the poet's honour ceases,

When you turn'd June into December? From reason far his transports rove:

The water-nymphs are too unkind And Buileau, for eight hundred pieces,

To Villeroy; are the land-nymphs so? Makes Louis take the wall of Jove.

And Ay they all, at once combin'd

To shame a general, and a beau ? Neptune and Sol came from above,

Truth, Justico, Sense, Religion, Fame, Shap'd like Megrigny and Vauban :

May join to finish William's story:
They arnı'd these rocks; then show'd old Jove

Nations set free may bless his name;
Of Marli wood the wondrous plan.
Such walls, these three wise gods agreed,

And France in secret own his glory.

But Ypres, Mastricht, and Cambray,
By human force could ne'er be shaken :
But you and I in Homer read

Besan on, Ghent, St. Omers, Lisle,

Courtray, and Doe-Ye critics, say,
Of gods, as well as inen, mistaken.
Sarbre and Maese their waves may join,

How poor to this was Pindar's style?
But ne'er can William's force restrain:

With ekes and alsos tack thy strain, He'll pass them both, who pass'd the Boyne:

Great bard! and sing the deathless prince,

Who lost Namur the same campaign Remember this, and arm the Seine.

He bought Dixiuyd, and plunder'd Deynse. Fall fifteen thousand lusty fellows,

I'll hold ten pound my dream is out: With fire and sword, the fort maintain :

I'd tell it you, but for the rattle Each was a Hercules, you tell us;

Of those confounded drums; no doubt Yet out they march d, like coinmon men.

Yon bloody rognes intend a battle. Cannons above, and inines below,

Dear me! a hundred thousand French Did death anii torbs for foes contrive:

With ter our till the neighbouring field: Yet matters have been order'd so,

While William carries on the trencia, That most of us are still alive.

Till both the town and castle yicld. If Namur be compar'd to Troy;

Viileroy to Boufflers shu ild anivan", Then Bitzia's boys exceli'd the Greeks :

Says Mars, thronghamuns' mouths in fire; Their siege did ten long years e.nploy ;

!!! cst, one piareschal of France We've doue que business in tea wechs,

Tells t'other, he can come no nigher.


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