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Hark! the imperious goddess is obey'd ;
Winds murmur; snows descend; and waters spread.
"Oh! kinsman, friend"-" Oh' vain are all the
Of human voice," strong Destiny replies: [cries
Weep, you on Earth; for he shall sleep below:
Thence none return, and thither all must go."
Who'er thou art, whom choice or business leads
To this said river, or the neighbouring meads;
If thou may'st happen, on the dreary shores,
To find the object which this verse deplores,
Cleanse the pale corpse with a religious hand
From the polluting weed and common sand;
Lay the dead hero graceful in a grave,
(The only honour he can now receive)
And fragrant mould upon his body throw,
And plant the warrior-laurel o'er his brow:
Light lie the earth, and flourish green the bough.
So may just Heaven secure thy future life
From foreign dangers and domestic strife!
And, when th' infernal judge's dismal power
From the dark urn shall throw thy destin'd hour;
When, yielding to the sentence, breathless thou
And pale shalt lie, as what thou buriest now;
May some kind friend the piteous object see,
And equal rites perform to that which once was
thee!

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN AT COURT, BEFORE THE QUEEN, ON HER
MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, 1704.

SHINE forth, ye planets, with distinguish'd light,
As when ye hallow'd first this happy night:
Again transmit your friendly beams to Earth,
As when Britannia joy'd for Anna's birth.
And thou, propitious star, whose sacred power'
Presided o'er the monarch's natal hour,
Thy radiant voyages for ever run,
Yielding to none but Cynthia and the Sun;
With thy fair aspect still illustrate Heaven;
Kindly preserve what thou hast greatly given:
Thy influence for thy Anna we implore:
Prolong one life; and Britain asks no more.
For virtue can no ampler power express,
Than to be great in war, and good in peace:
For thought no higher wish of bliss can frame,
Than to enjoy that virtue still the same.
Entire and sure the monarch's rule must prove,
Who founds her greatness on her subjects' love;
Who does our hoinage for our good require;
And orders that which we should first desire:
Our vanquish'd wills that pleasing force obey,
Her goodness takes our liberty away,
And haughty Britain yields to arbitrary sway.

Let the young Austrian then her terrours bear,
Great as he is, her delegate in war:
Let him in thunder speak to both his Spains,
That in these dreadful isles a woman reigns:
While the bright queen does on her subjects shower
The gentle blessings of her softer power;
Gives sacred morals to a vicious age,
To temples zeal, and manners to the stage;
Bids the chaste Muse without a blush appear;
And wit be that which Heaven and she may hear.
Minerva thus to Perseus lent her shield;
Secure of conquest, sent him to the field:
The hero acted what the queen ordain'd;
So was his fame complete, and Andromede un-
chain'd.

Mean time, amidst her native temples, sate,
The goddess, studious of her Grecians' fate,
Taught them in laws and letters to excel,
In acting justly, and in writing well.
Thus whilst she did her various power dispose,
The world was freed from tyrants, wars, and woes:
Virtue was taught in verse, and Athens' glory rose.

A LETTER TO

MONSIEUR BOILEAU DESPREAUX;

OCCASIONED BY THE

VICTORY AT BLENHEIM, 1704.

--Cupidum, Pater optime, vires
Deficiunt: neque enim quivis horrentia pilis
Agmina, nec fractá pereuntes cuspide Gallos.-
Hor. II. Sat. 1.

SINCE, hir'd for life, thy servile Muse must sing
Successive conquests, and a glorious king;
Must of a man immortal vainly boast,
And bring him laurels, whatsoe'er they cost:
What turn wilt thou employ, what colours lay
On the event of that superior day,

In which one English subject's prosperous hand
(So Jove did will, so Anna did command)
Broke the proud column of thy master's praise,
Which sixty winters had conspir'd to raise ?

From the lost field a hundred standards brought
Must be the work of Chance, and Fortune's fault:
Bavaria's stars must be accus'd, which shone,
That fatal day the mighty work was done,
With rays oblique upon the Gallic sun:
Some demon, envying France, misled the fight;
And Mars mistook, though Louis order'd right.
When thy young Muse invok'd the tuneful Nine',
To say how Louis did not pass the Rhine;
What work had we with Wageninghen, Arnheim,
Places that could not be reduc'd to rhyme!
And, though the poet made his last efforts,
Wurts-who could mention in heroic-Wurts?
But, tell me, hadst thou reason to complain
Of the rough triumphs of the last campaign?
The Danube rescued, and the empire sav'd,
Say, is the majesty of verse retriev'd?
And would it prejudice thy softer vein,
To sing the princes, Louis and Eugene?
Is it too hard in happy verse to place
The Vans and Vanders of the Rhine and Maese?
Her warriors Anna sends from Tweed and Thames,
That France may fall by more harmonious names
Canst thou not Hamilton or Lumley bear?
Would Ingoldsby or Palmes offend thy ear?
And is there not a sound in Marlborough's name,
Which thou and all thy brethren ought to claim,
Sacred to verse, and sure of endless fame?

Cutts is in metre something harsh to read;
Place me the valiant Gouran in his stead:
Let the intention make the number good:
Let generous Sylvius speak for honest Wood.
And tho' rough Churchill scarce in verse will stand,
So as to have one rhyme at his command;
With ease the bard, reciting Blenheim's plain,
May close the verse, remembering but the Dane,

En vain, pour te louer, &c. Ep.

I grant, old friend, old foe, (for such we are Alternate as the chance of peace and war) That we poetic folks, who must restrain Our measur'd sayings in an equal chain, Have troubles utterly unknown to those, Who let their fancy loose in rambling prose. For instance, now, how hard is it for me To make my matter and my verse agree! "In one great day on Hochstet's fatal plain, French and Bavarians twenty thousand slain: Push'd through the Danube to the shores of Styx Squadrons eighteen, battalions twenty-six : Officers captive made, and private men, Of these twelve hundred, of those thousands ten. Tents, ammunition, colours, carriages, Cannon, and kettle drums!"-sweet numbers But is it thus you English bards compose [these! With Runic lays thus tag insipid prose? And, when you should your hero's deeds rehearse, Give us a commissary's list in verse?

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Why, faith! Despreaux, there's sense in what I told you where my difficulty lay: [you say: So vast, so numerous, were great Blenheim's spoils, They scorn the bounds of verse, and mock the Muse's toils.

To make the rough recital aptly chime,
Or bring the sum of Gallia's loss to rhyme,
'Tis mighty hard: what poet would essay

To count the streamers of my lord mayor's day?
To number all the several dishes drest
By honest Lamb, last coronation feast?
Or make arithmetic and epic meet,
And Newton's thoughts in Dryden's style repeat?
O poet, had it been Apollo's will,
That I had shar'd a portion of thy skill;
Had this poor breast receiv'd the heavenly beam ;
Or could I hope my verse might reach my theme;
Yet, Boileau, yet the labouring Muse should strive
Beneath the shades of Marlborough's wreaths to
live;

Should call aspiring gods to bless her choice,
And to their favourite strains exalt her voice,
Arms and a queen to sing; who, great and good,
From peaceful Thames to Danube's wandering flood
Sent forth the terrour of her high commands,
To save the nations from invading hands,
To prop fair Liberty's declining cause,
And fix the jarring world with equal laws.
The queen should sit in Windsor's sacred grove,
Attended by the gods of war and love :
Both should with equal zeal her smiles implore,
To fix her joys, or to extend her power.
Sudden, the Nymphs and Tritons should appear;
And, as great Anna's smiles dispel their fear,
With active dance should her observance claim;
With vocal shell should sound her happy name;
Their master Thames should leave the neighbouring
shore,

By his strong anchor known and silver oar;
Should lay his ensigns at his sovereign's feet;
And audience mild with humble grace entreat.

To her, his dear defence, he should complain,
That, while he blesses her indulgent reign,
Whilst furthest seas are by his fleets survey'd,
And on his happy banks cach India laid;

His brethren Maese, and Waal, and Rhine, and
Saar,

Feel the hard burthen of oppressive war;
That Danube scarce retains his rightful course
Against two rebel armies neighbouring force;

And all must weep sad captives to the Seine,
Unless unchain'd and freed by Britain's queen.

The valiant sovereign calls her general forth;
Neither recites her bounty, nor his worth:
She tells him, he must Europe's fate redeem,
And by that labour merit her esteem:
She bids him wait her to the sacred hall;
Shows him prince Edward, and the conquer'd
Gaul;

Fixing the bloody cross upon his breast, Says, he must die, or succour the distress'd; Placing the saint an emblem by his side, She tells him, Virtue arm'd must conquer lawless The hero bows obedient, and retires : [Pride, The queen's commands exalt the warrior's fires; His steps are to the silent woods inclin'd, 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 Jore, Below for ever sought, and bless'd above; Me, the bright source of wealth, and power, and fame,

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(Nor need I say, Victoria is my name)
Me the great father down to thee has sent:
He bids me wait at thy distinguish'd tent,
To execute what Anna's wish would have:
Her subject thou, I only am her slave.

"Dare then, thou much belov'd 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 Shellenbergh 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 gain'd 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 lessen'd 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
Recall'd, was gather'd to his kindred gods;
Alcides, respited by prudent Fate,
Sustain'd the ball, nor droop'd beneath the weight.
Secret and swift behold the chief advance;
Sees half the empire join'd 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

Confess'd she sits; the hostile troops recede :
Triumphs the goddess, from her promise freed.
The eagle, by the British lion's might
Unchain'd and free, directs her upward flight:
Nor did she e'er with stronger pinions soar
From Tyber's bank, than now from Danube's
shore.

Fir'd with the thoughts which these ideas raise, And great ambition of my country's praise,

The English Muse should like the Mantuan rise, 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 prese and business lics extinct and lost :
Bless'd, 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;

That, though among 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.

UPON THIS PASSAGE IN

THE SCALIGERIANA.

Les Allemans ne ce soucient pas quel vin ils

Then too, alas! when she shall tear

The lines some younger rival sends; She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordain'd, (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love, When she begins to comprehend it.

PARTIAL FAME.

THE sturdy man, if he in love obtains,
In open pomp and triumph reigns:
The subtle woman, if she should succeed,
Disowns the honour of the deed.

Though he, for all his boast, is forc'd to yield,
Though she can always keep the field:
He vaunts his conquests, she conceals her shameş
How partial is the voice of Fame!

FOR THE PLAN OF A FOUNTAIN,

ON WHICH ARE

THE EFFIGIES OF THE QUEEN ON A TRIUMPHAL ARCHI¡
THE FIGURE OF THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH BE
NEATH; AND THE CHIEF RIVERS OF THE WORLD
ROUND THE WHOLE WORK.

boivent, pourveu que ce soit vin, ni quel Latin Ye active streams, where'er your waters flow,

ils parlent, pourveu que ce soit Latin.

WHEN you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin, and stumm'd wine :
They never taste, who always drink;
They always talk, who never think.

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY,

FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704;

THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.

Let distant climes and furthest nations know, What ye from Thames and Danube have been

taught,

[fought.

How Anne commanded, and how Marlborough

Quocunque æterno properatis, flumina, lapsu Divisis latè terris, populisque remotis, Dicite, nam vobis Tamesis narravit & Ister, Anna quid imperiis potuit, quid Marlburus armis,

THE CAMELEON.

LORDS, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band, As the Cameleon, who is known

That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summon'd by her high command, To show their passions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obey'd.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear five years old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. For, while she makes her silk-worms beds With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my passion reads, In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame,

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 come
From country school to Will's or Tom's,
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:
He acts and talks, as they befriend him,

For, though the strictest prudes should know it, Smear'd with the colours which they lend him.

She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.

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 champaign among the wits;
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,

There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)

A squirrel spend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage;
The cage, as either side turn'd up,
Striking a ring of bells at top?—

Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.

So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' shades.
In noble song, and lofty odes,

They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,

Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.

MERRY ANDREW,

SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair
(At Barthol'mew he did not much appear,
So peevish was the edict of the mayor);
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd,
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 fill'd.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage,
"Why bow 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 scose.
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 deserv'd;
And, dealing honestly, was almost starv'd.
But thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat;
Since I have found the secret to be great."-

46

O, dearest Andrew," says the humble droll, "Henceforth may I obey, and thou control; Provided thou impart thy useful skill."-"Bow then," says Andrew ;" and, for once, I willBe of your patron's mind, whate'er he says; Sleep very much; think little; and talk less: Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong; But eat your pudding, slave, and hold your tongue." A reverend prelate stopt his coach and six, To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks. But when he heard him give this golden rule, "Drive on," he cried; "this fellow is no fool."

A SIMILE.

DEAR Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tinman's shop?

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PARAPHRASE FROM THE FRENCH.

In grey-hair'd Celia's wither'd arms
As mighty Lewis lay,

She cry'd," If I have any charms,
My dearest, let's away!
For you, my love, is all my fear,

Hark how the drums do rattle;
Alas, sir! what should you do here
In dreadful day of battle?
Let little Orange stay and fight,

For danger's his diversion;
The wise will think you in the right,
Not to expose your person:
Nor vex your thoughts how to repair

The ruins of your glory:
You ought to leave so mean a care
To those who pen your story.
Are not Boileau and Corneille paid
For panegyric writing?
They know how heroes may be made,
Without the help of fighting..
When foes too saucily approach,
'Tis best to leave them fairly;
Put six good horses in your coach,
And carry me to Marly.

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