תמונות בעמוד




While thus the ruined foe's despair commends
Thy council and thy deed, victorious queen,
What shall thy subjects say, and what thy friends;
How shall thy triumphs in our joy be seen!
Oh! deign to let the eldest of the nine
Recite Britannia great, and Gallia free:
Oh! with her sister sculpture let her join
To raise, great Anne, the monument to thee;
To thee, of all our good the sacred spring;
To thee, our dearest dread; to thee, our softer king.

Let Europe saved the column high erect,
Than Trajan's higher, or than Antonine's;
Where sembling art may carve the fair effect
And full achievement of thy great designs.
In a calm Heaven, and a serener air,
Sublime the queen shall on the summit stand,
From danger far, as far removed from fear,
And pointing down to earth her dread command.
All winds, all storms, that threaten human woe,
Shall sink beneath her feet, and spread their rage


Their fleets shall strive, by winds and waters

Till the young Austrian on Iberia's strand,
Great as AEneas on the Latian coast,
Shall fix his foot. And this, be this the land,
Great Jove, where I for ever will remain
(The empire's other hope shall say), and here
Wanquished, intombed I'll lie, or, crowned, I'll reign!
O virtue, to thy British mother dear!
Like the famed Trojan suffer and abide;

For Anne is thine, Iween, as Venus was his guide.

30 There, in eternal characters engraved,

Vigo,' and Gibraltar, and Barcelone,
Their force destroyed, their privileges saved,
Shall Anna's terrors and her mercies own.
Spain, from the usurper Bourbon's arms retrieved,
Shall with new life and grateful joy appear,
Numbering the wonders which that youth achieved,
Whom Anna clad in arms and sent to war;
Whom Anna sent to claim Iberia's throne;
And made him more than king, in calling him her



There Ister, pleased by Blenheim's glorious field,
Rolling shall bid his eastern waves declare
Germania saved by Britain's ample shield,
And bleeding Gaul, afflicted by her spear,
Shall bid them mention Marlborough on that shore,
Leading his islanders, renowned in arms,
Through climes, where never British chief before
Or pitched his camp, or sounded his alarms;
Shall bid them bless the queen, who made his

streams Glorious as those of Boyne, and safe as those of


32 Brabantia, clad with fields, and crowned with

towers, With decent joy shall her deliverer meet; Shall own thy arms, great queen, and bless thy

powers, Laying the keys beneath thy subject's feet. 1 Vigo was surprised by the Duke of Ormond and Sir George Rooke, and the galleons taken and destroyed in the year 1702; Gibraltar by Sir George Rooke in 1704; and Barcelona by the Prince of Hesse and the Earl of Peterborough in 1705.

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Flandria, by plenty made the home of war,
Shall weep her crime, and bow to Charles restored;
With double vows shall bless thy happy care,
In having drawn, and having sheathed the sword;
From these their sister provinces shall know,
How Anne supports a friend, and how forgives a foe!

Bright swords, and crested helms, and pointed

In artful piles around the work shall lie;
And shields indented deep in ancient wars,
Blazoned with signs of Gallic heraldry;
And standards with distinguished honours bright,
Marks of high power and national command,
Which Valois' sons, and Bourbon's bore in fight,
Or gave to Foix' or Montmorency's hand:
Great spoils, which Gallia must to Britain yield,
From Cressy's battle saved, to grace Ramilia's field.

And, as fine Art the spaces may dispose,
The knowing thought and curious eye shall see
Thy emblem, gracious queen, the British rose,
Type of sweet rule and gentle majesty;
The northern thistle, whom no hostile hand
Unhurt too rudely may provoke, I ween;
Hibernia's harp, device of her command,
And parent of her mirth, shall there be seen:
Thy vanquished lilies, France, decayed and torn,
Shall with disordered pomp the lasting work adorn.

Beneath, great queen, oh! very far beneath,
Near to the ground, and on the humble base,
To save herself from darkness and from death,
That Muse desires the last, the lowest place;

Who, though unmeet, yet touched the trembling

string, For the fair fame of Anne and Albion's land, Who durst of war and martial fury sing; And when thy will, and when thy subject's hand, Had quelled those wars, and bid that fury cease, Hangs up her grateful harp to conquest, and to peace.



BENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade,

His lyre to mournful numbers strung,
Horace, immortal bard, supinely laid,
To Venus thus addressed the song:

Ten thousand little loves around,
Listening, dwelt on every sound.



Potent Venus, bid thy son

Sound no more his dire alarms.
Youth on silent wings is flown;

Graver years come rolling on.
Spare my age, unfit for arms;

Safe and humble let me rest,

From all amorous care released.
Potent Venus, bid thy son

Sound no more his dire alarms.


Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare
The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair;


Why do I all day lament and sigh,
Unless the beauteous maid be nigh;
And why all night pursue her in my dreams, ,
Through flowery meads and crystal streams!


Thus sung the bard; and thus the goddess spoke:
Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke.

Every state, and every age
Shall own my rule, and fear my rage;
Compelled by me, thy Muse shall prove,
That all the world was born to love.



Bid thy destined lyre discover

Soft desire and gentle pain;
Often praise, and always love her:

Through her ear, her heart obtain.
Verse shall please, and sighs shall move her,

Cupid does with Phæbus reign.


As Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this, and blaming that,
Tell me, she said, but tell me true;
The nymph who could your heart subdue.
What sort of charms does she possess?
Absolve me, fair one, I'll confess
With pleasure, I replied. Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,

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