To turn the war, and tell aggressing France, How Britain's sons and Britain's friends can fight. On conquest fix'd, and covetous of fame,

Behold them rushing through the Gallic host: Through standing corn so runs the sudden flame, Or eastern winds along Sicilia's coast.

They deal their terrors to the adverse nation: Pale death attends their arms, and ghastly desolation.

But whilst with fiercest ire Bellona glows, And Europe rather hopes than fears her fate; While Britain presses her afflicted foes; What horror damps the strong, and quells the great! Whence look the soldier's cheeks dismay'd and pale? Erst ever dreadful, know they now to dread? The hostile troops, I ween, almost prevail; And the pursuers only not recede.

Alas! their lessen'd rage proclaims their grief!

For, anxious, lo! they crowd around their falling

chief.

I thank thee, Fate, exclaims the fierce Bavar: Let Boya's trumpet grateful Iös sound:

I saw him fall, their thunderbolt of war:
Ever to vengeance sacred be the ground.—
Vain wish! short joy! the hero mounts again
In greater glory, and with fuller light:
The evening-star so falls into the main,
To rise at morn more prevalently bright.

He rises safe,1 but near, too near his side,
A good man's grievous loss, a faithful servant died.

Propitious Mars! the battle is regain'd: The foe with lessen'd wrath disputes the field: The Briton fights, by favouring gods sustain'd: Freedom must live; and lawless power must yield. Vain now the tales which fabling poets tell, That wavering Conquest still desires to rove! In Marlborough's camp the goddess knows to dwell: Long as the hero's life remains her love. Again France flies, again the duke pursues, And on Ramilia's plains he Blenheim's fame renews.

Great thanks, O captain great in arms! receive From thy triumphant country's public voice; Thy country greater thanks can only give To Anne, to her who made those arms her choice. Recording Schellenberg's 2 and Blenheim's toils, We dreaded lest thou shouldst those toils repeat: We view'd the palace charg'd with Gallic spoils, And in those spoils we thought thy praise complete. For never Greek we deem'd, nor Roman knight, In characters like these did e'er his acts indite.

1 At the Battle of Ramilies the Duke of Marlborough was twice in the most imminent danger; once by a fall from his horse, and a second time by a cannon shot that took off the head of Colonel Bringfield as he was holding the stirrup for his Grace to remount.

2 Where the Duke of Marlborough gained a complete victory over 16,000 Bavarians in July, 1704.

Yet, mindless still of ease, thy virtue flies A pitch to old and modern times unknown: Those goodly deeds which we so highly prize Imperfect seem, great chief, to thee alone. Those heights, where William's virtue might have staid,

And on the subject world look'd safely down, By Marlborough pass'd, the props and steps were made,

Sublimer yet to raise his queen's renown:

Still gaining more, still slighting what he gain'd, Nought done the hero deem'd, while aught undone remain❜d.

When swift-wing'd rumour told the mighty Gaul, How lessen'd from the field Bavar was fled; He wept the swiftness of the champion's fall; And thus the royal treaty-breaker said: And lives he yet, the great, the lost Bavar, Ruin to Gallia in the name of friend? Tell me, how far has Fortune been severe? Has the foe's glory, or our grief, an end? Remains there of the fifty thousand lost,

To save our threaten'd realm, or guard our shatter'd coast?

To the close rock the frighten'd raven flies,
Soon as the rising eagle cuts the air:
The shaggy wolf unseen and trembling lies,
When the hoarse roar proclaims the lion near.

Ill-starr'd did we our forts and lines forsake, To dare our British foes to open fight: Our conquest we by stratagem should make: Our triumph had been founded in our flight. 'Tis ours, by craft and by surprise to gain: 'Tis theirs, to meet in arms, and battle in the plain.

The ancient father of this hostile brood,
Their boasted Brute, undaunted snatch'd his gods
From burning Troy, and Xanthus red with blood,
And fix'd on silver Thames his dire abodes:
And this be Troynovante, he said, the seat
By Heaven ordain'd, my sons, your lasting place:
Superior here to all the bolts of fate

Live, mindful of the author of your race,
Whom neither Greece, nor war, nor want, nor flame,
Nor great Peleides' arm, nor Juno's rage could tame.

Their Tudor's hence, and Stuart's offspring flow: Hence Edward, dreadful with his sable shield, Talbot to Gallia's power eternal foe,

And Seymour, fam'd in council or in field:
Hence Nevil, great to settle or dethrone,
And Drake and Ca'ndish, terrors of the sea:
Hence Butler's sons, o'er land and ocean known,
Herbert's and Churchill's warring progeny:
Hence the long roll which Gallia should conceal :
For, oh! who vanquish'd, loves the victor's fame
to tell?

Envied Britannia, sturdy as the oak, Which on her mountain-top she proudly bears, Eludes the axe, and sprouts against the stroke; Strong from her wounds, and greater by her wars. And as those teeth, which Cadmus sow'd in earth, Produc'd new youth, and furnish'd fresh supplies: So with young vigour, and succeeding birth, Her losses more than recompens'd arise; And ev'ry age she with a race is crown'd, For letters more polite, in battles more renown'd.

Obstinate power, whom nothing can repel; Not the fierce Saxon, nor the cruel Dane, Nor deep impression of the Norman steel, Nor Europe's force amass'd by envious Spain, Nor France on universal sway intent, Oft breaking leagues, and oft renewing wars; Nor (frequent bane of weaken'd government) Their own intestine feuds and mutual jars : Those feuds and jars, in which I trusted more, Than in my troops, and fleets, and all the Gallic power.

To fruitful Rheims, or fair Lutetia's gate,
What tidings shall the messenger convey?
Shall the loud herald our success relate,
Or mitred priest appoint the solemn day?
Alas! my praises they no more must sing;
They to my statue now must bow no more:
Broken, repuls'd is their immortal king: