With Schellembergh's demolish'd towers, To pass the Scheld, to force the lines Improves when shaded by disgrace; And by her own intrinsic light creates a nobler day. Let fickle Chance with partial hands divide Let Envy's vipers hiss aloud, And rouse all hell with dire alarms; Go shake the rocks, and bid the hills remove; Yet still the hero's mind shall be Unchangeable, resolved, and free, Fix'd on its base, firm as the throne of Jove. Britons! look back on those auspicious days, On Ister's banks when your great leader stood, And with your gasping foes encumber'd all the Or when Ramillia's bloody plain [flood; Was fatten'd with the mighty slain; Or when Blaregnia's ramparts were assail'd, With force that heaven itself had scaled; Did then reviling pens profane Your Marlborough's sacred name? Did noisy tribunes then debauch the crowd? Did their unrighteous votes blaspheme aloud? Did mercenary tools conspire To curse the hero whom their foes admire? Exert their most triumphant lays; No thought too great, no diction too sublime. Hail, glorious prince! 'tis not for thee we grieve, For thy invulnerable fame No diminution can receive; Thou, mighty man! art still the same, Thy purer gold eludes the flame; This fiery trial makes thy virtue shine, And persecution crowns thy brows with rays divine. But what, alas! shall fainting Europe do? How stand the shock of her imperious foe? What successor shall bear the weight Of all our cares, and prop the state? Since thou, our Atlas, art removed, O best deserving chief! and therefore best beloved. To your own Blenheim's blissful seat, A gift unequal to that hero's worth [tons forth Who from the peaceful Thames led our bold BriTo free the Danube and the Rhine; Who by the thunder of his arms Shook the proud Rhone with loud alarms, And raised a tempest in the trembling Seine. After the long fatigues of war Repose your envied virtues here; Enjoy, my lord, the sweet repast Of all your glorious toils, A pleasure that shall ever last, The mighty comfort that proceeds From the just sense of virtuous deeds; Content with endless fame, contemn the meaner Pomona calls and Pan invites To rural pleasures, chaste delights; The orange and the citron grove Will by your hand alone improve; [spoils, Would fain their gaudy liveries wear, The fawning knave, the proud ingrate. And unexpected accidents, That change the flattering scene, and overturn the great. Frail are our hopes, and short the date The gilded globes, the painted spires; Yet Vulcan's spite, or angry Jove, No foreign force, nor factious rage, If glorious actions, in a glorious cause, If Europe saved, and liberty restored, The hero's pattern and the poet's theme. YE powers, who rule the boundless deep, Propitious hear Britannia's prayer; On your glad waves, proud of the glorious load, Through these your watery realms in yearly triumph To winds and seas, distress'd, he flies, [rode. From storms at land, and faction's spite: |