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From Britain's ille, and Isis' sacred spring
One hour, oh! liften while the muses fing.
Tho' ministers of mighty monarchs wait,
With beating hearts, to learn their master's fate,
One hour forbear to speak thy Queen's commands,
Nor think the world, thy charge, neglected fands;
The blissful prospects, in my verse display'd,
May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd persuade,
Ev'n thou to peace shalt speedier urge the way,
And more be haften'd by this short delay.

The haughty Gaul, in ten campaigns o'erthrown,
Now ceas'd to think the western world his own.
Oft had he mourn'd his boasting leaders bound,
And his proud bulwarks smoaking on the ground;
In vain with pow'rs renew'd he fill'd the plain,
Made tim'rous vows, and brib'd the saints in vain;
As oft his legions did the fight decline,
Lurk'd in the trench, and skulk'd behind the line,
Before his eyes the fancy'd javelin gleams;
At feasts he starts, and seems dethron’d in dreams;
On glory paft reflects with fecret pain,
On mines exhausted, and on millions Nain.

To Britain's Queen the scepter'd suppliant bends,
To her his crowns and infant race commends,
Who grieves her fame with christian blood to buy,
Nor asks for glory at a price fo high.
At her decree the war suspended stands,
And Britain's heroes hold their lifted hands:


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Their open brows no threat’ning frowns disguise,
But gentler paflions sparkle in their eyes.
The Gauls, who never in their courts could find
Such temper'd fire with manly beauty join'd,
Doubt if they're those, whom dreadful to the view
In forms lo fierce their fearful fancies drew,
At whose dire names ten thousand widows press'd
Their helpless orphans clinging to the breast.
In filent rapture each his foe surveys,
They vow firm friendship, and give mutual praise.
Brave minds, howe'er at war, are secret friends,
Their gen'rous discord with the battle ends;
In peace they wonder whence diffention rose,
And ask how fouls so like could e'er be foes.

Methinks I hear more friendly shouts rebound,
And social clarions mix their sprightly found;
The British flags are furl'd, her troops disband,
And scatter'd armies seek their native land.
The hardy veteran, proud of many a scar,
The manly charms and honours of the war,
Who hop'd to share his friend's illuftrious doom,
And in the battle find a soldier's tomb,
Leans on his spear to take his farewel view,
And sighing bids the glorious camp adieu.

Ye generous fair, receive the brave with smiles,
O'erpay their fleepless nights, and crown their toils;
Soft beauty is the gallant soldier's due,
For you they conquer, and they bleed for you.


In vain proud Gaul with boastful Spain conspires,
When Faglish valour English beauty fires;
The nations dread your eyes, and kings despair
Of chiefs so brave, till they have nymphs so fair.

See the fond wife, in tears of transport drown'd,
Hugs her rough lord, and weeps o'er ev'ry wound;
Hangs on the lips, that fields of blood relate,
And smiles and trembles, at his various fate.
Near the full bowl he draws the fancied line,
And marks feign'd trenches in the flowing wine,
Then sets th' invested fort before her eyes,
And mines that whirld battalions to the skies ;.
His little liftning progeny turn pale,
And beg again to hear the dreadful tale.

Such dire atchievements fings the bard that tells Of palfrey'd dames, bold knights, and magic spells; Where whole brigades one champion's arms o'erthrow, And cleave a giant at a random blow; Slay paynims vile, that force the fair; and tame The goblin's fury, and the dragon's flame.

Our eager youth to distant nations run, To visit fields their valiant fathers won ; From Flandria's shore their country's fame they trace, Till far Germania shews her blasted face. Th' exulting Briton asks his mournful guide, Where his hard fạte the loft Bavaria try'd; Where Stepney gravid the stone to Anna's fame: He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar name;


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Here fled the Houshold, there did Tallard yield,
Here Malb'rough turn'd the fortune of the field;
On those steep banks, near Danube's raging flood,
The Gauls thrice started back, and trembling stood ;
When, Churchill's arm perceiv'd, they stood not long,
But plung'd amidst the waves, a desperate throng ;
Crowds whelm'd on crowds dash'd wide the wat’ry bed,
And drove the current to its diftant head.

As when by Raphael's, or by Kneller's hands
A warlike courfer on the canvas stands,
Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore,
Or set young Ammon on the Granic shore;
If chance a gen'rous fteed the work behold,
He snorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold :
So, Hocftet feen, tumultuous paffions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's soul ;
In fancy'd fights he sees the troops engage,
And all the tempeft of the battle rage.

Charm me, ye pow'rs, with scenes less nobly bright,
Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious mufe delight,
Content to see the horrors of the field
By plough-fhares leveli'd, or in flow'rs conceal'd.
O'er shatter'd walls may creeping ivy twine,
And grass luxuriant cloath the harmless mine,
Tame flocks ascend the breach without a wound,

crop the bastion, now a fruitful ground; While shepherds seep, along the rampart laid, Or pipe beneath the formidable shade.


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Who was the man ? (Oblivion blaft his name,
Torn out and blotted from the list of fame!)
Who fond of lawless rule, and proudly brave,
First sunk the filial subject to a slave;
His neighbour's realms by frauds un-kingly gain'd,
In guiltless blood the sacred ermine staind;
Laid schemes for death, to slaughter turn'd his heart,
And fitted murder to the rules of art.

Ab! curs'd ambition, to thy lures we owe
All the great ills, that mortals bear below.
Curs'd by the hind, when to the spoil he yields
His year's whole sweat, and vainly-ripen'd fields ;
Curs’d by the maid, torn from her lover's side,
When left a widow, though not yet a bride :
By mothers curs'd, when fioods of tears they shed,
And scatter useless roses on the dead.
Oh sacred Bristol! then what dangers prove
The arts; thoa (milft on with paternal love?
Then, mix'd with rubbish by the brutal foes,
In vain the marble breathes, the canvas glows;
To fhades obscure the glitt'ring sword pursues
The gentle poet, and defenceless muse.
A voice, like thine alone, might then afswage
The warrior's fury, and controul his rage;
To hear thee speak might the fierce Vandal stand,
And Aing the brandish'd sabre from his hand.

Far hence be driv'n to Scythia's stormy shore
The drum's harsh musick, and the cannon's roar ;


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