With the first laurel binds his youthful brows,
And, pledge of future crowns, the mural wreath beftows. But foon the equal of his youthful years,
Philip of Bourbon's haughty line appears;
Like hopes attend his birth, like glories grace,
(If glory can be in a tyrant's race)
In numbers proud, he threats no more from far,
But nearer draws the black impending war;
He views his hoft, then fcorns the rebel town,
And dooms to certain death the rival of his crown.
Now fame and empire, all the nobler spoils
That urge the hero, and reward his toils,
Plac'd in their view, alike their hopes engage,
And fire their breafts with more than mortal rage.
Not lawless love, not vengeance, nor despair,
So daring, fierce, untam'd, and furious are,
As when ambition prompts the great to war;
As youthful kings, when, ftriving for renown,
They prove their might in arms, and combat for a crown.
Hard was the cruel ftrife, and doubtful long
Betwixt the chiefs fufpended conquest hung;
Till, forc'd at length, difdaining much to yield, 105
Charles to his rival quits the fatal field.
Numbers and fortune o'er his right prevail,
And ev'n the British valour feems to fail;
And yet they fail'd not all. In that extreme,
Confcious of virtue, liberty, and fame,
They vow the youthful monarch's fate to fhare,
Above distress, unconquer'd by despair,
Still to defend the town, and animate the war.
But lo! when every better hope was past, When every day of danger feem'd their last, Far on the diftant ocean, they furvey, Where a proud navy plows its watery way. Nor long they doubted, but with joy descry, Upon the chief's tall top-mafts waving high, The British crofs and Belgic lion fly. Loud with tumultuous clamour, loud they rear Their cries of ecftafy, and rend the air; In peals on peals the fhouts triumphant rise, Spread swift, and rattle through the spacious skies; While, from below, old ocean groans profound, The walls, the rocks, the fhores, repel the found, Ring with the deafening fhock, and thunder all around. Such was the joy the Trojan youth exprefs'd Who, by the fierce Rutilian's fiege diftrefs'd, Were by the Tyrrhene aid at length releas'd; When young Afcanius, then in arms first try'd, Numbers and every other want fupply'd, And haughty Turnus from his walls defy'd; Sav'd in the town an empire yet to come, And fix'd the fate of his imperial Rome.
But oh! what verfe, what numbers, fhall reveal
Thofe pangs of rage and grief the vanquish'd feel!
Who shall retreating Philip's fhame impart,
And tell the anguish of his labouring heart'
What paint, what speaking pencil, fhall exprefs
The blended paffions ftriving in his face!
Hate, indignation, courage, pride, remorse,
With thoughts of glory paft, the lofer's greatest curfe.
Fatal ambition! say what wondrous charms
Delude mankind to toil for thee in arms!
When all thy fpoils, thy wreaths in battle won,
The pride of power, and glory of a crown,
When all war gives, when all the great can gain,
Ev'n thy whole pleasure, pays not half thy pain.
All hail! ye fofter, happier arts of peace,
Secur'd from harms, and bleft with learned ease;
In battles, blood, and perils hard, unskill'd,
Which haunt the warrior in the fatal field;
But chief, thee, Goddess Mufe! my verfe would raise,
And to thy own soft numbers tune thy praise;
Happy the youth infpir'd, beneath thy fhade,
Thy verdant, ever-living laurels laid!
There, fafe, no pleasures, there no pains they know,
But those which from thy facred raptures flow,
Nor with for crowns, but what thy groves bestow.
Me, nymph divine! nor fcorn my humble prayer,
Receive unworthy, to thy kinder care,
Doom'd to a gentler, though more lowly, fate,
Nor withing once, nor knowing to be great;
Me, to thy peaceful haunts, inglorious bring,
Where.fecret thy celestial fisters fing,
Paft by their facred hill, and sweet Castalian spring.
But nobler thoughts the victor prince employ,
And raise his heart with high triumphant joy;
From hence a better courfe of time rolls on,
And whiter days fucceffive seem to run.
From hence his kinder fortune seems to date
The rifing glories of his future ftate,
From hence !---But oh! too foon the hero mourns
His hopes deceiv'd, and war's inconstant turns.
In vain, his echoing trumpets loud alarms
Provoke the cold Iberian lords to arms;
Careless of fame, as of their monarch's fate,
In fullen floth fupinely proud they fate
Or to be flaves or free alike prepar'd,
And trufting heaven was bound to be their guard,
Untouch'd with fhame, the noble ftrife beheld,
Nor once effay'd to ftruggle to the field;
But fought in the cold fhade, and rural feat,
An unmolefted ease and calm retreat :
Saw each contending prince's arms advance,
Then with a lazy dull indifference
Turn'd to their reft, and left the world to chance.
So when, commanded by the wife of Jove,
Thaumantian Iris left the realms above,
And swift defcending on her painted bow,
Sought the dull god of fleep in fhades below;
Nodding and flow, his drowsy head he rear'd,
And heavily the facred message heard ;
Then with a yawn at once forgot the pain,
And funk to his first sloth and indolence again.
But oh, my Mufe! th' ungrateful toil forfake,
Some task more pleafing to thy numbers take,
Nor choose in melancholy strains to tell
Each harder chance the juster caufe befel.
Or rather turn, aufpicious turn thy flight,
Where Marlborough's heroic arms invite,
Where highest deeds the poet's breast inspire
With rage divine, and fan the facred fire.
See! where at once Ramillia's noble field
Ten thousand themes for living verse shall yield.
See! where at once the dreadful objects rife,
At once they spread before my wondering eyes,
And shock my labouring foul with vast surprize;
At once the wide extended battles move,
At once they join, at once their fate they prove.
The roar afcends promifcuous; groans and cries,
The drums, the cannons' burft, the fhout, fupplies
One univerfal anarchy of noise.
One din confus'd, found mixt and loft in found, 215
Echoes to all the frighted cities round.
Thick duft and smoke in wavy clouds arise,
Stain the bright day, and taint the purer skies;
While flashing flames like lightening dart between, 220
And fill the horror of the fatal scene.
Around the field, all dy'd in purple foam,
Hate, fury, and infatiate slaughter roam;
Discord with pleasure o'er the ruin treads,
And laughing wraps her in her tatter'd weeds;
While fierce Bellona thunders in her car,
Shakes terrible her fteely whip from far,
And with new rage revives the fainting war.
So when two currents rapid in their course
Rush to a point, and meet with equal force,
The angry billows rear their heads on high,
Dashing aloft the foaming furges fly,
And rifing cloud the air with misty spry;
The raging flood is heard from far to roar,
By liftening fhepherds on the diftant fhore,
While much they fear, what ills it should portend,
And wonder why the watery gods contend.
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