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From Britain's ille, and Ifis' sacred spring
One hour, oh! listen while the muses fing,
Tho' minifters of mighty monarchs wait,
With beating hearts, to learn their masters' fate,
One hour forbear to speak thy Queen's commands,
Nor think the world, thy charge, neglected stands ;
The blissful prospects, in my verse display'd,
May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd persuade,
Ev'n thou to peace fhalt speedier urge the way,
And more be hasten'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 tịm'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 jav'lin gleams;
At feasts he starts, and seems dethron'd in dreams;
On glory past reflects with secret pain,
On mines exhausted, and on millions flain,

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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[6] Their open" hrows 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 inanly beauty join'd, Doubt if they're those, whom dreadful to the view In forms fo fierce their fearful fancies drew, At whose dire names ten thousand widows press'd Their helpless orphans clinging to the breaft: In filent rapture each his foe furveys, They vow firm friendship, and give mutual praise Brave minds, howe'er at war, are secret friends, Their gen'rous difcord with the battle ends; In peace they wonder whence diffention rose, And ask how fouls fo likę could e'er be foes.

Methinks I hear more friendly fhouts rebound, And social clarions mix their fprightly 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 fear, The manly charms and honours of the war, Who hop'd to thare his friend's illustrious doom, And in the battle find a foldier's tomb, Leans on his spear to take his farewel view, And fighing bịds the glorious camp adieu.

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

In vain proud Gaul with boaftul Spain conspires;
When English 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 fets th' invested fort before her eyes,
And mines that whirl'd 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 panyms vile, that force the fair; and tame
The goblin's fury, and the dragon's flame,

Our eager youth to distant nations run, To vifit 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 fate the loft Bavaria try'd; Where Stepney grav'd the stone to ANNA's fame, : He points to Blenheim, once a vulgar náme;

Here

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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 food,
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 watry bed,
And drove the current to its distant head.

As when by Raphael's, or by Kneller's hands
A warlike caurser 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 seen, tumultuous passions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's foul;
In fancy'd fights he fees the troops engage,
And all the tempest of the battle rage.

Charm me, ye pow'rs, with scenes less nobly bright,
Far humbler thoughts th' inglorious muse delight,
Content to see the horrors of the field
By plough-shares levell’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,
Or crop the bastion, now a fruitful ground;
While shepherds sleep, along the rampart laid,
Or pipe beneath the formidable shade,

Who

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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 funk the filial subject to a slave;
His neighbour's realms by frauds un-kingly gain'd,
In guiltless blood the sacred ermine ftain'd;
Laid schemes for death, to flaughter turn'd his heart,
And fitted murder to the rules of art.

Ah! 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 floods of tears they shed,
And scatter useless roses on the dead.
Oh facred BRISTOL! then what dangers prove
The arts, thou smil'st on with paternal love ?
Then, mix'd with rubbish by the brutal foes,
In vain the marble breathes, the canvas glows;
To shades 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 theę speak might the fierce Vandal stand,
And Aling the brandish?d fabre from his hand.

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

Let

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