His bleeding arm, ftill painful with the fore,
Which, in his people's cause, the pious father bore :
Whom, cleaving through the troops a glorious way,
Not the united force of France and hell could stay.
Ch, Dorfet! I am rais'd! I'm all on fire!
And, if my ftrength could anfwer my defire,
In fpeaking paint this figure fhould be feen,
Like Jove his grandeur, and like Mars his mein;
And gods defcending should adorn the scene.
See, fee! upon the banks of Boyne he stands,
By his own view adjusting his commands:
Calm and ferene the armed coaft furveys,
And, in cool thoughts, the different chances weighs :
Then, fir'd with fame, and eager of renown,
Refolves to end the war, and fix the throne.
From wing to wing the fquadrons bending stand,
And close their ranks to meet their king's command;
The drums and trumpets fleep, the sprightly noife
Of neighing steeds, and cannons louder voice,
Sufpended in attention, banish far
All hoftile founds, and hush the din of war:
The filent troops stretch forth an eager look,
Liftening with joy, while thus their general spoke,
"Come, fellow-foldiers, follow me once more,
"And fix the fate of Europe on that shore ;
"Your courage only waits from me the word,
"But England's happiness commands my fword:
"In her defence I every part will bear,
"The foldier's danger, and the prince's care,
"And envy any arm an equal share.
"Set all that's dear to men before your fight; "For laws, religion, liberty, we fight;
"To fave your wives from rape, your towns from flame, "Redeem your country fold, and vindicate her name : "At whofe request and timely call I rofe,
"To tempt my fate, and all my hopes expofe;
"Struggled with adverse storms and winter feas,
"That in my labours you might find your ease.
"Let other monarchs dictate from afar,
"And write the empty triumphs of the war;
"In lazy palaces fupinely ruft;
"My fword fhall justify my people's trust,
"For which-But I your victory delay;
"Come on; I and my genius lead the way."
He faid, new life and joy ran through the hoft,
And fenfe of danger in their wonder loft;
Precipitate they plunge into the flood,
In vain the waves, the banks, the men, withstood:
The king leads on, the king does all inflame,
The king-and carries millions in the name.
As when the fwelling ocean bursts his bounds,
And foaming overwhelms the neighbouring grounds,
The roaring deluge, rufhing headlong on,
Sweeps cities in its course, and bears whole forests down;
So on the foe the firm battalions prest,
And he, like the tenth wave, drove on the reft;
Fierce, gallant, young, he shot through every place,
Urging their flight, and hurrying on the chace;
He hung upon their rear, or lighten'd in their face.
Stop! ftop! brave Prince! allay that generous flame, Enough is given to England, and to fame. Remember, Sir, you in the centre ftand, Europe's divided interests you command,
All their defigns uniting in your hand :
Down from your throne defcends the golden chain,
Which does the fabric of our world fuftain;
That once diffolv'd by any fatal stroke,
The scheme of all our happiness is broke.
Stop! ftop! brave Prince! fleets may repair again,' And routed armies rally on the plain ;
But ages are requir'd to raise so great a man!
Hear, how the waves of French ambition roar,
Difdaining bounds, and breaking on the fhore,
Which you, ordain'd to curb their wild deftructive
power,
That ftrength remov'd; again, again, they flow,
Lay Europe wafte, nor law, nor limits know.
Stop! ftop brave Prince !---what, does your Muse,
Sir, faint?
Proceed, purfue his conquefts---faith, I can't:
My fpirits fink, and will no longer bear;
Rapture and fury carry'd me thus far
Transported and amaz’d-
That rage once spent, I can no more fuftain
Your flights, your energies, and tragic ftrain,
But fall back to my natural pace again;
In humble verfe provoking you to rhyme;
I wish there were more Dorfets at this time.
Oh! if in France this hero had been born,
What glitteringtinfel would his acts adorn!
There 'tis immortal fame, and high renown,
To fteal a country, and to buy a town:
There triumphs are o'er kings and kingdoms fold,
And captive virtue led in chains of gold.
If courage could, like courts, be kept in pay
What fums would Lewis give, that France might fay
That victory follow'd where he led the way?
He all his conquefts would for this refund,
And take th' equivalent, a glorious wound.
Then, what advice, to spread his real fame,
Would pass between Verfailles and Nôtredame ?
Their plays, their fongs, would dwell upon his wound,
And operas repeat no other found;
Boyne would, for ages, be the painter's theme,
The Gobelins labour, and the poets dream ;
The wounded arm would furnith all their rooms,
And bleed for ever fcarlet in the looms :
Boileau with this would plume his artful pen:
And can your Mufe be filent? Think again.
Spare your advice; and fince you have begun,
Finish your own defign; the work is done.
Done! nothing's done! nor the dead colours laid,
And the most glorious scenes stand undisplay'd;
A thousand generous actions close the rear ;
A thousand virtues, ftill behind, ftand crowding to appear. The Queen herself, the charming Queen fhould grace The noble piece, and in an artful place
Soften war's horror with her lovely face.
Who can omit the Queen's aufpicious fmile,
The pride of the fair fex, the goddess of our isle ?
Who can forget, what all admir'd of late,
Her fears for him, her prudence for the state?
Difguifing cares, she smooth'd her looks with grace,
Doubts in her heart, and pleasure in her face.
As danger did approach, her fpirits rofe,
And, putting on the king, dismay'd his foes.
Now, all in joy, fhe gilds the chearful court;
In every glance defcending angels fport.
As on the hills of Cynthus, or the meads
Of cool Eurotas, when Diana leads
The chorus of her Nymphs, who there advance
A thousand shining maids, and form the dance
The stately Goddess with a graceful pride,
Sweet and majestic, does the figure guide,
Treading in just and easy measures round;
The filver arrows on her fhoulder found;
She walks above them all. Such is the fcene
Of the bright circle, and the brighter Queen.
Thefe fubjects do, my Lord, your skill command,
These none may touch with an unhallow'd hand :
Tender the strokes must be, and nicely writ,
Difguis'd encomiums must be hid in wit,
Which modefty, like theirs, will e'er admit,
Who made no other steps to fuch a throne,
But to deferve, and to receive, the crown.
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