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From Britain's isle, and Ifis' 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 stands;
The blissful prospects, in my verse display'd,
May lure the stubborn, the deceiv'd persuade,
Ev'n thou to peace shalt fpeedier 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 renewid he filld 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 past reflects with secret pain,
On mines exhausted, and on millions slain.
To Britain's Queen the scepter'd suppřiant 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,
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 desp'rate throng;
Crowds whelm'd on crowds dalh'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 courser on the canvas stands,
Such as on Landen bleeding Ormond bore,
Ammon on the Granic shore;
If chance a gen’rous steed the work behold,
He snorts, he neighs, he champs the foamy gold :
So, Hocîtet seen, tumultuous passions roll,
And hints of glory fire the Briton's soul;
In fancy'd fights he sees the troops engage,
And all the tempest of the battle
Charmn 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-lhares leveld, or in flow'rs conceald.
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,
91911, Or pipe beneath the formidable ihade.
Who was the man? (Oblivion blast his name,
Torn out and blotted from the list of fame!)
Who fond of lawless rule, and proudly brave,
First funk the filial fubject to a slave';
His neighbour's realms by friends un-kingly gain’d,
In guiltless blood the facred ermine ftain'd;
Laid schemes for death, to slaughter 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 sacred 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 glittring sword pursues
The gentle poet, and defenceless muse.
A voice, like thine alone, might then afswage
The warrior's fury, and controul his
To hear thee 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 grim Bellona haunt the lawless plain,
Where Tartar clans, and grisly Cofsacks reign ;
Let the steel'd Turk be deaf to matrons' cries,
See virgins ravish'd with relentless eyes ;
To death grey heads and smiling infants doom,
Nor spare the promise of the pregnant womb;
O'er wasted kingdoms spread his wide command,
The savage lord of an unpeopled land.
Her guiltless glory juft Britannia draws
From pare religion, and impartial laws,
To Europe's wounds a mother's aid she brings,
And holds in equal scales the rival kings :
Her gen'rous fons in choicest gifts abound,
Alike in arms, alike in arts renown'd.
As when sweet Venus (fo the fable fings)
Awak'd by Nereids, from the Ocean springs;
With smiles she fees the threat'ning billows rife,
Spreads smooth the surge, and clears the louring skies;
Light, o'er the deep, with fluttring Cupids crown'd,
The pearly couch and silver turtles bound;
Her treffes shed ambrosial odours round.
Amidft the world of waves fo ftands serene
Britannia's isle, the Ocean's stately queen ;
In vain the nations have confpir'd her fall,
Her trench the fea, and fleets her floating wall;
Defenceless barks, her pow'rful navy near,
Have only waves and hurricanes to fear.
What bold invader, or what land oppress’d
Hath not her anger quelld, her aid redress'd ?
Say, where have e'er her union-crosses saild,
But much her arms, her justice more prevaild?
Her labours are to plead th’ Almighty's cause,
Her pride to teach th' untam'd barbarian laws :
Who conquers, wins by brutal strength the prize ;
But ʼtis a godlike work to civilize.
Have we forgot how from great Russia's throne,
The king, whose pow'r half Europe's regions own,
Whose scepter waving, with one shout ruth forth
In swarms the harness’d millions of the north ;
Through realms of ice pursu'd his tedious way,
To court our friend/hip, and our fame furvey!
Hence the rich prize of useful arts he bore,
And round his empire spread the learned fore,
(T' adorn old realms is more than new to raise,
His country's parent is a monarch's praise.)
His bands now march in just array to war,
And Caspian gulphs unusual navies bear;
With Runic lays Smolensko's forests ring,
And wond'ring Volga hears the mufes fing,
Did not the painted kings of India greet
Our Queen, and lay their scepters at her feet?
Chiefs who full bowls of hostile blood had quaff'd,
Fam’d for the javelin, and invenom’d shaft;
Whose haughty brows made favages adore,
Nor bow'd to less than ftars, or fun before :