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How didst thou lift thy towery front on high!
Not meanly confcious of a mother's joy,
Proud of thy fon as Crete was of her Jove,
How wert thou pleas'd heaven did thy choice approve,
And fixt fuccefs where thou haft fixt thy love!
How with regret his abfence didst thou mourn!
How with impatience wait his wisht return!
How were the winds accus'd for his delay!
How didft thou chide the gods who rule the fea,
And charge the Nereid nymphs to waft him on his way!
At length he comes, he ceafes from his toil,
Like kings of old returning from the fpoil;
To Britain and his queen for ever dear,

He comes, their joy and grateful thanks to fhare;
Lowly he kneels before the royal feat,

And lays its proudeft wreaths at Anna's feet.
While, form'd alike for labours or for ease,
In camps to thunder, or in courts to please,

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Britain's bright nymphs make Marlborough their care,

In all his dangers, all his triumphs, share.

Conquering he lends the well-pleas'd fair new grace,
And adds fresh luftre to each beauteous face;
Britain preferv'd by his victorious arms,

With wondrous pleasure each fair bosom warms,
Lightens in all their eyes, and doubles all their charms.
Ev'n his own Sunderland, in beauty's store
So rich the feem'd incapable of more,
Now fhines with graces never known before;
Fierce with transporting joy the seems to burn,
And each foft feature takes a sprightly turn;

New flames are seen to fparkle in her eyes,
And on her blooming cheek fresh roses rise;
The pleasing paffion heightens each bright hue,
And feems to touch the finish'd piece anew,
Improves what nature's bounteous hand had given,
And mends the fairest workmanship of heaven.

Nor joy like this in courts is only found,
But fpreads to all the grateful people round;
Laborious hinds inur'd to rural toil,

To tend the flocks and turn the mellow foil,
In homely guife their honeft hearts exprefs,
And blefs the warrior who protects the peace,
Who keeps the foe aloof and drives afar
The dreadful ravage of the wafting war.
No rude deftroyer cuts the ripening crop,
Prevents the harveft, and deludes their hope;
No helpless wretches fly with wild amaze,

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Look weeping back, and fee their dwellings blaze; 345
The victor's chain no mournful captives know,
Nor hear the threats of the infulting foe,

But Freedom laughs, the fruitful fields abound,
The chearful voice of mirth is heard to sound,
And Plenty doles her various bounties round,
The humble village, and the wealthy town,
Confenting join their happiness to own :
What heaven and Anna's gentleft reign afford,
All is fecur'd by Marlborough's conquering fword.
O facred, ever honour'd name! O thou!
That wert our greatest William once below!
What place foe'er thy virtues now poffefs
Near the bright fource of everlasting blifs,

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Where

Where-e'er exalted to etherial height,

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Radiant with stars, thou tread'st the fields of light, 360
Thy feats divine, thy heaven a-while forfake,
And deign the Britons' triumph to partake.
Nor art thou chang'd, but still thou shalt delight
To hear the fortune of the glorious fight,
How fail'd oppreffion, and prevail'd the right.
What once below, fuch ftill thy pleasures are,
Europe and Liberty are still thy care;
Thy great, thy generous, pure, immortal mind
Is ever to the public good inclin'd,

Is ftill the tyrant's foe, and patron of mankind.
Behold where Marlborough, thy last best gift,
At parting to thy native Belgia left,
Succeeds to all thy kind paternal cares,
Thy watchful counfels, and laborious wars ;
Like thee, afpires by virtue to renown,
Fights to fecure an empire not his own,

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Reaps only toil himself, and gives away a crown.
At length thy prayer, O pious prince! is heard, 380
Heaven has at length in its own cause appear'd

At length Ramillia's field atones for all

The faithless breaches of the perjur'd Gaul;

At length a better age to man decreed,

With truth, with peace, and justice, shall fucceed;

Fall'n are the proud, and the griev'd world is freed.
One triumph yet, my Muse, remains behind,
Another vengeance yet the Gaul shall find;
On Lombard plains, beyond his Alpine hills,
Louis the force of hoftile Britain feels:

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Swift to her friends diftrefs'd her fuccours fly,
And diftant wars her wealthy fons supply:
From flow unactive courts, they grieve to hear
Eugene, a name to every Briton dear,·
By tedious languishing delays is held
Repining, and impatient, from the field:
While factious ftatefmen riot in excefs,
And lazy priests whole provinces poffefs,
Of unregarded wants the brave complain,

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And the starv'd foldier fues for bread in vain ;
At once with generous indignation warm,
Britain the treasure fends, and bids the hero arm,
Straight eager to the field, he speeds away,
There vows the victor Gaul fhall dear repay
The fpoils of Calcinato's fatal day :
Chear'd by the prefence of the chief they love,
Once more their fate the warriors long to prove;
Reviv'd each foldier lifts his drooping head,
Forgets his wounds, and calls him on to lead;
Again their crefts the German eagles rear,
Stretch their broad wings, and fan the Latian air;
Greedy for battle and the prey they call,
And point great Eugene's thunder on the Gaul.
The chief commands, and foon in dread array
Onwards the moving legions urge their way;
With hardy marches and successful haste,
O'er every barrier fortunate they pass'd,
Which nature or the skilful foe had plac'd.
The foe in vain with Gallic arts attends,
To mark which way the wary leader bends,

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420 Vainly

Vainly in war's myfterious rules is wife,

Lurks where tall woods and thickeft coverts rife,
And meanly hopes a conqueft from surprize.
Now with swift horse the plain around them beats,
And oft advances, and as oft retreats ;
Now fix'd to wait the coming force, he feems,
Secur'd by steepy banks and rapid streams;
While river-gods in vain exhaust their store;
From plenteous ùrns the gushing torrents pour,
Rife o'er their utmoft margins to the plain,
And strive to stay the warrior's hafte in vain;
Alike they pafs the plain and closer wood,
Explore the ford, and tempt the swelling flood,
Unfhaken ftill pursue the stedfast course,

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And where they want their way, they find it or they force.
But anxious thoughts Savoy's great Prince infeft,
And roll ill-boding in his careful breast;
Oft he revolves the ruins of the great,
And fadly thinks on loft Bavaria's fate,
The hapless mark of fortune's cruel sport,
An exile, meanly forc'd to beg fupport
From the flow bounties of a foreign court.
Forc'd from his lov'd Turin, his last retreat,
His glory once and empire's ancient feat,
He fees from far where wide destructions spread,
And fiery fhowers the goodly town invade,
Then turns to mourn in vain his ruin'd state,
And curse the unrelenting tyrant's hate.

But great Eugene prevents his every fear,
He had refolv'd it, and he would be there;

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